Stadium Of Prodigies

The moment Diego García stepped off the private shuttle and onto the massive stone pavement leading into Project All-Time's stadium, he felt it.

The weight. The expectation. The sheer scale of everything.

This wasn't just any stadium.

It was a colosseum.

Towering walls stretched into the sky, illuminated by massive floodlights that made the entire structure glow under the night. The main entrance was wide enough to fit a hundred people at once, and above it, a giant digital screen displayed three simple words:

"PROVE YOUR WORTH."

But it wasn't the stadium that made Diego's stomach tighten.

It was the people.

Everywhere he looked, there were players.

Hundreds of them.

Some were stretching, some were chatting in groups, and some were standing completely still, their eyes locked onto him like he was fresh meat. The air was thick with tension—no one here was normal.

Every single person in this place had been the best in their country.

And now, they were all here, fighting for only 30 spots.

Diego swallowed, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag. He didn't let the nerves show, but inside, he knew this wasn't like playing in Madrid's slums. This wasn't a local tournament where he could walk in, dominate, and leave with a trophy.

This was different.

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

Diego turned just as a woman approached, walking through the crowd like she owned the place.

She had short black hair, sharp green eyes, and wore a sleek white suit, standing out in a sea of athletes dressed in jerseys and warm-ups. She was tall, maybe in her late 30s, and there was something about her presence that made people move aside without her saying a word.

When she finally stopped in front of the gathered players, she took out a microphone.

"Welcome to Project All-Time," she said, her voice echoing across the entrance. "You're here because you're the best your country has to offer. You've crushed opponents, dominated courts, and proven you're more than just talented—you're elite."

A brief pause.

Her eyes scanned the crowd.

"But talent means nothing here."

Murmurs broke out among the players.

Diego stayed silent.

"This project isn't about finding the most skilled players." Her lips curled into a smirk. "It's about finding the ones who will destroy everything in their path to reach the top."

Some players looked at each other, some scoffed, and some nodded like they already expected this.

"Out of 195 of you, only 30 will remain." She let that sink in. "That means 165 of you will be sent home. Some of you will leave tomorrow. Others might last a week. But make no mistake—if you can't dominate, if you can't crush the player in front of you, then you don't belong here."

The murmurs turned into full conversations, some excited, some pissed.

Diego felt something stir in his chest.

Four years of waiting. Four years of being ignored.

And now?

Now he was standing in front of a battleground where there were no politics, no connections, no excuses. Just the game.

"Your dorms are assigned by country." The woman continued. "You'll find your name on the entrance list. Rest up, because starting tomorrow, the first round begins."

She smirked again.

"Welcome to hell."

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving 195 of the best young players in the world standing in silence.

No one moved.

Everyone was thinking the same thing.

Tomorrow, the war for survival would begin.

Diego adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, his mind still processing everything the woman in the suit had just said. The air around him was thick with tension—some players were muttering to themselves, others glaring at potential rivals, and a few were already walking toward the dorms without a word.

He exhaled through his nose. Thirty out of 195.

He had played against tough opponents before, but this? This was an entirely different battlefield.

Diego took a step forward, ready to head toward the entrance list, when someone hesitated near him.

A tall, lanky guy with blond hair stood just a few feet away, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. He looked like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how to start. His pale blue eyes darted around the crowd before finally settling on Diego.

Diego raised an eyebrow.

The guy took a deep breath, then stepped closer.

"You… uh," the guy started, his accent thick, "also… lost?"

Diego blinked. It wasn't exactly the best English, but Diego's own English wasn't great either. Still, he got what the guy was trying to say.

"Not lost," Diego replied, his words slow and deliberate. "Just… thinking."

The guy nodded quickly, almost too quickly. "Ah. Yes. Thinking." He forced a small chuckle, then awkwardly scratched the back of his head. "Big place. Many… uh, people."

Diego smirked. "Yeah. A lot."

There was a brief silence. The guy shifted again.

Diego could tell.

He was nervous.

Not the kind of nervousness that came from standing in a stadium full of the best basketball players in the world, but something else. It was in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers twitched slightly by his side, the way his eyes flickered around like he expected something bad to happen.

Diego studied him for a moment before finally speaking.

"You… from where?"

The guy snapped his attention back to him. He pointed at himself. "Me? Ah. Uh—Norway."

Diego nodded slowly. "Norway."

The guy hesitated, then pointed at Diego. "And you?"

"Spain," Diego answered.

Something in the guy's posture relaxed a little. He gave a small, almost relieved nod. "Spain. Good country."

Diego chuckled lightly. "You know Spain?"

The guy nodded, his nervousness still evident but his smile growing slightly. "Yes. Football."

Diego smirked. "Of course."

The conversation was slow, broken, and filled with long pauses, but somehow, it wasn't uncomfortable.

The guy took another breath, then straightened his back. "My name… uh… Berg. Berg Johansen."

Diego nodded, offering his hand. "Diego García."

Berg hesitated only for a moment before shaking it. His grip was firm, but his palm was slightly damp.

Nervous.

Diego glanced at the guy's hands. His fingers were long, built for handling the ball. His arms weren't as thick as some of the other players around, but there was a wiry strength to him.

This guy wasn't just here to fill space.

"Are you… nineteen?" Diego asked, still keeping his words simple.

"Yes," Berg nodded. "Nineteen. Same?"

"Same."

Another small silence.

Then Berg exhaled through his nose, his lips pressing together as if he wanted to say something but wasn't sure if he should.

Diego tilted his head. "You okay?"

Berg blinked, then nodded quickly. "Yes. Yes. Just…" He inhaled, then finally admitted, "Scared."

Diego's smirk faded slightly.

He understood.

He had felt it too, the moment he stepped onto this battlefield.

The weight.

The expectation.

The pressure of standing among 194 other players who were all here to win.

Diego wasn't about to comfort the guy—this wasn't the place for that—but he could at least acknowledge it.

"Yeah," Diego muttered. "It's… a lot."

Berg nodded vigorously, rubbing his palms together as if trying to stop himself from shaking.

Diego looked around. More players were heading inside now, checking the entrance list for their dorm numbers. He glanced back at Berg.

"Dorms?" he asked.

Berg snapped his head up. "Ah. Yes. Dorms." He looked toward the entrance list, then back at Diego, hesitant.

Diego sighed, then gestured with his head. "Come."

Berg blinked, then quickly followed.

As they walked, Diego kept his stride relaxed, but his mind was running.

Berg was nervous, but that didn't mean he was weak.

In this place, everyone had something that got them here.

Berg had something.

Diego didn't know what it was yet.

But he would soon.

The soft hum of the stadium's lights buzzed in the distance as Diego and Berg made their way toward the entrance list. The place was starting to clear out, the chaos settling into a tense quiet as players began heading to their assigned dorms. The towering walls of the stadium seemed to loom even larger now, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Every player that passed them was either too focused or too lost in their own thoughts to pay any attention to the pair.

Diego kept his pace steady, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He could feel Berg's nervous energy beside him, the way the guy kept glancing at the massive electronic board on the wall, checking and rechecking the names and dorm assignments. It was almost as if he thought his name might disappear from the list altogether.

Diego glanced at him, noticing the tightness in Berg's posture. He didn't say anything. There was no need. It wasn't just the prospect of being in the competition—it was everything. Berg wasn't here because he was just good at basketball; he was here because he had something to prove. And Diego could see it in his eyes.

"Here," Diego muttered, pointing to a board near the wall.

Berg stepped closer, squinting at the screen as he searched for his name. Diego did the same, his fingers twitching as he scanned the list for his own.

There were rows and rows of names—each one of them representing a different country. Some of them were long, others short. And then there it was, right near the middle of the list: Diego García — Spain

"Ah, here!" Berg said suddenly, tapping the screen.

Diego looked at him. "Found yours?"

Berg's eyes were wide. "Yes! Uh, uh…" He glanced back down at the list again. "Norway. My dorm…" He paused for a second, as if reading the name aloud would make it all real. "Dorm 22."

Diego nodded, then tapped the screen next to his own name. "I'm Dorm 15."

There was a brief silence. They both stood there, staring at their dorm assignments, as if waiting for something to happen. Some sort of sign.

But there was nothing. No fanfare. No great moment of realization. Just two young players standing in the shadow of a massive competition, looking at the cold, impersonal words on a screen.

"Well, guess we should go," Diego finally said. He turned and began walking toward the dormitory building, not looking to see if Berg was following. He could feel the guy's footsteps behind him, matching his pace but with the occasional shuffle, like Berg wasn't fully convinced he was here to stay.

The walk to the dorms wasn't long, but the closer they got, the heavier the silence became. The entire stadium felt like it was holding its breath, every corridor, every wall echoing with the pressure of what was to come. Each step felt heavier than the last.

As they entered the dormitory hallway, Diego's eyes scanned the rooms to his left and right. There were about twenty doors in each row, each one with a nameplate on it. Berg's was a few doors down, so Diego nodded to him before continuing to his own.

"Good luck, Berg," Diego said, not turning his head.

Berg muttered a quick, "Thanks," but it was hard to tell if he truly heard it. The guy was already lost in his thoughts again, his hand running through his messy hair.

Diego reached his dorm, slapping the number 15 plate next to the door before turning the handle. He pushed the door open with a soft creak and stepped inside.

The room wasn't much to look at—just a simple cot, a small desk with a chair, and a few lockers for storage. The walls were a neutral gray, with no decorations or personal touches. The whole place felt sterile, like it existed only for one thing: to get the players in, get them through the competition, and then get them out.

Diego dropped his bag onto the bed, then walked over to the small window. He pulled the blinds aside and stared out into the distance, at the colossal stadium that loomed in the background. The night was quiet now, the city below dimly lit, but there was no denying the gravity of what was to come.

He wasn't here to be a part of the crowd. He wasn't here to make friends.

He was here to win.

Just as Diego turned away from the window, there was a knock on his door. He wasn't expecting anyone, and he knew it wasn't Berg—he hadn't heard anyone else outside.

"Yeah?" Diego called, walking to the door.

He opened it, and standing there was a tall figure with broad shoulders. The guy's face was hard to read, but the intense gaze fixed on Diego said everything.

"Diego García?" the guy asked, his voice low.

Diego nodded. "Yeah. That's me."

The guy stepped forward, his hands in his pockets. "Name's Luka. Luka Ivanov. From Russia."

Diego raised an eyebrow. "What's up?"

Luka's eyes scanned Diego's face for a moment before he spoke again, his voice clipped, almost dismissive. "I heard about you. You're the prodigy from Spain. They say you're good."

Diego took a step back, not at all surprised. There were probably rumors about him circulating already. Word spread fast in a place like this.

Since some of his plays were out on YuTube Diego wasn't surprised that someone knew him since his videos earned him 400k views.

"So?" Diego asked, crossing his arms. "You here to talk trash or something?"

Luka's lips curled into a faint smirk. "No. I'm just here to let you know something. There's no free rides in Project All-Time." He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against Diego's face. "You better be prepared. You'll need more than fancy footwork to make it to the top. I'm not just here to win—I'm here to dominate."

Diego stood still, his eyes narrowing slightly, not backing down an inch. "Same goes for me. I didn't come here to lose."

Luka paused, his eyes never leaving Diego's, before letting out a slow, amused breath. "We'll see, won't we?"

With that, Luka turned and walked away, leaving Diego standing in the doorway.

Diego closed the door and leaned against it, his mind racing.

Luka Ivanov.

A player to watch out for.

But Diego had already made up his mind. He was going to take them all down, one by one.

The countdown had started.