Location: Disavowed Military Base – Pyrenees, France Time: 7 Days After the BroadcastThere was no signpost. No road. No crowds. Just crumbled earth and whispers of old wars buried beneath the snow-veiled Pyrenees.But deep underground, accessible only by biometric clearance embedded in forbidden blacksites, the Omega Pitch came alive.An underground arena. Circular. Cold. Encased in smooth carbon steel walls, humming with residual energy.The surface was artificial grass, but ancient markings lined the edges: glyphs no modern player could understand. At its center stood a single bench.Waiting for two. And today, they would sit across from each other. Robin stepped into the tunnel first. No cameras. No agents. No fans screaming his name.Only the rhythmic sound of his boots on steel as he carried his ball under one arm. He wore no team colors. Just a gray hoodie. A scar on his jaw from the London match still healing.Layla’s voice echoed through his comms earpiece. “No live feeds. No

Location: Abandoned Football Grounds, Eastern Ghana Time: 3:02 AMNo cameras. No referees. Just dust, moonlight, and the sound of a single ball echoing between two sets of boots. Robin and Kane stood ten yards apart.Identical in height. Identical in build. But years apart in pain. Robin’s pain came from rising too slow.Kane’s pain came from never being allowed to rise at all. They circled the center mark, the ball between them, neither breaking eye contact.Robin’s voice was calm. “This isn’t a match.”Kane nodded. “It’s a reckoning.”And with that, the ball moved. Kane struck first. His foot sliced under the ball with vicious speed, launching it into the air, then spinning into a midair bicycle kick.Robin saw it coming. Barely. He spun sideways and caught the ball on his chest, rolling into a grounded trap. “Nice opening.”Kane grinned. “That was just the handshake.”Robin’s play was surgical. He moved with flow, touch to touch, memory to memory.Every fake, every turn, born from

Location: The Azores Archipelago – Coordinates Classified Time: 9 Days After Robin’s BroadcastThe island didn’t exist on any map. An extinct volcano had been hollowed from within, its molten core long replaced by something colder, crueler. Blackfield.Not a stadium. A coliseum. No bleachers. No fans. No turf. Just a jagged circular pitch surrounded by obsidian walls, built for pain, not play.At the center: a single goal on each end, rusted and bent, facing each other like dueling pistols. Surveillance drones hovered in silence.Sensors glowed from the crater walls. And from a lone elevator shaft, Alpha stepped onto the pitch. Behind her, engineers followed in silence, adjusting holographic projectors and atmospheric filters.Alpha raised her hand. “Initiate Phase One. Prepare the nightmare grid.”Far across Europe, Robin sat in a private jet, staring at a black duffel bag by his feet. Inside: no gear. Just one thing, his original boots.The ones he wore when he first touched a leagu