Location: Football Field

  Operation: Practice

  Time: 12:05

  I was still wondering who was at the bottom of the list.

  It had only been three hours since the rankings were posted, and technically, there was no way I could even see who occupied that last, dreaded spot. But that didn’t stop the anticipation from gnawing at me like a wild animal pacing in its cage. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore—it was this vivid, humming anxiety that refused to quiet down.

  If things turned out to make sense—if the people near the top were predictable—it would calm me down. But if it didn’t... then I’d have more reasons to be suspicious than ever.

  The midday sun blazed over the football field, the heat rippling across the turf like shimmering glass. Saturdays were “practice days” for Mage Football—whatever that was supposed to mean for someone like me, who barely understood the sport’s magical component.

  By the time I got there, the field was already alive with movement. Rows of players stood scattered across the grass, most of them shirtless and built like brick walls. There were muscles upon muscles—guys whose torsos looked sculpted by divine blacksmiths, veins like cables. It was a sea of testosterone.

  And yet, oddly, there were no girls in sight. No audience, no cheerleaders, no one to show off to. Just men—grunting, flexing, and cracking their necks like they were about to storm a battlefield instead of play a game.

  I spotted Malachi among them, laughing with a few teammates. His presence was grounding, but not enough to make the environment feel less intimidating. One by one, more players began to arrive, jogging in from the sides of the field until the group nearly doubled in size.

  Then—from the tunnel beneath the bleachers—emerged a man who looked like he’d stepped out of another era entirely. He was short and stout, with a white mustache and hair that looked like chalk dusted his head. His blue polo shirt was tucked neatly into black cargo pants, the outfit finished off with scuffed shoes and a black cap tilted slightly forward. A whistle dangled from a lanyard around his neck, glinting in the sunlight.

  The moment he blew into it, the shrill sound pierced the air like a siren. Every player froze.

  “Alright! Everybody huddle up!” he barked, his voice sharp enough to slice through stone.

  The group scrambled toward him, forming a rough semicircle. His presence alone commanded obedience.

  “I just wanna set some parameters first, okay?” he said, pacing in front of us. His accent was thick and his tone unyielding—someone used to being obeyed without question.

  “Now,” he continued, “I want you to look at your neighbor.”

  I hesitated. My stomach twisted.

  He repeated louder, “Your neighbor!”

  Eventually, I turned to my right and came face-to-face with a guy who looked like he’d been sculpted out of granite. He had a ten-pack—not eight, ten—and a jaw so square you could probably use it as a ruler.

  “Say ‘neighbor!’” Coach Wallaby shouted.

  “Neighbor!” the crowd echoed.

  “You’re playing with a real player!”

  “You’re playing with a real player!”

  “And if you’re too much of a well-fed disappointment to match my level—”

  The man’s voice boomed like a cannon.

  “—then you better leave right now. Because I will be hard on you!”

  Silence. No one dared to breathe.

  Then, the coach chuckled, a low rumble that somehow made him even more intimidating. “That goes for all of you. I’m Coach Wallaby—your offensive coach. And if you don’t have the energy, the hard work, or the discipline to serve your team, then the only thing you can serve is lunch with the lunch ladies. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir!” the crowd thundered.

  “Yes, sir…” I mumbled halfheartedly, my voice drowned out by everyone else’s.

  Unfortunately, Coach Wallaby’s sharp eyes flicked right in my direction—or maybe above me. Hopefully above me.

  “Alright,” he said finally. “Get your gear going, and let’s move.”

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  Tackling drills. Of course it had to be tackling drills.

  We started off with the basics—short bursts, tackling dummies, impact form. But this wasn’t just ordinary football practice; it was Mage Football. Everyone had their own Perks—magical boosts that could enhance speed, strength, reflexes, or endurance.

  If I was going to keep up, I’d have to use mine.

  So, with each hit, each sprint, I activated my Perk in short, controlled pulses—like quickened heartbeats. It was subtle enough not to draw attention, but just powerful enough to keep me competitive.

  It worked. For a while, it was actually a breeze. My body felt lighter, faster, more reactive. But the moment I glanced behind me, I realized both Malachi and the jock—the muscle wall with the ten-pack—were starting to close the gap.

  “Prove to me those abs aren’t from steroids!” Coach Wallaby roared.

  The jock grinned and charged forward like a bull. I barely had time to react before I felt a jolt of pure force slam into my right side.

  Pain exploded through my ribs as I hit the padded ground—hard. My Perk kicked in again automatically, dulling the impact just enough for me to roll back to my feet before the coach could even blow his whistle.

  I stumbled forward, regaining pace. The other players looked impressed, but I could tell by the glint in Malachi’s eye that he wasn’t fooled.

  When practice finally ended, everyone gathered around Coach Wallaby once again, panting and dripping sweat. The field smelled like grass, iron, and exhaustion.

  “Alright, good job, Andre,” Coach Wallaby said, clapping that same jock on the shoulder. “That’s the kind of performance I want to see. Keep that up.”

  Andre folded his arms, smirking proudly. “No problem, sir. Just trying to be the best.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “That’s the mentality!” Coach Wallaby announced, pacing in front of us again. “Try to be the best! Because when you have one mind, one goal, one accord—that’s when the team moves. Lincoln once said, ‘A house divided within itself cannot stand.’”

  He stopped and looked over the group. “A team with half the number of players, all giving their full effort, will always be stronger than a team with double the people who don’t.”

  His words hung heavy in the air.

  I might’ve rolled my eyes again—subconsciously, maybe—but somehow, his gaze snapped straight toward me like a laser.

  “You find that hard to believe, don’t you?” he asked, stalking toward me.

  I froze.

  Before I could respond, Andre cut in smoothly. “No, sir, he was just… imagining.”

  Coach Wallaby stared him down. “Imagining?”

  He chuckled darkly. “Let’s keep it real here.” His gaze burned holes through us before he finally stepped back. “Take five, then we continue.”

  The team scattered toward the bleachers for water and rest. I exhaled a shaky breath and started searching for Malachi when—

  Someone tapped my shoulder.

  I jumped nearly a foot into the air.

  “Whoa, whoa, chill,” a familiar voice said. “It’s me.”

  “Tisiah,” I sighed, pressing a hand to my chest. “You scared the life out of me.”

  He smirked. “You’re welcome. And yeah, I came late. I hid until after that tackling drill. Those things give me trauma.”

  “Trauma?” I echoed. “You’re gonna have to explain that one someday.”

  But I didn’t press. Some stories weren’t worth unpacking on an empty stomach.

  From behind us came Malachi, arms crossed, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Took you long enough,” he muttered flatly. “I should’ve gotten first.”

  “It’s not your fault that there’s a literal super-soldier on the team,” I said.

  “You have a literal P—”

  “Shhhhh!” Tisiah and I hissed simultaneously.

  Malachi sighed. “With what you have, you should be dominating out there.”

  “Super-soldier’s fault,” I muttered again.

  “What did he do?”

  “He bumped into me. Not sure if it was on purpose or not, but my speed… it just vanished for a second.”

  Tisiah winced. “Oof. That hurts.”

  “Yeah,” Malachi said dryly, “letting someone do that to you hurts even more.”

  We both shot him looks sharp enough to cut steel.

  “Hop off, Tisiah,” he muttered. “Now—what new things have we found?”

  “It’s the weekend,” Tisiah said with mild annoyance. “We’re not supposed to be doing homework.”

  Malachi glared. “And yet, here we are.”

  Tisiah sighed, finally giving in. “Okay, fine. There is something new. It’s from Greg.”

  “Who’s Greg?” Malachi asked.

  “My brother,” Tisiah said, ruffling my hair.

  I swatted his hand away, pouting. “Hey! I’m not your pet.”

  Malachi raised a brow. “Oh, that’s new information, I guess.”

  “Anyway,” Tisiah continued, “Greg said after I told him what you told me—he still thinks you’re important in all this. The stakes might not be as bad from your perspective, though.”

  “What?” Malachi asked, his tone sharpening.

  I stepped in before they started bickering. “Malachi’s the top guy in the MP system, right? So if the TSA hangs around him, watches how he works, they’ll learn how the MP system functions. Once they figure that out, they can copy it—maybe even improve it. If they succeed, the MSTO could become more powerful than us.”

  Malachi rubbed his temples. “And that’s not bad for me how?”

  “Because you don’t risk dying,” Tisiah said bluntly.

  Malachi lunged, hand raised for a backhand, but I jumped in the middle. “Please! Can we not fight for once and maybe work together to save me instead?”

  Both of them turned toward me slowly, their faces unreadable. The silence was heavier than any football helmet.

  “Okay, yes, that sounded selfish,” I admitted. “But think about it—if we succeed, everyone wins. Imagine the MP gain we’d all get.”

  That caught their attention.

  “Oh, right,” Malachi said suddenly. “I need to go to the library Monday to buy my weapons.”

  Tisiah and I stared. “The library?!” we shouted in unison.

  “Check your emails,” Malachi said casually. “They’re encrypted. They sent everyone a message about it. The YMPS opens Monday—so we can buy our gear.”

  “Hold on,” Tisiah said, raising a finger. “If that’s true, here’s what we do. We find out who’s at the bottom of the list first. When does YMPS open?”

  “Sixteen hundred hours,” Malachi said.

  “English, please.”

  “Four p.m.”

  “Good. Then we track whoever’s at the bottom of that list. See what they buy.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It might reveal something valuable,” Tisiah said. His tone was serious now—the same tone he used right before an idea exploded into chaos.

  I glanced at Malachi, who only shrugged—and then smiled. That was never a good sign.

  “Also,” Tisiah said, “what does YMPS even stand for?”

  “Youth Mage Points Store,” I said immediately.

  He frowned. “How do you know that?”

  “From the email,” I replied, narrowing my eyes.

  “Nah,” he said, grinning, “I just guessed.”

  I exhaled, defeated. “I take back my words.”

  But even as I said it, my mind returned to that same thought from earlier—the list.

  And now, with everything happening, there were more reasons than ever to find out who could be at the bottom of the list.