Chapter 13: The Kings of Keraniganj
The final five minutes of the match felt like a pressure cooker about to burst. The gray clouds finally gave way, a light drizzle turning the Boro Maath into a glossy, treacherous mirror.
Monday Osagie and Chisom Chikatara weren't playing for a trophy anymore; they were playing for their professional reputations. They threw everything forward. Monday abandoned his defensive post, pushing into the box like a battering ram.
A desperate long ball from the neighboring ward's midfield skipped off a puddle, catching Nihad out of position. Chisom latched onto it, his neon studs providing the grip Nihad lacked. He turned sharply and unleashed a point-blank rocket toward the near post.
"JUBAYER!" Rifat's voice boomed across the field, a professional command that snapped the goalkeeper into focus.
Jubayer didn't just move; he reacted before the ball even left Chisom's boot. He threw his body into the mud, his fingertips grazing the ball with just enough force to deflect it against the upright. The clang of the ball hitting the metal post echoed through the silent crowd.
The rebound bounced toward Rumel at Right Back.
"Go!" Rimon's voice was low, but the command was absolute.
Rumel didn't hesitate. He didn't look for a safe pass. He drove forward, his lungs burning. He bypassed the first pressing midfielder with a quick one-two with Mridul. As he reached the halfway line, he saw the "map" unfolding exactly as Rimon had envisioned it during the halftime huddle.
Monday Osagie was caught high up the pitch. The entire right side of the ground was a vacant corridor of mud and opportunity.
Rumel looked up and saw Rimon drifting into the center, dragging two defenders with him by simply existing. And on the far right, Rifat was already in mid-sprint, a human bullet cutting through the rain.
Rumel delivered. It wasn't a fancy pass, but it was a hard, low ball that skipped across the wet grass, finding Rimon's bare feet in the center circle.
Rimon didn't trap the ball. That would be too slow. He used the "Slap," a first-time, outside-of-the-foot flick that redirected Rumel's momentum perfectly into Rifat's path. It was a piece of telepathic geometry. Rimon and Rifat hadn't spoken a word to each other in months, but their souls were still calibrated to the same frequency.
[Sync Rate: 8.5%... 9.1%...]
[Neural Link: Optimal. The Last Kings Protocol: Active.]
Rifat caught the ball in full stride. He didn't even have to slow down. He touched the ball once to set himself, leaving the rival left-back so far behind that the poor kid looked like he was running in slow motion.
Chisom tried to track back, but he was chasing a ghost. Rifat was at the edge of the box now. He looked toward the center, seeing Rimon waiting at the top of the arc. Every defender in the ward expected the pass back to the "Barefoot King."
Rifat faked the pass, a subtle shift of his hips that sent the goalkeeper diving toward the center.
Instead, Rifat pulled the trigger.
It wasn't a "slap." It was a professional strike—a clean, thunderous blast that hissed through the rain. The ball hit the top corner of the net with such violence that the goal frame actually shook.
3-1.
The referee blew the final whistle before the ball even hit the ground.
The Boro Maath descended into absolute, beautiful chaos. Thousands of fans poured onto the pitch, a sea of lungis and jerseys swarming the boys. Nuhab was sobbing with joy into the phone, the livestream viewer count peaking at nearly eight thousand.
"THEY DID IT! THE KINGS DID IT! DID YOU SEE THAT PASS?! DID YOU SEE THAT FINISH?!" Nuhab yelled, trying to push through the crowd to get a shot of Rimon and Rifat together.
In Dhanmondi, Mahima finally let go of her phone. She sat back on her sofa, her heart still racing, a soft, triumphant smile on her face. She picked up her phone one last time and typed: *"The Crown has been reclaimed."*
On the pitch, the celebration was wild. Hassan and Torongo were being carried on people's shoulders. Jubayer was being hugged by a dozen strangers. But in the center of the storm, Rimon and Rifat stood alone for a brief second.
They were both covered in mud. Rimon was panting, his bare feet stained dark. Rifat was breathing hard, his professional kit ruined.
Rifat looked at Rimon. He didn't offer a hug. He didn't say "good game." He just adjusted his armband and looked at Rimon's feet. "You're still too slow on the turn, Rimon. And your stamina is pathetic for a guy with your touch."
Rimon looked up, his eyes meeting Rifat's. A small, almost invisible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the first real emotion he'd shown all day. "And you still rely too much on your boots, Rifat. You nearly slipped on that last touch."
Rifat throwing a leg over his motorcycle. "Get some rest. And buy some shoes. The Abahani scouts are going to see Nuhab's video tonight. You won't be playing in the mud for much longer."
As the bike roared to life and disappeared into the Keraniganj rain, Rimon stood in the middle of the crowd. He felt the humming in his bones finally begin to settle, the system message flickering one last time in his peripheral vision.
[Sync Rate: 10.0%.]
[Phase 1 Complete. The King has been recognized.]
Nuhab finally reached him, shoving the phone in his face. "Mamu! Say something to the fans! Batch 66 is waiting! Say something!"
Rimon looked at the camera, then at the thousands of people chanting his name. He didn't give a speech. He didn't do a dance. He just looked at the lens, wiped a streak of mud from his cheek, and spoke two words before walking away.
"Match over."