As the sed half progressed, Kadji Sports abaheir patient, possession-based approach. Instead, they switched to a more direct, physical style, ung long balls intons FC’s defehird, hoping their tall striker could capitalize.
But Jean, ever the defensive rock, was having none of it. Time and again, he positioned himself perfectly, leaping high to win headers and clearing the danger before Kadji Sports' striker could even challenge him. His dominan the air was shutting down their strategy, f Kadji Sports to rethink their approach.
Marcel, meanwhile, was everything. Kadji Sports’ defensive line was creeping dangerously high, leaving them vulnerable to terattacks. Sensing an opportunity, he adjusted his position carefully to avoid being caught offside.
Then, another long ball came intons FC’s half. Jean once again rose above everyone, heading it down toward one of his midfield teammates. The midfielder took a touch, sing the field. That was when Marcel made his move.
He sprinted forward and raised his arm, signaling for the ball.
Jean’s teammate immediately spotted him and pyed a quick return pass to Jean, who didn’t hesitate. With a perfectly weighted, lofted ball, Jea it s over the Kadji Sports defense, leading Marcel into open space.
The ball dropped perfectly into his path, just ahead of him. If he timed it right, he could let it bound tinue his charge toal without breaking stride.
Then he saw the spot where it would nd.
The pitch was uneven, worn from stant use. A patch just outside the penalty box had already caused awkward bounces earlier in the game. As the ball struck the ground, instead of slowing down, it took an uable skip forward, veering slightly.
Marcel had expected some irregurity, but the sudden ge forced him to adjust. He pushed himself to accelerate even harder.
The goalkeeper saw the danger and made a split-sed decision to rush out, determio reach the ball first. He couldn’t use his hands—it was still outside the box—so he went for a desperate clearance.
Marcel got there at the exact same time.
As the keeper swung his foot, Marcel reacted instinctively. Instead to dribble around him, he lunged forward and pnted his right boot on top of the ball, momentarily pinning it against the turf. The keeper’s momentum carried him forward, his leg swiping through nothing but air.
Then, in one fluid motion, Marcel executed a half-spin, dragging the ball with him—a sharp pivot rather than a full Marseille turn. The move was effective enough to leave the keeper sprawling past him, pletely beaten.
For a brief sed, time seemed to slow.
The goal was wide open. Marcel steadied himself, took a posed touch, and slotted the ball into the empty .
GOAL!
Dragons FC took the lead! 1-2 ih minute!
Ooue, Coach Emile shot to his feet, fists ched in satisfa. The small crowd reacted with a ripple of cheers, and iands, Frane and Christina were on their feet, celebrating wildly.
Marcel barely paused—he turned and poioward Jean, aowledging the perfect assist, before being swarmed by his teammates.
They were now ahead, but the match was far from over. Kadji Sports wouldn’t go down without a fight.
…
The match restarted with both teams locked in battle, her willing to cede an inch. The midfield became a warzone, possession shifting bad forth as pyers scrambled for trol.
In the 63rd minute, Ngoah received the ball just inside Dragons FC’s half and immediately surged forward. A Dragons FC midfielder stepped up to stop him, but with a subtle body feint, Ngoah glided past him effortlessly. Another defender lunged, only to be left behind as Ngoah cut ih deceptive ease.
Now in the right half-space, dangerously close to the penalty area, he attempted a driven teral cross.
Jean, reading the py, reacted quickly, closing down on him. The pass was weak—one ons FC’s defenders intercepted and cleared the ball away to the left fnk.
67th minute. Dragons Fched another terattack, Marcel breaking through once again. His cross was aimed perfectly, but Toukam was there, heading it clear. Ngoah, trag back, recovered the ball and immediately lifted his head, spotting his right winger making a run.
With a perfectly weighted long ball, he sent it down the right side ons FC’s half. The pass recise, but it carried too much pace. The winger barely mao keep it in py, and by the time he trolled it, Dragons FC’s left-back had closed him down.
The winger hesitated, trying multiple feints to get past, but he was locked down. Instead, he rolled the ball baidfielder. Seizing the moment, the midfielder attempted a nutmeg pass, sliding it through the legs of a pressing Dragons FC pyer.
The ball, however, hit an uneven patch of dirt, boung awkwardly. For a sed, it seemed like it might go out of reach, but Ngoah trolled it masterfully.
Seeing an opening, he drove forward trally, with Dragons FC’s defenders backpedaling, giving him too much space.
Jean realized their mistake too te. He rushed forward to close down, but the momeepped up—
BOOM!
Ngoah unleashed a thunderous strike from outside the box.
The ball rocketed through the air, seemingly destined for the top er.
CRACK!
It smashed against the crossbar, the sound eg across the pitch.
The Dragons FC goalkeeper had barely reacted, frozen in pce as he watched the ball ricochet out of py. A collective exhale followed—they had just survived a near disaster.
The game remained deadlocked. Dragons Fow fully aware of the threat, sat back, abs pressure while waiting for Kadji Sports to overit. Even Marcel was dropping deep, helping his left-back track the right winger’s runs.
In the 73rd minute, Kadji Sports’ right winger mao break through, cutting inside past the left-back. Before he could take aep, Marcel lunged in, sweeping the ball away with a tackle.
Fweee!
The referee blew his whistle. Foul.
Marcel groaned in frustration. It was right on the edge of the box—too close for fort.
Jean stood in the wall, the tallest pyer in Dragons FC’s squad, staring down Ngoah, who reparing to take the free kick. The goalkeeper adjusted his position, anticipating a cross.
Fweee!
Ngoah took a deep breath, eyes locked oarget as he approached the ball with a posed stride. His right foot swung forward in a smooth, calcuted motion, striking the ball with the perfect blend of power and finesse.
The ball lifted off the ground, spinning viciously as it climbed over the wall.
Jean and the others jumped, arms raised in desperation, but they were a fra too te—the ball had already cleared them.
Time seemed to slow.
The ball hung in the air for what felt like ay, spinning with deadly precision as it curved toward the top left er.
The goalkeeper's eyes widened—he read the trajectory a sed too te.
He sprang to his right, his body stretg out, arms fully extended, fingers reag...
For a brief moment, it looked like he might get there.
Then—
SMACK!
The ball kissed the inside of the post aled into the with a crisp snap of the mesh.
A moment of silence.
Then—
GOAL!
Kadji Sports equalized ih minute!
The Dragons FC pyers stood motionless, their eyes locked on the ball ihe , struggling to process what had just happened.
The small crowd erupted in cheers, and Kadji Sports pyers rushed to Ngoah, patting him on the back, his face beaming with fidence.
Marcel ched his fists, his jaw tightening.
Coach Emile let out a deep sigh, rubbing his forehead. He had seen this before.
The match was once again wide open. 2-2, with 15 minutes left to py.
......
Dragon FC couldn't afford to sit baymore. They had to attack, to push forward, to find the goal that would secure their p the final.
Marcel was relentless, tormenting Toukam and his defeh every attack. His crosses whipped into the box like daggers, but either they clipped the crossbar or the Kadji Sports keeper, having the game of his life, was there to deny them.
Marcel himself had tried to take matters into his own hands, cutting inside aing fly, but his shots either soared over the bar or raight in the keeper’s hands. Frustration was setting in.
Oher side, Ngoah was orchestrating Kadji Sports' midfield with masterful trol. Whenever he had the ball, he found openings where others saw hreading passes that could carve out danger. But the pitch betrayed him at times, its uneven surfapromising the precision of his deliveries. And when the ball did nd perfectly, Jean was always there, anticipating every move, cutting out passes, and leading the defensive lih sheer determination.
Both teams were throwing everything they had into the game. The goalkeepers became the tral figures, each making spectacur saves to keep the score at 2-2. It was a battle of wills, and the goal would likely decide the match.
Then it happened.
The 86th minute.
Ngoah received the ball just outside the penalty ar his left winger. As he turo face the goal, twon FC defenders closed in, Jean among them.
Sensing a momentary gap, the sed defender lunged, stretg his leg out to snatch the ball away. But with a sharp croqueta, Ngoah shifted the ball smoothly from one foot to the other, evading the challenge in a single fluid motion. The path to goal was still blocked—Jean stood firm, eyes locked on the ball, ready to shut him down.
Ngoah feigned left. Jean didn't bite.
Then, in a split sed, the ball flicked through Jean’s legs—a nutmeg executed to perfe.
Jean’s mind barely had time tister what had happened. His body tensed with frustration. No way. Not like this.
As the ball rolled past him, Jeaed on instinct. He lunged—full stretch, desperate—his boot sweeping through the dirt. His leg made tact.
Ngoah tumbled forward, hitting the ground hard.
Fweeee!!!
The sharp bst of the whistle cut through the air. For a moment, time seemed to freeze.
Jean picked himself up, eyes immediately sing for the spot of the foul. It was outside the box. It had to be. A free kiothing more. He sighed in relief. His teammates started shifting bato position.
Then, fusion turned into disbelief.
The referee wasn’t pointing to the spot of the foul.
He ointing to the penalty spot.
Chaos erupted.
"No way! That was outside the box!" Jean shouted, his arms shooting up in protest. His teammates swarmed the referee, pointing furiously to the pce where the tackle had happened.
Marcel stormed over, shaking his head. "Ref, you saw that! It was outside! How are you giving that?!"
One of the Dragon FC midfielders got in the referee’s face, jabbing his fi the ground. "You ’t just guess! Look at where it happened!"
Jean turo Ngoah, still on the ground, catg his breath. "You know that wasn’t iell him! Don’t be a coward!"
Ngoah said nothing.
Fweeee!
A yellow card.
Jean.
Another whistle.
A sed yellow.
The protesting midfielder.
Marcel stepped fain, hands still raised—another sharp whistle, and his name was taken too.
That’s when Coach Emile lost it.
He had already been yelling from the sidelines, but when he saw three of his pyers getting booked in seds, his face turned red with rage.
"Hey! HEY! That’s enough!" His voice cut through the chaos. "Get bao more talking! Yon a red !"
The pyers hesitated, still fuming, but his words hit harder.
"Jean, Marcel, you want to leave your team with ten?! Get ba positio go! We still tie the score if you keep your heads! You lose trol, you lose the match!"
Relutly, they stepped back. The frustration didn’t leave their faces, but they had no choice.
As the dust settled, Ngoah slowly picked himself up and walked to the penalty spot. He pced the ball down, taking a deep breath.
Now, all that was left was the penalty.
......
......
Frane and Christina jumped to their feet the moment the referee poio the penalty spot.
"What the hell is wrong with this referee?!" Frane shouted, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "That was not a penalty! I thought a foul has to be ihe box for it to t?!"
"Normally, yes," Christina muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. "I have no idea what this referee drank before the match."
Frane scoffed, arms crossed. "I’m sure he aid off before the match. This is Cameroon, after all. Even in a petition for kids, they have to cheat."
The middle-aged man wearing the Cameroon national team tracksuit let out a small chuckle before responding, "It’s just something that happens in football. It’s not necessarily corruption. From where we’re sitting, it’s clear the foul happened outside the box. But from the referee’s position, with all the movement and chaos, it could have looked like it happened i's a tough call."
Both Frane and Christina turo him at the exact same time, their eyes sharp and uing.
"So, you’re saying this is a penalty?" They almost spoke in unison, their disbelief thi the air.
The maated, suddenly aware that any attempt at reasoning with them was futile. "No, no, I’m not saying that, just that—" He stopped mid-sentence as their gres intensified, realizing there was no winning this argument. With a defeated sigh, he simply turned back to the pitch, letting the versatiohere.
Frane and Christina huffed, but their attention quickly returo the field.
Down ogoah g the ball on the spot, taking a deep breath as he prepared for the penalty.
Frane ched her fists.
"e on… just save this," she muttered under her breath, barely realizing she eaking out loud.
Christina nodded beside her, hands csped tightly. "If that ball goes in, I swear, I’ll—"
She didn’t finish her sentence.
All eyes were locked on the goal.
......
......
Ngoah took a deep breath, stepping back as he locked eyes with the goalkeeper. He had already decided where to pce the shot.
He approached the ball with a few quick strides, then suddenly slowed, pausing slightly before striking. The Dragons FC keeper reacted instinctively, diving low to his left.
But he had guessed wrong.
Ngoah struck the ball dead ter, a simple yet ruthless penalty. The goalkeeper's outstretched hands hit nothing but air, and the ball thudded into the back of the .
GOAL!
Kadji Sports take the lead, 3-2!
The Kadji Sports pyers erupted, rushing to surround Ngoah, spping his bad ruffling his hair. Their substitutes on the sidelines jumped iement, while the goalkeeper, who had barely beeed in the sed half, pumped his fists.
Meanwhile, Marcel stood frozen, staring at the ball resting i. His fists ched, frustration boiling inside him. How?
He had done everything. They had done everything. Ahey were still behind.
He dropped his head for a moment, hands on his hips. But then, slowly, he raised his eyes.
There was still time.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Coach Emile was already shouting from the sideline, voice hoarse with urgency.
"BOYS, IT'S NOT OVER! WHY ARE YOU STANDING LIKE THAT?!" He waved his arms furiously. "HEADS UP! WE STILL SCORE! DO NOT GIVE UP NOW!"
Every Dragon FC pyer snapped back to reality, fire burning in their eyes.
The ball ced at the ter circle.
The game restarted.
Five minutes of additional time.
Kadji Sports pyers wasted no time slowing the match down. They started pying rondos, passing the ball in tight triangles, f Dragons FC to chase, running down the clock.
The frustration built. Every seattered.
Then, suddenly—a mistake.
A Kadji Sports midfielder, under pressure, mistrolled the ball. It rolled too far from his feet.
A Dragons FC midfielder pounced.
A quick touch—stolen.
ation—a pass to Marcel.
Marcel received the ball on the left wing, fag Kadji Sports' right-back.
The defender lunged forward, but Marcel was faster. A sharp feint, then a burst of speed—gone.
He cut ioukam stepping up to block him.
Marcel didn’t stop.
With a perfectly timed croqueta, he slipped the ball from his right foot to his left, bypassing Toukam entirely.
Now, ihe penalty area, Marcel saw it.
A teammate en at the far post.
The perfect pass.
He drove a low cross, slig through the defense, bypassing everyo reached him.
Time slowed.
The midfielder positioned himself, his foot already swinging forward, ready to strike.
But then—
A divot.
A barely noticeable bump in the uneven pitch—but enough to alter everything.
The ball bounced just before reag him.
His foot, expeg a tact, hit awkwardly against his tibia instead.
The shot unched into the air, veering hopelessly over the crossbar.
Fweeeeee!
Fweeeeee!
Fweeeeee!
The referee blew for full-time.
The match was over.
Kadji Sports Academy won, 3-2.
Marcel stood still, his expression bnk, eyes empty.
He didn’t uand. How?
His knees felt weak. He dropped onto the grass, hands c his face.
He wasn’t g—but he was close.
His teammates sat on the ground, devastated. Some covered their faces, others stared at the field, lost in frustration.
Coach Emile stepped onto the pitch, walking toward each pyer, quiet words of fort.
He reached Marcel, pg a hand on his shoulder.
"You pyed very well," Emile said softly. "You have a bright future ahead of you. Don’t let this disce you."
Marcel barely he words not fully sinking in.
Frane and Christina hurried onto the pitch, their eyes searg for Marcel among the Dragons FC pyers scattered across the field, heads down in silent frustration. The moment they spotted him, kneeling with his hands over his face, their pace quied.
"Mom…" His voice was barely above a whisper, heavy with disappoi. He tried to hold back the emotions g at his throat. "I said I would win. But we lost."
Frane didn’t hesitate. She pulled him into a tight embrace, cradling the back of his head as she had done when he was a child. "It’s okay," she whispered. "You did your best. That’s all that matters."
He stayed in her arms, his breathing uneven. His father always said a ma cry, that he has to take it all in. But right now, it was difficult. The pain of losing, the sting of elimination—it was unbearable.
Christina stepped forward hesitantly, watg him closely. Then, without a word, she ed her arms around him from the side, pressing herself against him. She kissed his cheek softly, her voice quiet but firm. "You pyed really well," she said. "It wasn’t your fault. I think you were the best pyer och."
Marcel remained silent, but Christina could feel the tension in his body. Seeing him like this, so broken, was something she wasn’t used to. No one else oeam seemed as devastated as he was. To them, it was just a youth tour. A tough loss, but ohey could move past.
But Christina uood why it hurt Marcel so much.
Since she had known him, whether in the neighborhood, in school, or any petition he pyed in, he had always been the best. He was the one who made his team win, the one who domihe one who never lost. This was his first real taste of defeat. And worse, it wasn’t just about him—his whole team had lost, and he felt responsible.
She tightened her grip on him, trying to give him fort, but he slowly pulled away. He shook his head, his voice filled with frustration. "No," he muttered. "If I pyed well enough, we would have won."
His words hung in the air before he turned away from them and started toward the locker room.
Fra out a quiet sigh, watg him go. "Don’t worry," she murmured to Christina. "This is his first elimination. He’ll be okay."
Christina nodded but kept her eyes on him, watg the way his shoulders tensed with every step.
As Marcel made his way off the field, lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed the man stepping into his path until a firm haed on his shoulder. He looked up, meeting the gaze of a middle-aged man wearing a Cameroon national team tracksuit.
"You pyed exceptionally," the man said, his voice calm and steady. "Your runs, your dribbling, your teique… it leasure to watch. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You have a bright future ahead of you."
Marcel stared at him, unsure how to respond. The man’s presence was unfamiliar, yet his words carried weight. He wasn’t just another spectator.
"I hope you py like this," the man tinued, "and eveer in two months."
Before Marcel could ask what he meant, the man patted his shoulder and walked away, heading toward Coach Emile.
Marcel stood frozen for a moment, his mind trying to process what had just been said. Two months? He wasn’t scheduled to py in any more petitions with Dragons Fytime soon. What was he talking about?
He shook the thought away. His head was still heavy with the loss, the regret. He pushed open the locker room door and stepped ihe noise of the stadium fading behind him.
When he finally emerged, his mother and Christina were already waiting in the car. He slid into his seat, staring out of the window as they drove off.
No one spoke.
Frane g him through the rearview mirror a few times, but she didn’t say anything. Christina, sitting beside him, sneaked worried gnces, but he kept his eyes oreets passing by.
Marcel didn’t feel like talking. His mind was still trapped ich, repying every missed opportunity, every moment he could have done somethier.
......
Lying on his bed, Marcel stared at the ceiling, his mind a storm of swirling thoughts. The "what ifs" crept iing him to repy every moment of the match, but he forced himself to shut them out. There was no ging the past.
Instead, his thoughts drifted toward the uping Afri U-17 Championship. Would he even have a ow? He hadn’t woour, hadn’t even reached the final. He had pyed well, yes, but was that enough? He wasn’t sure anymore.
He exhaled slowly, pushing the doubts aside. Thinking about it wouldn’t ge anything. He would just have to wait and see.
His mind then shifted to something else—his system. Sihe match against Yaoundé, he hadn’t checked it onow, curiosity sparked, and he summohe interfa his mind.
[Elite Boost System]
Level: 1 (16/500 XP)
Name: Mardonga
Date of Birth: 17 May 2000 (14 years old)
Height: 168 cm
Weight: 64 kg
Positio Winger / Right Winger
Special Boosts:
Bronze Boost: Defensive Cohesion +5% (One slot avaible)Lottery Tickets: 0
Pyer Attributes
Market: Locked
Points: 33
Marcel studied the interface. His progression looked solid, but then a troubling thought hit him. If he wasn’t called up for the Cameroon U-17 squad, how would he keep accumuting experience? Without official matches, his development would stagnate.
The only other way would be if he somehow got promoted ton FC’s senior team. But at just 14 years old, what were the ces of that happening? Even if he felt ready—believed he could hahe MTe One—he doubted the club’s coaches saw him the same way.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips.
“I just hope I get called up…” he murmured to himself, closing the system interface.
With that st thought lingering in his mind, he shut his eyes and drifted into sleep.
