Football Evolution System

Chapter 4: The Invitation

"Miya Shikamaru, are you still alive?" The voice echoed through his mind, dragging him back from the abyss of unconsciousness. His eyes snapped open, revealing an unfamiliar ceiling above him. It wasn't the cold, rain-soaked streets where he had last been conscious, nor the comforting familiarity of his own room. Everything was a pristine white, sterile and unsettling.

He sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings. The room was devoid of any distinguishing features, just stark white walls in every direction. The colorlessness only served to heighten his disorientation. *Was I kidnapped? Or is this heaven?* he wondered, glancing down at his still-damp football jersey and shorts. The realization that he was alive and relatively unharmed settled in, dispelling any thoughts of an afterlife. *Kidnapping, then.*

Miya stood up, feeling the slight chill of the air against his wet skin. He scanned the room, searching for any sign of a door or window, something that would provide a clue as to where he was. His fingers brushed along the smooth, cold walls, but there was nothing—no seams, no handles, no exits. The entire room felt like a high-tech glass prison.

*If this is a kidnapping, it's the strangest one I've ever heard of,* he mused, frowning. The room was too clean, too... special.

"Miya Shikamaru, it's nice to have you back." The voice, calm and authoritative, seemed to come from everywhere at once. Miya spun around, searching for its source, but found nothing. The room remained empty.

"Who's there?" Miya called out, his voice tinged with unease. "Are you a ghost?"

A chuckle resonated through the room, mechanical and eerie. "I'm not a ghost, though that might be an apt description. I'm speaking through a hidden speaker."

"Did you kidnap me?" Miya demanded, trying to mask his growing anxiety with bravado.

"Yes, but it wasn't against your will."

Miya's confusion deepened. *What kind of answer is that?* He crossed his arms defensively. "You just said you kidnapped me, but now you're saying it was voluntary? That's ridiculous. Let me go. I'm not worth anything—you won't get a ransom."

"Exactly," the voice replied, unfazed by Miya's defiance. "A wasted product is exactly what we need here at Limit Breaker."

The name sent a shiver down Miya's spine. *Limit Breaker?* He'd never heard of it. His anxiety morphed into a mix of curiosity and wariness. "What do you mean by that?"

"Limit Breaker is a program designed to cultivate true football champions, the kind who rise to the top despite the odds. You're almost eighteen, Miya. You quit football because it lost its meaning for you. Real football is a drug, an addiction, a life support. I understand what it's like to be unable to play real football."

Miya felt a flicker of intrigue despite himself. The voice seemed to know exactly what he had been feeling. The emptiness, the frustration, the sense of futility—everything that had driven him to walk away from the game he once loved.

"Let me offer you a proposition," the voice continued. "Train here at Limit Breaker, and I guarantee you'll have a chance to play at any club you desire. There's also a cash prize of eight million dollars, currently increasing, to be shared among those who come out on top. This is a supported program; surviving it could one day lead you to the World Cup trophy."

Miya's heart pounded in his chest. The offer sounded too good to be true. His mind raced, weighing the possibilities. *A chance to play professional football? Eight million dollars? The World Cup?* It all seemed surreal, yet tantalizing.

"You have nothing to lose anymore, Miya," the voice pressed, sensing his hesitation. "A life without football is—"

"The definition of death," Miya completed the sentence, his voice barely a whisper. He felt a strange sense of destiny, a pull that he couldn't quite explain. The idea of returning to football, of proving himself on a grand stage, was intoxicating. But there was still a lingering doubt. "I'll accept," he said cautiously, "but I want to see your face first."

The voice chuckled again, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the walls. "Don't worry. After a few tests, you'll see my face—if you pass them all."

Miya grinned, the challenge sparking a fire in his chest. "Then I guess I'll be seeing you soon. When it comes to football, I won't lose if I'm at full capacity."

A chiming sound rang out, and a section of the wall shifted open, revealing an exit. Inside, a compartment opened, revealing a set of long-sleeved dark clothes. "Take your uniform and meet the others outside in two minutes."

Without hesitation, Miya stripped off his damp clothes and donned the new uniform. It fit snugly, and as he adjusted the collar, he felt a surge of determination. This was a new beginning, a chance to reclaim his life.

Stepping through the opening, he entered another white room, much larger than the first. Like the previous one, it had no discernible doors or windows. As he looked back, the entrance he had just come through vanished, sealing him in. The room was filled with ten other young men, all clad in similar uniforms. Their expressions were a mix of confusion, excitement, and trepidation.

*This must be the team,* Miya thought, scanning their faces. He quickly counted—eleven, including himself. *Eleven against eleven... Are we here to play a match?*

Before he could speculate further, the voice returned, this time accompanied by a visual. A large screen descended from the ceiling, displaying a man wearing a disturbing dog mask. His presence was unnerving, a sinister aura surrounding him.

"Good day, everyone," the masked man began, his voice the same calm, authoritative tone Miya had heard earlier. "Apologies for the delay in gathering all of you, but we can finally begin."

The room fell silent, all eyes on the screen. The masked figure continued, "You are all strikers, chosen for your potential and unique abilities. Now, I have a question for you: What is the impact of a striker on the opposing team?"

The room remained quiet, the players pondering the question. One by one, they began to speak up, each offering their interpretation.

"Challenging the opposition," one player suggested.

"Inspiring all his opponents to push themselves to their limits," added another.

"Being looked up to," a third chimed in.

Each answer was met with silence from the masked man, his expression unreadable behind the mask. Finally, it was Miya's turn.

"A striker's role with respect to the opponents..." Miya started, a sly grin spreading across his face, unsettling some of his peers. "A striker is meant to crush the dreams of his opponents, to make them hear the sound of the ball hitting the back of their net dozens of times. It's about making them cry after losing the match and standing among them, laughing. That's the role of a striker."

The masked man nodded approvingly. "Half of what you said is correct. A striker's role is to crush the dreams and aspirations of the opposing team. Football is the greatest sport in the world because it thrives on this dynamic—every player wants to fulfill their dreams by shattering someone else's. You strikers are the ones who can make those dreams come true."

The room was tense, the air thick with anticipation and unease. The masked man continued, his voice taking on a more ominous tone. "Remember this. Now that we are done with our pop quiz, shall we play Limit Breaker now?"

As the words hung in the air, Miya felt a chill run down his spine. The excitement of the unknown mixed with a deep-seated fear. What exactly had he gotten himself into? The stakes were high, but so were the rewards. This was a chance to reclaim his destiny, to prove himself in the purest form of the game.

The room remained silent, the players exchanging nervous glances. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together—or against each other. Miya clenched his fists, a steely resolve settling over him. He was ready for whatever came next.