The morning sun burned across the Eternal Era training grounds, golden rays catching on the reinforced glass walls of the dome-pitch. Inside, the Rising Stars were already moving, but it wasn’t football as Dante remembered it.
Jason stood at the center circle, arms folded, voice like thunder.
"Listen well. Football in this era isn’t just skill and stamina. It’s survival. Every pass, every step, every tackle" his fist snapped forward in a sharp kung fu strike, the thock of air cracking against his knuckles, " is combat." The source of thɪs content is novel⸺fire.net
The Rising Stars dropped into stances as ordered. Their warm-up was nothing like the light jogs or stretches Dante had seen in his past. This was martial training disguised as football drills.
One player dropped into a Shaolin horse stance, balancing the ball on his thigh while blocking a teammate’s attempt to snatch it with an arcing crescent kick. Another spun into a capoeira handstand, juggling the ball between feet and hands while warding off two others with spinning sweeps.
Jason barked at them like a drill sergeant. "Shield the ball with your body! Control the pitch like it’s your battlefield!"
Dante watched for a heartbeat, then joined in. The moment he touched the ball, muscle memory from his astral training flared. He anchored himself in a low kung fu stance, his center of gravity calm and immovable. When a defender lunged, Dante shifted with Vanishing Steps his form blurring—and appeared just out of reach, the ball glued to his feet.
The tall midfielder scowled and stormed forward, throwing his body like a grappling tackle. Dante sidestepped, redirected his weight, and with a flick of balance learned from martial drills, flipped the midfielder onto the turf.
The locker room erupted in laughter. Jason smirked. "Good. Control without killing. Remember, we play football, not street brawls. But out there—" he jabbed a finger toward the pitch doors, "—you’ll meet opponents who don’t play fair."
He let the words sink in before announcing, "Which is why, this afternoon, you’ll play a friendly. Against Iron Fists FC."
A ripple of tension moved through the team. Even Dante felt it in their silence.
"The Iron Fists?" a winger whispered. "They’re... brutal."
Jason nodded. "Semi-pros. Street-trained. They mix kung fu with football. Aggressive. Unforgiving. Perfect for teaching you what the world is really like."
He glanced at Dante. "And scouts from Eternal Era’s main squad will be watching.
By afternoon, the Rising Stars stood on the dome-pitch, their black and blue kits gleaming under the lights. Across from them, the Iron Fists walked in—fifteen men in red armor-trimmed jerseys, their every step sharp, disciplined, dangerous.
They lined up, then suddenly broke into a synchronized martial kata, kicks snapping, fists striking the air in a storm of motion. The ground seemed to quake beneath their shouts.
The Rising Stars stiffened. Some looked impressed. Others, nervous.
Dante only adjusted his hoodie, eyes narrowing. So this is the battlefield version of football.
The Iron Fists wasted no time. Their captain, a hulking striker with steel-plated boots, lunged forward, his opening tackle a sweeping roundhouse that clipped the ball and Dante’s shin at the same time. Dante slid back, sparks of red lightning flashing under his skin as he regained balance.
"Get up, kid!" the captain sneered.
Play surged on. The Iron Fists moved like fighters—every pass hidden inside a strike, every tackle a grappling throw. One defender vaulted into the air, twisting into a kung fu tornado kick to intercept a Rising Star’s long ball. Another used his elbow to shield the ball, disguising the hit as a legal shoulder.
Jason barked from the sidelines. "Stand your ground! Fight with the ball, not against it!"
Dante charged forward, ball at his feet. An Iron Fist came in with a spinning sweep. Dante leapt, red lightning flashing across his calves, and landed with the ball still under his control. A second came with a flying kick. Dante pivoted into a Vanishing Step, splitting into three illusions. The kick sailed through a phantom, leaving Dante free to blast a volley pass down the wing.
Gasps rang out. Even the scouts watching leaned forward.
The Rising Stars rallied, feeding off Dante’s energy. The wiry winger he’d spoken to yesterday managed a dazzling move, spinning with a capoeira kick that both shielded the ball and passed it to Dante in one motion. For a moment, the Rising Stars played like warriors, not rookies.
But the Iron Fists weren’t done.
Their captain took control near the box. He spun, launched into a Dragon Whirlwind Kick, and struck the ball with such force the air screamed. The ball curved like a missile, smashing past two defenders, and hammered into Dante’s chest before he could fully brace.
He slammed into the turf, air knocked from his lungs. The whistle stayed silent. No foul.
The Iron Fists captain sneered down at him. "Welcome to real football."
Dante’s vision swam. His ribs burned. But as he pushed himself to his feet, red lightning began crawling across his veins, alive, furious.
The Rising Stars stared, caught between awe and fear.
Jason’s expression darkened. He knew that look in Dante’s eyes.
Lightning bled across his calves as Dante straightened, chest heaving, gaze locked on the Iron Fists’ captain. His voice was calm, almost too calm.
"If that’s how you want to play..." he rolled his shoulders, the storm gathering in his limbs, "...then I’ll play your way."
The pitch fell into silence.
And the second half was about to begin.