#goldenstadium

Wells liked building things.

Usually muscle.

Sometimes confidence.

Today, it was ramps.

He stood inside the Golden Stadium in a fitted gold training shirt, work gloves, safety boots, and shiny gold shorts, helping bolt the new accessibility ramps into place. No spotlight. No dramatic speech. Just measuring, lifting, drilling, tightening, and checking every angle twice.

Because strength did not mean much if it only opened doors for some people.

By noon, the ramps were set, smooth, solid, and ready. Wells wiped sweat from his forehead, looked across the stadium, and smiled.

“Gold means everyone gets in,” he said.

Then he picked up the drill again.

There was still more work to do.

The doors of Golden Army Headquarters opened with the same quiet hydraulic sigh I remembered.

For three months I had been away.

Training cycles, external duties, distance from the hum of the Hive. Long enough for the world to change without me watching it happen.

The building should have felt familiar.

Instead it felt… watchful.

The golden halls were still polished. The banners still hung proudly from the vaulted ceiling. Drones moved through their routines with perfect precision. Players crossed the corridor toward the locker wing, preparing for the match that everyone had been whispering about.

But something beneath the rhythm had shifted.

I could feel it.

Screens flickered along the command wall as I entered the operations room. Tactical displays, infection maps, match projections. Streams of data moved across the glass like nervous currents.

Red sightings.

Converted players.

Reports from scouts observing the Crimson Frost Giants.

Anders leading the formation.

The Red Coach orchestrating the plays.

The Red had spread further than I expected.

I rested my hands against the console and watched the data cascade. The Golden Army was still moving. Still training. Still preparing for the match ahead.

But the tone of the reports had changed.

Containment. Conversion. Corruption.

Words that had no place in Gold.

My office door slid open with a quiet chime. The room was exactly as I had left it months ago. Clean desk. Ordered shelves. The faint scent of rubber and metal that always lingered in the headquarters air.

On the wall opposite the window hung the artifacts that reminded me who we were.

The black rubber polo marked PDU-001, polished and perfect.

The white thobe of Emir Ezan, still resting carefully where he had left it before beginning his pilgrimage.

And beside them, draped across a carved wooden mount, the sacred fur cape bearing the golden stag of Freyr.

Three symbols.

Duty. Leadership. Life.

The Emir had begun his sacred journey.

Which meant someone else would have to hold the line.

I turned back to the console as another alert flickered across the screen.

RESEARCH LAB — RED SAMPLE SECURED

Recovered from a skirmish near the stadium perimeter. Containment protocols active. Awaiting analysis.

The Red.

Everyone spoke about it like a disease. Like a spreading infection that could be isolated and neutralized with the right countermeasures.

But the reports told a different story.

The Red adapted.

It learned.

It waited.

And if the Golden Army intended to defeat it, we needed to understand what it truly was.

I closed the tactical feed and stepped back into the corridor.

The research wing was quieter than the rest of headquarters. The hum of containment fields echoed faintly through the polished floors as I approached the laboratory chamber.

Inside, surrounded by reinforced glass and layered shielding fields, sat the sample.

A small mass of crimson substance suspended within a containment capsule.

Still.

Silent.

Contained.

For a moment I simply watched it.

Three months away… and this was what the Golden Army had been fighting.

“We cannot defeat what we refuse to understand,” I murmured.

The scanners began their cycle as I stepped closer to the chamber.

The sample remained motionless.

Then something shifted.

Just slightly.

A ripple passed through the red surface.

Slowly… almost deliberately…

the substance turned toward the glass.

Toward me.

And for the first time since returning to headquarters…

I understood.

The Red was not just spreading.

It was watching.

—

If you want to participate in the Golden Army stories, matches, and events, and stand with the team against the Red… contact our recruiters:

@alton-gold77 @franco-gold94 @polo-drone-166 @polo-drone-125

Wells was used to learning drills.

Footwork drills.

Strength drills.

The kind of drills Coach announced with a whistle and a look that made everyone stand taller.

But today, Wells was learning something different.

Inside the Golden Stadium, he stood beside a sign language interpreter, watching carefully as they showed him how to sign basic greetings, directions, and team phrases. His gold training shirt stretched across his shoulders, but for once he was not trying to look impressive.

He was trying to understand.

The first few signs were slow.

Then smoother.

Then certain.

Wells practiced until his hands stopped guessing and started speaking.

Because strength was not only about lifting heavier, running faster, or standing in front of a crowd. Sometimes strength meant making sure nobody got left out of the conversation.

By the end, Wells turned toward the team, signed carefully, and smiled.

Welcome. Brotherhood. Gold.

Then he lowered his hands, nodded once, and started again.

Because every voice counts.

And the Golden Army listens.

The Golden Stadium sat empty, but it didn’t feel quiet. Floodlights bathed the pitch in warm gold, turning the grass into something theatrical, deliberate, like it was waiting to be used properly.

Wells stood near the touchline, rolling the ball beneath his foot. He was dressed head-to-toe in the Golden Army soccer practice kit: a tight, metallic gold jersey clinging to his chest and shoulders, matching shorts cut high and unapologetic, black socks pulled snug over powerful calves, gold cleats flashing every time he shifted his weight. He looked relaxed. Too relaxed.

“So,” Wells said, glancing toward the sideline, grin already loaded, “you bring me out here to admire the view, or you planning to make me work for your attention, Coach?”

Coach Blaze Titan stepped onto the pitch without answering.

His kit mirrored Wells’ in cut and intent but not in color. Black jersey, tight and unforgiving, the word COACH stamped across his chest in clean gold lettering. His shorts bore a golden spiral along one thigh, catching the light when he moved. He looked built for authority—calm, heavy, controlled.

“Attention?” Blaze said, nudging the ball into motion with his foot. “You already have too much of that.”

Wells laughed. “Funny. Most people complain I don’t give them enough.”

Blaze smirked and flicked the ball toward Wells. “One-touch. No flirting with the ball.”

Wells trapped it cleanly and sent it back. “I flirt with everything I’m good at.”

The drill started simple. Short passes. Tight spacing. Blaze increased the pace without warning, forcing Wells to adjust, breathe harder, think faster. Every correction came low and close.

“Open your hips.” “Earlier.” “Don’t rush, commit.”

Wells responded with speed and style, gold kit darkening with sweat, grin never fully leaving his face. When he slipped past Blaze with a sharp cut and burst of acceleration, he couldn’t resist glancing back.

“Still keeping up?” he teased.

Blaze didn’t rise to it. He just took the ball back and reset them, standing closer this time. “Again.”

The next exchange was rougher. Blaze angled him wide, closed space faster, body language reading Wells before Wells could decide. The flirt turned competitive. The competition turned electric.

Wells laughed under his breath. “You always this pushy, or am I special?”

“Depends,” Blaze replied calmly, “you always this mouthy, or you nervous?”

Wells grinned. “If I were nervous, I’d be slowing down.”

He exploded forward, feinted left, cut right and this time Blaze bit just enough. Wells slipped past, clean and fast, breaking free down the line before slowing to a jog.

“That’s two,” Wells said, hands on hips, chest heaving, eyes bright.

Blaze walked up to him slowly, appraising. “You’re fast,” he said. “But you win because you listen.”

“I multitask,” Wells shot back. “I listen and look good doing it.”

Blaze circled him once, deliberate, then stopped close enough that Wells could feel the heat. “Keep letting me push you like that and you’ll own Regency’s backline before they realize what hit them.”

Wells raised a brow. “You talk like you enjoy pushing me.”

“I enjoy results,” Blaze said. “And you’re very… responsive.”

Wells laughed, flicking the ball up and catching it again with ease. “Careful, Coach. Keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you want me exactly where you’ve got me.”

Blaze’s smile turned sharper. “If I wanted you somewhere specific, Wells, you’d already be there.”

They reset at the touchline, gold and black under the lights, sweat cooling, tension humming.

“One more?” Blaze asked.

Wells smirked, tapping the ball into place. “Coach, you keep asking for one more and people might start thinking you can’t get enough of me.”

Blaze met his gaze, amused and unbothered. “Trust me. When I’ve had enough… you’ll know.”

Wells chuckled, rolling the ball forward. “Funny. That’s exactly what I was gonna say.”

Blaze kicked off the drill.

And Wells chased him down the line, laughing, already hungry for more.

The next Sunday came quickly. Franco, @franco-gold94, packed the finished flag into a golden satchel, while Freyr shouldered the polished steel pole. Outside the hut, a faint mist rolled in from the trees, thick with the scent of pine and promise.

The hike to the summit had begun.

Golden Mountain loomed high above the compound, its peak sometimes hidden by clouds, sometimes haloed in sun. This was no ordinary walk. This was ascent.

Franco kept a steady pace beside the god. Sweat formed on his brow, but he welcomed it.

“Didn’t expect the ‘flag mission’ to be cardio,” he said with a small laugh, adjusting the strap across his shoulder.

“You carried heavier burdens in your training, golden bro,” Freyr replied, his voice calm but strong. “This one... is for the team.”

Franco gave a nod. “For the team,” he echoed, more serious now.

They passed a few bros on their morning jogs. Some paused to salute. Others just gave nods of silent respect. Word had gotten around about the crafting. About the goal.

As the terrain steepened, Freyr looked ahead, then back at Franco.

“You know,” he said, “this peak used to be sacred to storms. Lightning struck here with fury. Trees wouldn’t grow near the crown. But it can be reclaimed.”

“Reclaimed?” Franco asked.

“For the Golden Army,” Freyr said. “For sunshine. For certainty. For glory born from steady hands.”

By midday, they reached the clearing at the summit.

The sky above swirled, blue and white in motion, as if watching. Golden winds circled the clearing, brushing their uniforms. Franco looked out across the view, fields, towers, stadiums, all below them.

“This is it?” he asked, chest rising.

Freyr stepped forward and knelt, carving sigils into the rocky ground with the pointed edge of the pole. Glowing lines followed his strokes, sparking then cooling.

“Yes,” Freyr said. “Here the soil shall hold our mark. The Golden Army flag will rise, and the skies will remember.”

Franco pulled the flag from his satchel. The golden fabric shimmered in the wind, the emblem of stag and laurel pulsing with life. He glanced at Freyr, heart thudding.

“You ready?” Franco asked, eyes on the pole.

“I’m always ready,” Freyr said. Then he paused. “But this, this isn’t my moment alone.”

He offered the base of the pole to Franco.

Franco took it, breath catching. “Then let’s plant it together.”

He knelt. Freyr gripped his shoulder. “Now.”

The pole struck the earth with a deep, resonant thud. The clearing fell silent. For a breath.

Then, light.

Golden light erupted upward, spiraling like a vortex. The flag unfurled itself, snapping into the wind, the fabric glowing with every thread. Thunder rolled in the far distance, but here, sunlight broke through the clouds like a curtain parting for a performance.

Franco shielded his eyes, jaw slightly open.

“It’s... beautiful,” he whispered.

Freyr stood with arms crossed, eyes reflecting the golden flare.

“It is blessed,” he said.

Two days later.

The Golden Stadium was packed. The stands overflowed with bros in shining kits. On the field, drills and scrimmages played out in perfect rhythm. Not a drop of rain. Not a hint of wind.

Franco leaned on the railing, watching a younger bro nail a long-range shot into the upper corner of the goal.

He smiled.

Freyr joined him, wearing a relaxed cream-white cloak over his godly form. His eyes scanned the field.

“They play smoother now,” Franco said. “Clear heads. Clear skies.”

Freyr nodded. “No divine interference. Just divine condition.”

Franco turned to him. “And it all started with two things, steel and fabric.”

“No,” Freyr said. “It started with unity.”

He looked out again, voice soft.

“Now every match will begin with our flag raised. Not as a weapon. Not as domination. But as a promise: the weather is fair, the grounds are blessed, and the fight is worthy.”

Franco gave a small nod, eyes focused forward.

“Then that’s what we made, Freyr.”

“A field that listens,” Freyr replied. “A stage for greatness. A symbol that says, this place... belongs to the Golden Army.”

The summit glows. The banner flies. What began with sweat and steel now echoes across the whole Golden Army. Franco and Freyr’s handcrafted legacy stands tall, weather-proof, storm-defiant, golden as unity itself.

Check out Franco's page for Chapter 1: The Finest Handcraft

Join those who rise for more than themselves. Train, craft, compete, and become sacred muscle with the Golden Team.