Morning came.
No alarm. No announcement.
Just the sound of a door unlocking.
The players from Room 109 stood ready, already dressed. No one had really slept — not after what happened to Noah.
They walked silently into the corridor. This time, they were led into a large indoor field. It was colder here. Brighter. Cameras everywhere.
Another screen blinked on:
> "Extinction Match: Room 109 vs Room 118."
The evaluator's voice followed:
> "This is your second test. Team match. Full field. One half — 25 minutes."
The players looked at each other.
> "If your team loses, not all of you will be cut. Only the bottom two based on performance. Winning protects you. Losing exposes you."
> "Judged on skill, teamwork, mental adaptability."
The doors on the other side opened.
Room 118 entered.
And the energy shifted immediately.
---
Room 118 walked in loud.
Laughing, shouting, trash-talking.
One player walked to the center without waiting. His hair was silver-blond, his smile wide and cruel.
He stretched like he owned the field.
"Don't blink too much," he grinned. "You'll miss greatness."
Another kicked the ball toward Haru's team.
"Here. You'll only get it once."
They were the opposite of Room 109.
Extroverted. Explosive. Dangerous.
---
The match began.
And Room 118 attacked fast.
Their number 10 — the silver-blond — was everywhere. Fast, aggressive, reckless.
And brilliant.
He didn't care about passing.
He dribbled through two defenders and fired a rocket into the net. 1–0.
Room 109 looked shaken.
But Haru wasn't.
He studied the chaos.
The flashy play. The gaps behind them. The overconfidence.
He saw something.
Weakness in their noise.
---
Then Haru moved.
He took the ball from midfield and passed. One touch. Then ran into space.
Received the ball back. Quick give-and-go. Then lobbed it behind two defenders.
His teammate caught it, fired — Goal.
1–1.
Even the loud ones got quiet.
But not for long.
---
The match turned into war.
Fouls. Screams. Collisions. Flashy moves. Calm counters.
Every player was being watched. Every mistake recorded. Every choice judged.
Haru played smart. Not heroic. Just effective.
And when the whistle blew…
The score was 2–2.
---
Back in the analysis room, the screen blinked on.
Room 109 sat together. Room 118 on the opposite side.
The evaluator's voice returned.
"Draw. But this isn't about score."
Everyone straightened up.
"Room 118 — Taro Murase, Kenji Flamme — you're out."
Both looked shocked.
"What?! I scored—"
"You ignored space. Overdribbled. Missed team plays. This isn't street football."
Silence.
"Room 109 — no eliminations today. But this was not a victory."
---
Later, in their own room, the team sat quietly.
They had survived again.
But Haru knew — this wasn't survival.
This was filtering.
And the real test hadn't even started.