Prologue – The Birth of the Predictor-Part 2 – The Trial Match Begins

The trial pitch glowed under the summer sun, a synthetic turf that shimmered like emerald glass. The bleachers surrounding it were packed—not a professional stadium, but for boys chasing dreams, it felt like one. Parents, siblings, and scouts filled the seats, their voices crashing together in a storm of anticipation.

Kaito stood in line with the other trialists, sweat already prickling the back of his neck. His jersey clung awkwardly to his thin frame. Everyone else looked taller, faster, sharper. He could feel their eyes sliding over him, dismissing him before the whistle even blew.

“Tanaka Kaito, forward.” The coach barely glanced at him during roll call. The way he clipped his tone made it clear: Kaito was filler, another number on the sheet.

Murmurs rose in the crowd:

“Isn’t that the kid who failed the last two trials?”

“He doesn’t even look like an athlete. Too scrawny.”

“He should just stop embarrassing himself.”

Kaito’s fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream that they didn’t know him. That they didn’t see the hours he spent alone, chasing a ball until his legs collapsed. But no words came out.

---

The referee’s whistle sliced through the air.

Kick-off.

The ball zipped across the turf with crisp precision. Team B’s coordination was instant—they pressed like wolves, cutting off space, forcing errors.

Kaito sprinted forward, waving for a pass. Nothing. His midfielders locked eyes with him, then deliberately chose other options. The sting of being ignored was sharper than the summer heat.

Then, disaster. A perfect through-ball split the defense like paper. Team B’s striker dashed between the center-backs, his touch flawless. The keeper lunged, but too late—

BANG!

The net rippled violently.

GOAL!

“YEEEAAHHHH!!!” The stadium erupted, voices shaking the bleachers. Drums thundered. Whistles pierced the air. The scorer slid across the grass on his knees, roaring, his teammates piling onto him.

The announcer’s voice bellowed from the loudspeakers:

“Team B takes the lead! One-nil!”

Kaito froze, staring at the ball bouncing back from the goal. The speed. The timing. It was perfect. That fast?

---

The game restarted, but the pressure never lifted. Team B swarmed like they could smell blood. Kaito darted into space again, shouting—

“Here! I’m open!”

But the ball veered elsewhere. A midfielder scowled at him. “Shut up. Don’t overrun.”

Kaito’s chest burned.

And then—another flash of brilliance from the enemy winger. He sliced through two defenders like slicing silk, feinted the keeper, and coolly tapped the ball into the net.

GOAL!

“OOOOHHHHH!!!” The crowd went wild. Parents and friends stood, fists raised, chanting the scorer’s name. The sound of celebration cut like a blade.

The scoreboard glared: 2–0.

Kaito’s teammates groaned.

“Mark him tighter!”

“Tanaka, you’re not tracking back!”

“What are you even doing out here?”

Their words piled on, heavy as chains. He opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat.

---

The third goal came like a dagger.

A high, arcing cross soared across the field. Team B’s forward leapt, chesting it down with grace before unleashing a volley that screamed past the keeper. The sound of boot to ball was like a gunshot.

GOAL!

The net snapped back. The stadium exploded again, fans stomping, clapping, chanting. “THREE! THREE!”

Team A – 0 | Team B – 3.

The humiliation was suffocating.

Kaito bent forward, hands on his knees, gasping for air. His shirt clung, drenched in sweat. He felt invisible—ignored by teammates, dismissed by coaches, and crushed by opponents who didn’t even see him as competition.

---

And then—he looked up.

On the far side of the stands, in the cheap seats almost hidden from view, he saw them.

His mother, Ayaka. Her uniform still smelled faintly of the restaurant she had rushed from. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, but her hands were clasped together in prayer, her lips trembling with unspoken words.

Beside her, the twins stood on the benches, cupping their hands to scream as loud as they could.

“Ni-chan!!!” Aoi’s voice cracked, desperate, raw.

“You can do it!” Yumi cried, her face red, her little fists clenched.

The crowd drowned them out, but Kaito’s ears caught their voices. He always did.

His throat tightened. His heart hammered so hard it hurt.

Memories from last night echoed—

“Promise you’ll score, Kaito.”

“We’ll be cheering the loudest.”

Kaito bit down so hard his jaw ached. His body felt heavy, his lungs burned, but his heart screamed louder than the crowd.

He whispered to himself, barely audible over the chaos.

“…Not yet. I can’t give up yet. Not here.”

The scoreboard glared mercilessly: 0–3.

Kaito bent forward, sweat dripping from his chin onto the turf. His chest rose and fell like a broken engine. Every breath burned. Around him, his teammates barked in frustration, blaming each mistake on him. The referee’s whistle shrilled again, and the game restarted.

But in the crowd—someone else was suffering.

---

Ayaka Tanaka gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles were white. She hadn’t eaten since her morning shift; the fatigue of double shifts pressed into her bones. But none of that mattered now. All she could see was her son—her eldest—drowning on the field.

“Kaito…” she whispered.

Every stumble of his feet was a dagger in her chest. Every jeer from the audience was a slap she couldn’t shield him from. She wanted to leap down, run onto the pitch, and hold him like she did when he was small, when a scraped knee was the worst pain in the world. But she couldn’t.

She had told herself to be strong for him. To smile, to clap, to believe. But when the second goal went in, her lips trembled. By the third, her hands shook.

She glanced at her daughters.

---

Aoi’s voice was hoarse. She had been screaming Kaito’s name from the first whistle. Her little fists banged against the metal railing until her knuckles turned red.

“Run, Ni-chan! Don’t give up! You promised us!”

Her throat burned, but she refused to stop.

Beside her, Yumi’s eyes welled with tears. She tugged at her sister’s sleeve, her voice small but fierce.

“He’s trying, Aoi-chan… He’s trying so hard…”

Yumi’s lips quivered, but she raised her little arms and cupped her hands around her mouth. “We believe in you, Ni-chan!!!”

Her voice cracked, swallowed by the roar of the crowd, but it carried across the field in Kaito’s heart.

---

On the pitch, Kaito’s vision blurred for a moment. The chants of the enemy drowned him, but faintly—just faintly—he heard those voices. His sisters’. His mother’s.

Still cheering…? Even now…

Something inside his chest twisted painfully. He was failing them—again. Failing his sisters who skipped meals so he could eat more rice. Failing his mother who smiled through exhaustion.

The shame was suffocating. His lungs felt like lead. His legs screamed to stop.

But deep inside, something else whispered—low, sharp, almost inaudible.

No. Not yet.

He dragged his gaze up from the turf. Across the pitch, the opposing forward grinned smugly, pointing two fingers like a gun toward Kaito before smirking at the girls in the stands. His teammates laughed with him.

“Pathetic,” one of them muttered loud enough for Kaito to hear. “Just quit already.”

Kaito’s blood surged, his nails digging into his palms. He staggered upright, chest heaving, eyes locked on the ball at midfield.

His voice came out rough, almost a growl.

“…I’m not done.”

The crowd didn’t hear it. The referee didn’t care. But his mother’s gaze caught the fire in his eyes, and her breath caught.

---

Ayaka whispered, almost to herself. “Kaito…”

Her trembling stopped. Tears burned her eyes, but her lips curved into the faintest smile. Her boy wasn’t broken yet.

Aoi saw it too. She leaned forward, gripping the railing until her little arms shook. “That’s it, Ni-chan! Show them!”

Yumi wiped her tears and shouted with everything in her tiny body. “Fight, Ni-chan! Fight!”

Their voices carried like fragile threads of hope through the storm of jeers and chants.

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