The whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the second half.
The Drakens had changed their strategy. No longer relying on tight counterplays, they shifted their focus to long balls and sweeping crosses. It was clear—they wanted to bypass the midfield magic of Armaan and Samar. The air was heavier now, the sky a shade darker as dusk rolled in over the packed stadium. Floodlights cast dramatic shadows on the pitch, and the crowd was louder than ever.
But the Marians weren't shaken.
Avinash, the titan of their defense, stood like a wall with nerves of steel. Each aerial cross was met with a header, a chest trap, or a clinical clearance. The crowd started chanting his name as he intercepted a powerful volley and chest-passed it down calmly. "AVI! AVI! AVI!"
The ball rolled down the right wing and was quickly picked up by the Marians' right winger. Without wasting a moment, he glanced up, saw the familiar flash of white and navy darting across the top, and lobbed the ball beautifully toward the heart of the Drakens' half.
It was Armaan.
He was already reading the ball's arc like he'd visualized it before. He received the lob pass with sheer elegance—chesting it down while already shifting his weight forward. A defender charged at him. He flicked the ball to his right, sidestepped. Another closed in—he rolled it back, feinted, and slid the ball between his legs.
Two defenders down.
Gasps filled the VIP section.
"Did he just break their ankles in real-time!?" Reet screamed, slapping Manvi's arm. "He's not playing football, he's painting."
Advika didn't say anything, but her eyes couldn't leave the field.
Now inside the final third, Armaan faced the last defender.
With a calm breath and his usual glint of mischief, he tapped the ball forward, and then—rainbow flicked over the defender's head.
The entire crowd stood up.
He let the ball drop on the other side, turned around like it was a warm-up drill, and with his weaker foot, launched the shot from just inside the box. It curled low and fast toward the left corner. The goalkeeper lunged.
But it was already in.
The net rippled violently. The scoreboard flashed:
Marians 3 - Drakens 1
The stadium lost its collective mind.
Girls screamed. Boys whistled. Phones rose to capture what felt like a moment carved out of legend. The commentator up in the booth fumbled his script—"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, DID YOU JUST SEE THAT?!"
Armaan didn't scream. He didn't run wildly.
He walked—slowly—to the sidelines. Then stopped, just outside the boundary line.
He dropped to one knee, clenched his fists together, and brought them down as if resting on a massive, invisible sword. His head bowed slightly, his left eye closed—mimicking a certain lone warrior with a tragic past.
The Guts Pose.
Everyone froze.
Gasps turned to awe. Whispers of "That's so cold…" echoed from the stands. Even Alya blinked and whispered to herself, "Why is this idiot so cool?"
Reet clutched her head. "This man is literally acting like a final boss… What next? Is he gonna summon dragons too!?"
Even the coach laughed from the sidelines. "Show-off… but damn, what a show."
In the VIP box, Armaan's mother chuckled proudly, nudging Sohana. "He's your brother all right."
Sohana smirked, arms folded. "Drama king till the end."
As Armaan rose back to his feet, dusted his hands, and turned back toward the pitch, the stadium chanted louder than before.
"Cap-tain! Cap-tain! Cap-tain!"
The Drakens kicked off again, now trailing two goals behind. But something had changed.
Their eyes no longer held panic—they burned with fury.
"Go berserk!" their captain yelled from midfield, and they did exactly that.
A flurry of passes erupted across the field—sharp, decisive, and laced with unhinged aggression. Their midfielders now moved like dancers in a storm, flipping the tempo. One did a cheeky roulette, the other a backheel flick, and just like that—they surged forward.
Two of their most skilled players came right for Avinash.
He stood firm.
But for the first time, they overwhelmed him.
One did a stepover fake while the other scooped the ball over his extended foot, and the sniper boy pounced on the loose ball like a wolf. He dashed toward the box and glanced right—his winger had broken through unnoticed.
A quick pass.
One touch.
Then a strike to the bottom left of the goal.
GOAL.
The Drakens had answered back.
The scoreboard now read:
Marians 3 - Drakens 2
The Drakens' bench exploded in cheers. But the real attention was on the right winger who had scored. With wild energy, he sprinted toward the sideline, pulled off his jersey mid-run, and slid on his knees near the camera. Then he stood up and extended his hands like wings, twirling twice as if he were spinning a sniper rifle, before pretending to shoot at the sky—once, twice, and then once at the Marian stands with a devilish grin.
The camera zoomed into his eyes. Cold. Vengeful.
He then pointed at Armaan and did the "cut-throat" motion with his hand, mouthing the words:
"You're next."
The stadium erupted again—this time not with joy, but tension.
The rivalry… had just been ignited.
Armaan said nothing.
He just turned to the taunting Draken winger and smiled—calm… composed… dangerous.
The ball rolled to the center again, and this time it was Samar's turn to lead the dance.
With unmatched pace, he burst forward, slicing through the midfield like a hot blade through butter. The crowd stood as he feinted left, then right, then backheeled the ball to himself with a spin.
The RW was open—the perfect pass was forming.
But just as Samar raised his foot to deliver it, the Drakens' defensive midfielder came crashing in like a brute tank.
WHAM!
The foul echoed across the turf, and Samar tumbled forward.
The referee didn't hesitate—he blew the whistle and raised the yellow card high.
"That's dirty!" one fan shouted.
Boos erupted from the Marian stand.
But Samar, ever the soldier, stood back up, dusted his shorts, and looked at Armaan from a distance. Then with a half-grin, he made a sharp hand gesture—"Swoosh."
Armaan caught it instantly.
He walked up slowly to the ball.
27 meters out. Slightly right of center.
He placed the ball with his own hands—precisely. Firm.
The stadium grew tense.
One half chanting:
"ARMAAN! ARMAAN! ARMAAN!"
The other:
"NO GOAL! NO GOAL!"
The clash of voices felt like a brewing storm.
Armaan stepped back.
Three strides.
Then the whistle.
He lunged forward, swung his right leg with finesse only he could deliver—and whipped the ball like lightning.
The ball curled high, then dipped cruelly—like it had a mind of its own—and slammed straight into the top left corner of the net.
GOAL.
The net rippled. The crowd exploded.
Commentators were losing their voices.
Some fans fell to their knees.
Even the opposing coach whispered, "What the hell is this kid?"
But Armaan… he didn't rush.
He strode towards the Drakens' stand.
Right hand—index finger on his lips.
Left hand—pushing downwards, as if telling the world, "Calm down."
His head lowered slightly, one eye closed—radiating icy confidence.
A cold celebration born of silence and destruction.
The Marian side was going absolutely insane.
Girls were screaming.
Seniors were filming on their phones.
Avinash was holding his head like: "Is this real!?"
Then Armaan turned to the Draken player—the same one who said "you're next."
He raised both his hands, cupped them around his ears, and tilted his head.
His smirk said it all.
"Can't hear you anymore."
The cameras caught it. The replay would go viral.
And in the stands, Manvi screamed,
"Bruh is literally HIM!"
While Reet just muttered, stunned,
"Legend… Absolute legend…"
The score read 4–2.
But the Marians?
Still hungry.
Still sharp.
Still in rhythm.
Armaan's eyes were locked in—laser focused.
He received the ball at the center, one defender rushing at him.
Without flinching, he rolled the ball clean through the defender's legs—another brutal nutmeg—and the crowd roared again.
"Bro... just what the hell are these guys doing?!"
Then came the finesse.
Armaan swung his right foot around the outside of the ball—Trivela.
A curving masterpiece.
It arced with power and precision toward Samar, who was already in the right place.
Samar's first touch was silk.
His second?
Boom.
He struck it so hard, the ball didn't just enter the goal—it stamped its presence.
The net stretched so far back it looked like it might rip off.
The stadium exploded.
Samar ran straight to Armaan, arms wide. They hugged for a second before syncing into a legendary celebration.
They bent their knees, created a triangle with their legs like a table, and both acted like they were drinking tea.
Armaan, calm as ice, held his invisible cup just like Levi Ackermann would—fingers delicately placed, posture cold and sharp.
The crowd?
Unhinged.
"NAHHHHH WHAT DID WE JUST SEE??!!"
"They drinkin' tea after COOKIN' the Drakens!!"
Phones were up. Videos were going viral in real-time.
Meanwhile, up in the VIP gallery, a different kind of reaction stirred.
Advika leaned forward, eyebrows slightly raised.
"I've never seen Armaan like this before," she said softly.
Reet nodded, lips parted in awe. "Yeah… he's on another level. So cold, so… composed."
Manvi chimed in, her tone playful, "That's to be expected from that cool guy, isn't it?"
The moment the words dropped, Advika's cheeks lit up—a warm, rosy blush.
And beside her, Alya also dipped her head shyly, lips curling into a small, bashful smile.
From the corner, Sohana and Roumit caught it all.
Their eyes met for a split second and they both grinned—mischief silently exchanged.
They didn't say a word, but the sparkle in their gaze said everything:
"Oh? Interesting…"
The score was 5–2.
The Drakens gave it their all in the last few minutes—flair, pace, aggression—but the Marians were no longer just playing a game.
They were painting a masterpiece.
With Avinash locking down the back, Samar blazing the wings, and Armaan orchestrating the field like a symphony—there was no way back.
And then—
FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!!!
The referee raised both arms.
The final whistle echoed through the stadium like a war horn, but this time, it carried no tension.
Only victory.
Only glory.
The stadium ERUPTED like a volcano of joy.
Banners were thrown, confetti launched into the sky, horns blared, and voices screamed the names of the Marians like they were heroes from an epic legend.
"ARMAAAAN!!"
"SAMAAAR!!"
"AVINAAAASH!!"
"MAAAAARIANS!!"
The team ran to each other in the middle of the pitch, throwing arms around shoulders, tumbling on the grass like kids, shouting and laughing at the top of their lungs.
They did it.
They had won.
The golden trophy stood tall and glimmering at midfield, reflecting the floodlights of the stadium. The announcer called out:
"And the champions of this year's championship… THE MARIANS!!"
The crowd surged again.
Armaan, as captain, was called up to lift the trophy.
His teammates stood around him, arms on each other's backs, eyes locked on the gleaming reward of all their sweat, blood, and brotherhood.
He looked around—Samar beside him, giving him a nod.
Avinash, proud as ever.
Even the coach, teary-eyed, whispering "You boys made history."
Armaan raised the trophy high above his head and screamed—
"THIS IS OURS!!"
And with that, the sky exploded in fireworks.
The Moments That Mattered
Down on the pitch, Alya ran up, tackling Armaan in a tight hug. She didn't say much. Just looked at him with those sparkling eyes filled with admiration.
"You were amazing out there," she whispered.
He gave his usual calm smile, brushing her hair gently aside. "You were watching, huh?"
She just nodded, cheeks pink.
Reet, Manvi, and Advika came next, all cheering, Reet jumping in excitement.
Manvi laughed, "Armaan, that tea celebration? Iconic. Instagram's melting already!"
Advika gave a soft punch to his arm. "You keep surprising everyone…"
Armaan just smirked, then glanced at Roumit and Sohana who were already taking selfies with the trophy
And then—
His mom.
Tears in her eyes, arms wide open. Armaan melted into her hug like a little boy again.
"You've grown so much…" she whispered, wiping her tears.
He said nothing—just hugged her tighter.
Then came his sister, who jumped on his back playfully.
"Still a showoff, huh?" she grinned.
"You love it," Armaan teased.
"Yeah," she laughed. "I really do."
The stadium dimmed slowly.
Celebrations went on. But Armaan?
Eventually, he slipped away—his mind and body finally craving one thing.
Rest.
[That Night]
The room was quiet.
A gentle breeze swayed the curtain. The silver moonlight filtered in through the window, bathing the floor in pale light.
Armaan lay on his bed, the gold medal hanging on the bedpost. His body sore but his heart full. He turned, a small smile on his face, and whispered—
"What a day…"
His breathing slowed.
And then… sleep took over.
But peace never lingers for long.
The air in his dream twisted.
The light flickered into blood red.
Suddenly, the calm field he dreamt of cracked beneath his feet—magma flowing underneath.
And then—
A colossal figure landed.
BOOM.
The ground trembled.
A crimson dragon, larger than any building, covered in glistening blood-red scales, its body leaking rivers of blood, its wings torn yet burning like war banners.
Eyes black as a void.
Its breath reeked of death.
It stood tall in front of Armaan.
Silent. Watching. Waiting.
And then—
Its eyes glowed.
---
To be continued...