The morning air was cool, but the sun was rising strong—warmth beginning to soak into the turf. A row of cones marked the shooting line, and the academy's training pitch was silent except for the occasional chirp of birds and the sharp barks of Coach Holloway.
"Each player gets one shot. No do-overs. No second chances. Treat it like it's the 90th minute and the season's on the line."
The boys stood in a line, shadows stretching long behind them.
Leon stood near the middle of the queue, arms crossed. His gaze flicked toward the goal ahead. The net was taut. The keeper, a second-year with a long frame and quick reflexes.
Coach Holloway glanced at his clipboard, then looked up. "Thomas. You're first."
A wiry boy with fast legs and a nervous smile jogged up, adjusted his socks, and set the ball on the spot. One breath. Two steps. The shot curled wide—missing the post by inches.
"Decent idea. Poor execution," the coach murmured, jotting something down.
One by one, the players stepped up. Some struck cleanly, others scuffed the ball. A few buried it. Most didn't.
Leon's eyes weren't just watching the shots. He was watching the body mechanics. The swing. The plant foot. The tension in their hips.
Each one told a story.
And soon, it would be his turn.
"I used to be a striker in my past life… shooting? That's my thing. But this body's different. Lighter. Less built. The muscle memory's there. I need to focus more. Recalibrate."
The coach called out:
Leon stepped forward.
The field seemed to shrink around him. Noise dropped out. Only the ball. The goal. The keeper.
He set the ball down gently, hands steady. He didn't rush. Didn't look at anyone else. Just… closed his eyes for a second.
It's not about power, he reminded himself. It's the angle… the timing… the point of contact. Make it perfect.
He took three steps back. A short breath in.
Then he charged forward.
His foot struck through the ball cleanly—instinct guiding him more than thought. It wasn't a wild shot.
The ball cannoned forward like a missile. The sound of contact echoed.
The ball smashed against the crossbar, the metal trembling like it had been punched by a heavyweight.
The keeper had barely moved.
Coach Holloway raised a brow, tilting his head as he scribbled a note.
"Powerful shot, Fisher. Not bad."
From the back of the line, Byon let out a whistle.
"Whoa! You almost broke the crossbar!"
Leon grinned as he jogged back, brushing hair off his forehead.
"You need super strength to break that thing."
Byon elbowed him playfully.
"What're you, a superhero now?"
Byon's name was called a few players later.
He didn't act like it was a big deal. But Leon had seen him in training. The easy balance in his body. The way he understood space. Byon moved like a kid playing a game in his backyard—but with the touch of someone who could write poetry with a football.
Leon's eyes flicked up.
[Ability: 35 | Potential: 89]
A number like that didn't lie.
"He's got it. That natural edge. And those long shots? They're part of him."
Byon strolled forward with a light jog, smiled at the keeper, then planted the ball like he was placing a marble on a table.
He took two quick steps and struck it with the inside of his foot—a low, slicing shot with backspin.
It zipped under the diving keeper, skimming the grass and snapping into the bottom corner.
Coach Holloway looked up.
"Excellent, Elias. Well done."
Byon jogged back like it was nothing, arms spread wide.
"See? I can scare keepers too!"
Leon met him with a laugh, clapping him on the back.
"Clearly, you're sneaky with your shots."
Byon grinned, tilting his head.
"Hey, they don't call me the Silent Assassin for nothing."
"No one calls you that."
"They will," Byon said confidently, walking backward with his hands behind his head.