The stadium thundered with noise.A hundred thousand fans screamed from the stands, drowning in chaos and glory. The World Cup Final had reached its climax — France versus England. Ninety minutes of grit and fire had come down to a final sliver of time.
Ten seconds remained on the clock. France trailed by one.
Under the stadium floodlights, a single figure in the blue kit of France dashed past defenders like a bullet — the number 10 on his back, the ball dancing at his feet. A black, eagle-like creature with glowing red eyes soared above him, wings outstretched, mirroring his every movement like a shadow stitched to his soul.
He didn't need to look up to know it was there. He felt it — every heartbeat synchronized, every step aligned. The roar of the crowd faded into silence as he crossed into the penalty box.
Time slowed.
He leapt. The sprite circled once and shrieked.
His right leg swung through the air like a whip, and the ball exploded off his foot. It curved past the goalkeeper's outstretched hands and slammed into the back of the net.
The crowd erupted.
Victory.
He turned to the stands, chest heaving, arms raised, as flashes of cameras lit up the stadium. His teammates ran toward him. His name was being chanted — over and over.
Jim.
Jim.
Jim.
"GOAAALLLLL!" Jim shouted.
Then came an icy shock — a bucket of cold water crashing onto his face.
He gasped, choking slightly, and jolted upright on the bench. The dream shattered like glass.
Laughter exploded from the field.
"Look who's dreaming now," a voice sneered. "The bench legend himself."
Jim blinked water from his eyes, heart still pounding. In front of him stood three players from the senior group, all smirking.
"Still stuck in fairy tales, sprite-less loser?" one of them added. "You think you've got the right to even touch a football?"
Another leaned in closer, voice low and cruel. "Why don't you do us all a favor? Pack your stuff. Leave the academy. Football isn't for deadweight."
Jim stayed silent, staring down at his soaked jersey. He could feel their eyes on him — judgment, amusement, disgust. He clenched his fists beneath the bench.
Around them, the field carried on. Sprites flared across the sky like divine beasts—each one attached to a player sprinting, dribbling, tackling.
One student had a white serpent coiled around his shoulders, its scales shimmering as it hissed with every pass. Another had a massive lion-shaped sprite running beside him, paws flickering with gold light.
Sprites—the mystical beings bonded to players who showed real potential. They were born from emotion, talent, and willpower, and each was unique. Some were small and stealthy, some massive and fearsome. Most had powers that reflected their host's playstyle. But all of them shared one truth:
They chose the player. Not the other way around.
And Jim… hadn't been chosen.
He stood slowly, water dripping from his hair, and wiped his face without a word. His teammates were already turning away, laughing as they jogged back to the field.
He didn't follow. He simply watched.
His jersey was still clean. His boots looked untouched. His soul felt heavy.
Even now, he could feel the echoes of the dream. The crowd. The goal. The glory.
And the shadow creature beside him.
But dreams were dreams.
Here in the real world, he was invisible.
The coach's whistle blew sharply. Practice was ending. The team gathered in a loose huddle as the sky turned pale with evening light.
Jim remained by the bench, a little colder than before.
He had once dreamed of standing on the world's biggest stage. But right now, he couldn't even get off the bench.