Elion Hayes Book One: The Beast Rings

The Cage was loud.

Not in an annoying, crowded-bar kind of way. More like an electric, something-big-is-about-to-go-down kind of way.

Guys leaned against the rusted fence, sipping energy drinks, talking in low voices. A few sat on crates, flicking through stacks of cash—some counting, some handing it off, all of them way too focused on the numbers. On the far side, two guys shook hands, exchanged bills, and nodded like they had just brokered a high-stakes deal.

And then there were the players. They continued warming up—light jogging, quick stretches, a few passes between them.

The rest of the players did the same; some cracked jokes, others focused, and others lost in their own pre-game rituals.

"Dear God, let us win tonight." Some of the players were praying. Well, that was weird.

Elion wondered. He had too many questions now.

Wasn't it just street soccer? Where's the play for fun? Or for the bragging rights?

Still, Elion continued his warm-up. He stretched his legs, rolling his shoulders as he took his spot—right winger. He was trying to get back the feeling of playing.

Jordan, of course, was a striker because where else would he be? The guy was built for scoring goals, and he knew it.

The others jogged onto the court, passing the ball around as they warmed up. The air buzzed with anticipation, but something still felt... off.

Elion nudged Jordan. "Alright, be real with me—why is everyone acting weird?"

Jordan grinned, casually juggling the ball between his feet. With a grin, he said, "There must be bets involved. I mean between players. That's the only possible explanation."

Elion stopped mid-stretch. "Bets? Money?"

"Come on, dude. What else could it be?" Jordan smirked. "Big game, big stakes. Wouldn't be the first time."

Elion frowned. "You must be kidding... Things have changed a lot, huh?"

Jordan laughed as he tossed the ball into the air and easily trapped it with his right foot. "Don't be silly, Elion. We were kids back then. Now? We're adults. Life changes people."

Elion sighed. He hated when Jordan said things that actually made sense.

After about ten more minutes, Raymond clapped his hands from midfield, calling everyone in. "Alright! You all know the rules—no refs, no whining, no mercy."

Elion leaned toward Jordan. "Is that, like, his catchphrase?"

Jordan grinned. "Oh yeah. Guy loves saying that."

Raymond continued. "One rolling sub per team. Match is first to three goals or twenty minutes—whichever comes first. Play clean, play hard, and don't embarrass yourselves."

Jordan elbowed Elion. "Try not to embarrass yourself, rookie."

Elion smirked. "Funny. I was just about to say the same to you."

The teams moved into position.

Elion flexed his fingers, rolling his neck. His pulse was steady, his body remembering the old rhythm, the way the game felt before everything else in life got complicated.

Malik was onto him. Elion could see that on Malik's face, one could read, 'Where have I seen this face?' He was thinking so hard trying to remember Elion.

Well, it was too obvious. Some people were squinting at him, like their brains were running on low battery, trying to process where they'd seen his face before.

He knew that look.

The I-know-this-guy-but-where-from look.

Which, honestly, was fair. Elion used to play here all the time, but he'd never been the type to socialize much. No pre-game banter, no post-match celebrations. He'd just show up, play, and leave—mostly because Jordan had dragged him along.

Back then, Jordan had been the loud, charismatic one who made friends with literally everyone.

Elion? He was just the dude standing next to him, nodding occasionally like an NPC in the background.

So yeah. People sort of recognized him. But actually, remembering him?

That was a whole different challenge.

Still, Elion chose to ignore him. He was trying his best to get his sense of the game as quickly as possible.

Raymond kicked the ball to the center. Jordan was waiting there. He was going to do the kick-off.

Elion flexed his fingers, rolling his neck. His pulse was steady, but something gnawed at him.

The last time he played here, people had known his name.

Now? He was a stranger on his own turf.

It shouldn't have bothered him. But it did.

"Three." Raymond began the countdown.

Jordan bounced on his heels, eyes locked on the ball.

"Two."

The other team tensed. Marcus flashed Elion a cocky smirk from across the court. It seemed like he remembered Elion.

"One."

The match began.

Elion took his first step, and suddenly, it felt like he had never left. The ball was passed from Jordan to Raymond.

Raymond held the ball at midfield, eyes scanning the court for an opening. "Move it, you snails! Find open spaces!"

He was shouting at his teammates with the ball still on his feet, eyes looking around. Finding a free teammate seemed like a trouble for him.

"Over here, dumbass! I'm free!"

"Me! Me!"

The opposing team, too, moved quickly into position, marking players closely and pressing hard. They were not just here to play; they aimed to win.

Well, of course. If what Jordan told Elion was true, they must win.

"Where did I meet you?" Malik asked as he had locked onto Elion like a heat-seeking missile, shadowing his every move.

"No idea," Elion replied. He was not really into talking right now. He felt his pride had hurt so much tonight when everyone forgot about him. His mood was not so good.

Raymond knew Malik's reputation—the guy was a shadow. Once he latched onto you, he wasn't letting go. He was relentless, patient, and annoyingly good at his job.

Right now? Elion was stuck under that pressure.

Raymond sighed, gripping the ball at his feet. 'Welp. Another rookie, it seems.'

No way he was risking a wasted play. If Malik had him locked down, that was that. He turned to find another option—

Wait.

Elion was gone.

Not literally, of course. That would've been concerning. But Malik was looking around, hands out, eyes darting, like he'd just lost his wallet in a nightclub.

Just seconds ago, he had Elion caged in. Now? Nothing.

Raymond's brain tripped over itself. How?

Elion wasn't waving his arms or shouting for the ball like a desperate newbie. He wasn't even moving much. He just—appeared, exactly where he needed to be.

Elion made brief eye contact. A silent message. Pass it.

Jordan, watching from the center, grinned and muttered under his breath, "Now you guys won't forget Elion anymore."

Without hesitation, Raymond launched the ball toward Elion with a powerful, direct pass.

Marcus, one of the white-team strikers, laughed. "What the hell, Ray? You trying to send the ball out the cage?"

Several players on the opponent's side smirked, already assuming possession. The ball was moving too fast, carrying too much force and a bit high for one to stop.

To them, it was an obvious mistake—there was no way Elion could control it before it went out.

That was when Elion stunned everyone. He didn't even think—his body just moved.

With perfect timing, he jumped backward, twisting his body in mid-air. As he spun, he extended his right foot and, with the outer edge, stopped the ball dead.

For a split second, even Elion was surprised. His body had remembered—like it had never left. The ball didn't bounce wildly, didn't slip away. It stuck to his foot like it belonged there.

The trap was perfect. Some people called it a soft-tofu trap. There was no wild bounce, no struggle for control—just an instant, clean trap.

The court erupted.

"What the—"

"Who the hell is this guy?!"

"This is straight-up illegal—they called in a pro!"

But beyond the noise, someone wasn't cheering.

A man stood near the edge of the crowd, unmoving. Too still. He was wearing black, a bear symbol ring on his finger.

His skin was sickly pale, stretched too tight over his bones—like something that had forgotten how to look human.

Beneath his shirt, something pulsed—slow and steady, like a second heartbeat. He wasn't watching the game. He was watching Elion.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by a wave of disbelief, outrage, and pure, unfiltered hype.

Raymond, who had been fully prepared to curse himself for a bad pass, stood frozen, his brain buffering. His foot was still mid-step, like he'd just glitched in real life.

That's when it hit him.

"Wait a minute... Elion… That Elion?!"

Even Jordan, who had expected Elion to do something, raised an eyebrow in approval. "Damn, man. Still showing off, huh?"

Elion just landed when Malik, furious at being outplayed, lunged at him with a full-force slide tackle. But Elion was already moving. He jumped over Malik's legs in one quick move as if Malik wasn't there at all.

Once his feet hit the ground, he took off running.

Elion sprinted down the right flank, moving at a pace no one had expected. One defender ran to block him, but Elion faked left and then quickly cut right, causing the player to stumble the wrong way.

He didn't even think about it. His feet just moved. Every touch, every feint—it all felt automatic, like a song he had memorized years ago. His body was ahead of his mind, and that was exactly how it was supposed to be.

Another defender approached from the front, trying to steal the ball, but Elion spun past him smoothly, leaving him reaching for nothing.

The sudden shift in momentum sent a jolt of urgency through the white team. "Stop him!" Marcus bellowed as he tore down the court to reinforce the defense.

Elion wasn't stopping. He had no reason to.

With every step, he left another opponent in the dust. The Cage had seen fast players before, but Elion wasn't just fast—he was precise, his movements fluid and controlled. There was no wasted energy, no unnecessary showboating. He knew exactly where he needed to be, and he got there effortlessly.

By the time Elion neared the corner, every single red-team player had stopped to watch—some with their mouths slightly open, others just shaking their heads like they couldn't believe what they were seeing.

Meanwhile, the white team? Full-blown panic mode.

"Somebody stop him!"

"Do anything! Trip him! Shove him! Sacrifice your soul if you have to!"

One defender lunged—too slow. Elion flicked the ball past him with a smooth touch, barely breaking stride.

"TACKLE HIM!"

Another came flying in, cleats up, full desperation mode. Elion jumped. The guy went sliding past, wiping out spectacularly.

Now there was nothing between him and the cross.

Elion smirked. Too easy.

Meanwhile, Jordan was already in position, his body tense and waiting. "Come on. I'm ready, Elion," he muttered.

Elion smiled as he saw Jordan's position. He didn't hesitate. He swung his foot and sent a perfectly timed cross curling toward the center of the goal.

The ball arced through the air, landing exactly where Jordan needed it. "Thanks for the delivery!" Jordan said, and without a second thought, he leaped, meeting the ball with a powerful header that slammed into the net.

The impact was loud and final. The ball hit the back of the goal. The goalkeeper was helpless.

1-0.

For a moment, everyone was silent. Then, the court erupted.

"Goallllll!"

The red team cheered loudly, some still in shock from what they had just witnessed. Raymond ran a hand through his hair, showing both surprise and respect.

On the white team's side, a few players were already arguing, clearly unsettled.

"Just break his leg! Why did you hesitate?!"

"How?! I can't even catch him."

Jordan brushed the dust off his bib, walking up to Elion with a smirk. "Welcome back, man."

Elion smiled as he let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as he glanced around. Every single player on the court was staring at him now. The crowd, too.

Someone on the red team finally broke the silence. "You're that Elion, right?" His voice carried a mix of awe and excitement.

Another guy smacked his teammate's shoulder. "Dude. We're winning this. We've got Elion."

"Man, it's been years!"

"We're confirmed to win tonight, guys!" someone shouted.

Elion just smiled. Yeah. They remembered him now.

The white team wasn't just going to roll over and accept defeat.

From the second the ball was back in play, they came at Elion with everything they had. Gone was the casual, overconfident energy from earlier. The way Marcus squared his shoulders, the way his eyes locked onto Elion like a heat-seeking missile—this wasn't just about winning anymore.

It was personal.

They weren't playing to score. They were playing to shut him down.

But Elion had already adjusted to the tempo. It didn't matter.

Malik, who had spent the first half of the match tailing him, got more aggressive—shoving, stepping into his space, trying to box him in. But now, Elion was one step ahead. He let Malik push forward, baiting him, making him think he had him locked down.

Then, with a quick flick of his foot, Elion slipped the ball right between Malik's legs.

The second Malik realized what had happened, it was too late. His body jerked to turn around, but his legs didn't catch up fast enough. He nearly tripped over himself, spinning wildly as Elion effortlessly took off down the sideline.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

"OH—"

"BRO JUST GOT SENT TO THE SHADOW REALM."

"DID YOU SEE THAT?!"

Malik staggered, his head whipping around as if trying to process what just happened to him.

Elion didn't stop to admire his work. He had one defender left. The guy stepped up to block him, legs braced, arms ready to cut off his run. He shifted his weight left. The defender bit.

Immediately, Elion cut right instead, breezing past like the guy wasn't even there. And just like that, the goal was wide open.

He didn't even need to scan the field. Jordan was already in position.

Elion threaded the ball straight to him—sharp, precise, perfectly weighted. Jordan met it mid-stride, didn't even slow down.

One touch. A split-second shot.

The ball blasted into the net.

2-0.

The red team cheered. The white team, meanwhile, was falling apart.

And when a team gets desperate, they get dirty.

Shoves became harder. Elbows weren't just accidental brushes—they were full-force checks. The game turned rough fast, but nobody called for a stop. This was street soccer. If you wanted a whistle, you were in the wrong place.

Elion felt it—the pressure, the rising aggression. He took a solid hit to the ribs, lost his breath for half a second, but gritted his teeth and kept moving.

The ball rolled toward Raymond, who barely hesitated before launching a perfect cross into the penalty box.

Jordan took off, tracking it mid-air. The keeper lunged forward, barely managing to get a hand on it. The ball deflected, bouncing high.

Elion saw his chance. His body moved before he could think—a split-second reaction, pure instinct.

He jumped, arching his back, twisting mid-air. The world slowed. His mind emptied—just him, the ball, and the weight of expectation.

One shot. One perfect moment. If he missed, the counterattack would be instant.

'I'll never miss,' Elion thought. He knew that much.

Then—his foot met the ball, the impact jolting up his leg. A perfect strike. The ball spun, curved—unstoppable. It slammed into the net, burying itself deep before the stunned keeper could even react.

For a second, the court went completely silent. Then the red team exploded.

3-0. Game over.

Seventeen minutes. That was all it took.

Jordan had two goals, proving his striker instincts were still lethal. Elion had one goal, two assists, and had sent half the white team home questioning their career choices.

The Cage wasn't just watching anymore. They were witnessing something.

And by the looks on some of the faces around him, Elion could tell—nobody would be forgetting his name again.

Every time the white team thought they had their attack figured out, Elion and Jordan broke through like a wrecking crew with zero regard for their pride.

The final whistle—well, Raymond's deafening "GAME OVER!"—rang through The Cage, and the red team exploded into cheers.

"Dude, where have you been hiding?!" Raymond shouted, clapping Elion on the back so hard he nearly dislocated his soul. "You're much better now. You played like a pro!"

Another teammate shook his head in disbelief. "Man, I swear you were possessed or something. That footwork? Straight-up wizardry."

"Yeah. Even Messi will call you Master!"

Elion smiled as he caught his breath. He had missed this feeling—the excitement, the teamwork, and the thrill of competing. He thought he was just filling in, but it turned out that tonight marked his official return.

Well, for the summer break, at least.

But not everyone was celebrating.

Across the court, the white team wasn't just mad. They were furious.

That was when it hit Elion. They had money on this match.

The prayers before the game. The weird tension in their huddle. They were all way too into it for just a casual street game.

Elion's stomach twisted. He had just wrecked someone's payday.

"I smell trouble," Elion muttered.

Jordan let out a low whistle beside him. "Yeah… they're not happy."

Elion glanced at the white team. Some were arguing, voices sharp, movements tense.

But a few weren't arguing. They were watching him. Silent. Unblinking.

One of them cracked his knuckles.

Another tilted his head toward an alleyway, like an unspoken invitation.

Elion's stomach twisted. Yeah. This wasn't over.

Elion turned to Jordan. "I believed we just make some enemies."

Jordan exhaled, wiping sweat off his forehead. "Maybe. Probably." He shrugged. "Either way, not our problem. Game's over."

Elion frowned. "Did we do the right thing?"

Jordan's expression was unreadable for a second, but then he gave another shrug. "I don't know. In the end, we played to win. That's on them for betting on it."

"That's helpful," Elion let out a slow breath, looking back at the white team.

He had joined just to play, but somehow, he and Jordan had just decided the fate of a whole lot of money. And judging by the way the white team kept glaring at them—this wasn't over.

Not even close.