Chapter 22: Make us Rich. Messi!

Elias scanned the bustling plaza, its neon-lit buildings stretching into the twilight sky. The digital billboard read 21:54, the date August 28, 2624 glaring down like a silent omen. Despite the dreamy warmth of the city air, he felt a twinge of tension at the back of his neck. He was hunting for a very specific piece of information: the result of a 2022 soccer match—something that, in this dream world, belonged to ancient history.

At last, Elias spotted a middle-aged man playing soccer with a young boy—most likely his son. The man was decked in a full kit, cleats and all, radiating the zeal of a lifelong fan. Exactly the sort of person who might know the old records, Elias thought.

He jogged over, raising a friendly hand in greeting.

"Hi there," he began, voice echoing just over the cicadas' hum. "You seem like you know a lot about soccer—especially the World Cup?"

The man turned, breaking into a crooked grin that showed a missing tooth. He rapped a knuckle against his jersey. "Kid, you're talking to a real fanatic here. I've followed every World Cup match ever recorded since I was old enough to kick a ball. Ask away! Players, match stats, juicy gossip—I got you."

Elias's pulse quickened. A potential goldmine of info. "Perfect. So, do you know who won the 2022 Qatar World Cup? Was it Argentina by any chance?"

The man's jovial expression vanished in an instant. He glowered at Elias, bristling. "What are you even talking about? That was centuries ago! Nobody can find that info anymore—too far back. You can't even get that online!"

"Don't be upset," Elias said quickly, attempting to diffuse the man's indignation. "I'm working on a research project. If I wanted to track down that match info, any clue where I could look?"

The man shook his head in exasperation. "I dunno, pal. Six hundred years ago is a lifetime for data. You won't find it on the net, that's certain. Maybe at a library, if you're crazy enough to dig ancient archives?"

With a final huff, the man gathered his child and stormed off into the lamplit streets.

Elias gazed after them, the father's footsteps fading among the crowd.

"A library would be best, but it's far too late to knock on locked doors." He sighed. "I can't risk a break-in and have dream-police come after me. I need a quieter option."

His eyes roamed over the glowing skyline, recalling a well-lit thoroughfare known as the "Skyward Avenue," or simply "Sky Street." Among its clutter of neon signs and late-night stalls, there was a certain bookstore—one Elias had glimpsed in previous dreams. It stayed open surprisingly late, though he'd never been inside for more than a brief look.

"Better than nothing," he decided, breaking into a steady jog toward the bus stop.

Thud!

Elias collided with a portly man, nearly losing his balance.

"Ow, watch where you're going!" the stranger snarled, adjusting a Rhine Cat mask on his broad face, eyes sparking with irritation.

"S-sorry," Elias muttered, then glanced up and recognized the man's imposing features despite the mask—Claw. A grin tugged at Elias's lips as he patted Claw's shoulder. "You might want to watch your back. Getting shot in the head gets old real fast."

"Guh?" Claw froze in confusion, instinctively reaching for the holster at his waist and spinning around. But the corridor behind him was empty, no sniper or assailant in sight.

He turned back, hoping for answers—only to find Elias already sprinting away, weaving into the midnight throng.

"W-who the hell was that?" Claw growled, rubbing his bruised forehead. "Where's that so-called password expert anyway?"

***

Elias reached the bus stop. In past dream pranks, he would have simply stolen a car, racing through the streets until the dream's authorities gunned him down. But not tonight. He needed tranquility—no chaos to hamper his search for old sports data.

He waited for a sleepy bus, then endured an hour and a half ride under flickering fluorescent lights. Other passengers slumped in their seats or stared blankly at holo-screens. Finally, the bus hissed to a stop by a sprawling bookstore complex whose lights still burned well after the usual closing time.

"Perfect," Elias muttered, stepping off.

The interior smelled faintly of dust and printer ink. A lone clerk by the counter barely glanced up from her phone, unsurprised by a last-minute customer.

Elias wasted no time, methodically scouring the "Sports & Athletics" section. Countless volumes on soccer strategies, legendary matches, and star players sprawled across the shelves. Yet none referenced a "2022 Qatar World Cup." Everything was too recent or too neglected.

"It's like searching for a needle in a haystack."

He was about to give up when a small title on a lower rack caught his eye: "Fun Facts of Soccer 7: The History of the World Cup." It looked like a children's book, its cover bright with cartoonish players.

Elias flipped it open, excitement surging. Toward the end was a brief appendix listing past World Cup champions in reverse chronological order.

"There!" He skimmed feverishly until he reached 2022:

"In the final, Argentina defeated France on penalties to claim the title!"

Penalties? Elias didn't know much about soccer—some kind of tie-breaker, apparently. But the crucial detail was that Argentina had indeed ended up the champion. So, logically, they must have bested Croatia in the semifinals.

He shut the thin book, heart thrumming in victory. "So it's confirmed—Argentina overcame Croatia."

He replaced the volume on the shelf, eyeing the wall clock above the register: 00:42.

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

That familiar surge of white light tore across his vision, incinerating everything in an all-encompassing flash.

***

A dull buzz filled Elias's ears. Slowly, he opened his eyes. He was back in his dimly lit bedroom, the swirl of a distant TV show audible through the door. Faint shadows danced under the gap, and he guessed Gavin was still up, scanning channels or reading phone updates.

He exhaled and tugged on a thick robe against the midnight chill, then ambled out to the living room.

"Well? Did you find it?" Gavin asked, glancing up from a coffee table piled with half-eaten takeout and empty beer cans.

Elias suppressed a yawn. "Guess so. Looks like… Argentina wins, at least in the final. If they won the final, obviously they beat Croatia in the semis."

Gavin grinned, rummaging for the remote. "Good enough. Now, do you know the exact score?"

Elias shook his head. "Only that Argentina took it, eventually beating France in a penalty shootout."

Gavin stood in a rush, yanking on his jacket. "Close enough for me. I'm running downstairs to buy more tickets."

"You already bet on Argentina," Elias protested. "Don't overdo it."

"Man, I only put 100 on them. If your dream says they reach the final and become champs… that's all the reason I need to up the stakes!" His eyes shone with gambler's glee.

Elias sighed. "What happened to 'bet small, keep it fun'?"

"Sometimes you gotta risk it to get the big reward!" Gavin chuckled, swinging the apartment door open. "Be right back."

Slam!

The door shut behind him, leaving Elias to slump on the couch. Minutes later, Gavin burst back, triumphantly clutching a thick wad of new betting slips.

"Five grand," Gavin declared, breath heaving. "One month's salary. All in, baby! We win, it's private clubs and fancy girls; lose, and I'll be hawking used cars forever."

Elias rolled his eyes. "You evolved from casual gambler to high-roller in record time."

"Hey," Gavin smirked, collapsing onto the sofa. He grabbed the remote. "If I can't trust my best friend's futuristic dream sources, who can I trust? Now come on, Messi—make us rich!"