Chapter 84: A drop.
Screams.
"Hey hey, pass it over here!"
"Fucking hell, we don't have much time!"
Screams were coming from everywhere.
"Hurry up, score or give it here!"
From everyone around me.
"Don't be lazy and give it here!"
A familiar phrase. A phrase that I am all too familiar with.
"Come on, work hard, for fuck's sake!"
Another familiar phrase.
"Why are you being so lazy?!"
These phrases started to fill my ears since the time I decided to stop taking anything seriously. I hated it—the way everyone around me was so damn serious all the time. It was suffocating.
"Come on, man, use your talents!"
It's my talent. I will do whatever I want with it. You are in no position to order me around.
People around me were all the same; they would order me around, but they wouldn't lift a finger themselves. They'd shout from the sidelines, screaming commands, barking expectations, but when it came down to it, they didn't know the weight of those words.
At this moment, I had the ball at my feet, running towards the destination my eyes had set on. It's funny—I never imagined myself playing football with people who had far more experience than me.
Football wasn't something I cared about. It wasn't something I even wanted to excel at. I always thought football was a sport where experience dominated talent. No matter how gifted you were, no matter how naturally adept, someone who'd been kicking a ball longer would always know something you didn't. That's why I tried my best to gather what I called "artificial experience".
This term—"artificial experience"—isn't something people use. Most don't even believe something like this exists.
If I told anyone, they'd probably laugh and say, "Experience and artificial? Are you stupid for putting those two words together?" They would mock the idea as something impossible, foolish.
But they don't know.
Artificial experience is using your memory to create experiences that don't actually exist. It's a skill that relies on your ability to recall and perfect memory. By watching, by observing the countless matches and players who came before me, I could recreate in my mind the moments they lived, without ever having to live them myself. I could play them over and over again, gaining knowledge, reflexes, intuition—without ever setting foot on the field.
"Sorry, the path has been disconnected," Okabe called out, snapping me from my thoughts as he tried to push me off. Unfortunately for him, I'd seen something like this before in one of the matches I studied.
*Skid!*
"Huh?!" His face twisted in confusion as I stopped my movement all of a sudden. He looked baffled. He hadn't expected me to halt like that, catching him off guard.
"Don't worry, there's backup," he muttered as if trying to calm himself. Indeed, there was backup—behind Okabe stood Miyushi. I ran past Okabe, and just like I predicted, both he and Miyushi started tailing me.
*Skid!*
"Again?" Okabe scoffed, clearly annoyed.
I momentarily stopped on the ball, and now, not only Okabe but Miyushi and Mikage, who had joined in, paused too. They all halted their movement as they tried to close the gap between themselves and the ball at my feet.
That's when they made their mistake. Unaware, they'd left an open space—a gap just big enough for me to exploit. Right there, standing in that open space, was Ming. He looked at me, and in that moment, it felt as though we exchanged words without even needing to speak.
I kicked the ball, and the three defenders just stood there, watching as the ball sailed past them to Ming, who easily received it.
This move—this skill I just used—wasn't even mine originally. I'd copied it from an old Real Madrid vs. Barcelona match. It had been etched into my mind, a part of the artificial experience I had accumulated over countless hours of watching and recalling.
"thats for the ball." Ming's voice cut through the air.
I glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. Was he starting to lose it from the pressure? Or was he just having too much fun? If this was the stress talking, maybe we should get him to a doctor after the match. Or maybe admit him to a mental hospital. Yeah, that might be more appropriate for him.
But even as those ridiculous thoughts flashed through my mind, I couldn't deny that my own head was starting to throb from all the calculations I'd been making.
*Drop.*
'Hm?' I looked up, feeling a wet sensation on my skin. A single drop of water landed on my hand. I glanced at the sky—dark clouds were rolling in, heavy and ominous. It looked like we were about to experience rain.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the tension of the game, the noise around me, the expectations all sinking away into the background. It was as though the sky itself was telling us that time was running out, not just for the match, but for everything.
In the distance, I could hear the voices growing louder, more frantic, more demanding. I could hear the panic setting in as the other players realized what was happening. But in this moment, I felt... nothing.
Not fear. Not excitement. Not even the pressure to win.
Just emptiness.
It was strange how all the screaming and shouting, all the frantic energy from earlier, now seemed so distant, so unimportant. The rain began to fall in earnest, each drop cooling the burning heat of my skin, washing away the sweat and effort I had expended up until this point.
I thought back to the countless times I'd heard those words—lazy, talent, potential—all thrown at me like accusations. People always assumed that if you didn't work hard, if you didn't push yourself to your limit, you were wasting your talent. They couldn't fathom that sometimes, it wasn't about effort. It wasn't about wanting to win or needing to prove something.
It was about being.
About living.
Existing in this moment, where nothing else mattered but the ball at your feet and the goal post ahead of you. Not the expectations, not the consequences, not the thoughts of others. Just the simplicity of the now.
It didn't matter to me whether I scored or not. It didn't matter whether we won or lost. The only thing that mattered was that I was here, alive, present, in this fleeting second.
I had heard once that life was about moments like these—moments where time seems to stand still, where everything fades except for the clarity of what's right in front of you. I wasn't sure if I believed that back then, but now? Now, standing in the rain, with the weight of the game pressing on everyone but me, I could feel it.
I am alive.
That thought echoed in my mind again, over and over. No one else could understand what I was feeling. No one else could grasp the simplicity of it.
They were all caught up in the game. They were all thinking about the score, about winning, about glory. But I... I was thinking about nothing.
Just... being alive.
The ball was with Ming now, but it didn't matter. I had done my part, played my move. The rest was out of my hands.
And I was content.
I looked at the field, the players, the darkening sky. The rain had fully arrived now, pouring down like a curtain over the world.
Screams continued to echo around me, louder now, more urgent. But I didn't care. This was their game, not mine.
I am alive.
And that's all that mattered.