The locker room smelled of sweat, antiseptic spray, and pride wounded deeper than flesh. The Rising Stars trudged inside after the brutal friendly, jerseys torn, lips bloodied, ankles wrapped in quick-fix bandages. A few collapsed onto benches with groans, others slammed their fists against lockers in frustration.
Dante walked in last. His hoodie hung loose around his shoulders, his chest still sore from the Iron Fists captain’s Dragon Whirlwind strike. The impact echoed in his ribs every time he inhaled, but his expression betrayed nothing. Red lightning still whispered beneath his skin, flickering faintly before fading into silence.
"That wasn’t football," one winger muttered bitterly, clutching an ice pack to his shin.
"They fight like mercenaries," another said.
"They are mercenaries," the tall midfielder spat, glaring at Dante from across the room. "And we still let him carry us."
Dante sat quietly on the far bench, untying his boots with steady hands. He’d heard resentment all his life; this wasn’t new. But he also caught something else—curiosity. Admiration. Fear. The wiry winger who had laughed with him yesterday nudged closer, eyes bright.
"Bro... that lightning thing." His grin was wide despite his busted lip. "Teach me how to do that. Please. I’ll pay with snacks for life."
A ripple of chuckles ran through the younger players. The tension cracked slightly. Dante smirked faintly. "Snacks don’t buy ankles, remember?"
Laughter filled the corners of the room, though muted by pain. For the first time since the match ended, the air felt lighter.
The door swung open with a metallic clang. Jason entered, towel draped around his neck, eyes sharp enough to slice through excuses. The laughter died instantly.
He let silence stretch before speaking, his voice steady but thunderous.
"You think that was unfair? You think they played dirty? Good. That’s the point."
Jason stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the floor. "Football is war now. You don’t just protect the ball. You protect yourself. Your brothers. Your future. Out there, the world won’t give you clean tackles or polite passes. It’ll hit you with fists, blades, lightning, even poison if it has to. And you’ll either endure it..." He raised his hand, fingers curling into a fist. "...or you’ll break."
The words hung like weights. Some bowed their heads. Some clenched their fists.
Jason’s gaze shifted to Dante. "You. Stand."
Dante rose slowly, shoulders square, eyes calm.
Jason studied him for a long moment. "You did well. But don’t get it twisted—raw power isn’t enough. You can shatter mountains with your talent, but if the men beside you don’t trust you, you’ll be swallowed whole."
The tall midfielder scoffed, muttering under his breath. Jason’s eyes snapped to him.
The midfielder froze. Slowly, he obeyed.
Jason positioned him face-to-face with Dante. "You resent him because he made you look weak. You think his lightning is cheating. Fine. Prove it." He tossed a ball between them. "One-on-one. No tricks. No excuses. Just football."
Gasps rippled through the room.
The midfielder’s jaw tightened. Dante only nodded, calm as ever.
But Jason lifted a hand. "Not today. Tomorrow. You’ll play in front of everyone. If you can humble him, do it. If not, swallow your pride and learn. Understood?"
The midfielder clenched his teeth, but he nodded.
Jason turned back to the team. "Scouts are here. Some of you impressed. Most of you didn’t. Tonight, they’ll send me reports. And in the morning, you’ll know who still wears these kits and who goes home."
The silence that followed was deafening. Futures dangled by a thread.
Jason’s tone softened only slightly. "Rest. Heal. Tomorrow decides everything."
He left, the door hissing shut behind him.
The Rising Stars scattered some to showers, others to silence. Dante remained seated, lacing his boots back together even though training was done. His thoughts spiraled. Jason’s words echoed like drums: Trust. Belonging. Brothers.
He clenched his fist. He had always survived alone. But maybe survival wasn’t enough anymore.
His phone buzzed. A message from his mother.
"I saw the match on stream. Please be careful. You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone."
He stared at the text, heart tightening, then typed a simple reply: "I’ll be fine."
But would he? Content orıginally comes from NoveIＦire.net
Across the training dome, in a glass-paneled observation deck, two Eternal Era scouts spoke in low tones. Both had tablets glowing with performance stats, names scrolling, numbers fluctuating.
The older scout, hair silver at the temples, tapped his screen. "This one—Dante. Off the charts physically. That acceleration... those bursts. I’ve never seen anyone bend the pitch like that."
The younger scout frowned. "Or cheat it. That wasn’t normal movement. Red lightning? Illusions? He looks more like a combat cultivator than a footballer."
"Maybe both," the older one said, eyes narrowing. "And maybe that’s exactly what the league needs now. Monsters who can tame monsters."
They exchanged a look, neither fully convinced but both unable to dismiss what they’d witnessed.
Far from Eternal Era, in the shadows of the city, another meeting unfolded.
The same man from the café earlier scrolled through fresh footage of Dante’s match. He froze the frame on Dante’s lightning-scorched step, zooming until the pixels blurred. His smirk widened.
The woman across from him sipped her tea. "So he’s stronger than we thought."
"Stronger," the man agreed, "and reckless. Still learning control. Which makes him vulnerable."
"Orders?" she asked again.
He closed the tablet with a snap. "Not yet. Let Eternal Era polish him. The brighter the star, the higher the bounty. We’ll take him when the world can’t ignore his fall."
The woman smiled faintly, shadows dancing across her face. "Then we wait."
That night, Dante lay awake in his small apartment. The city lights bled through the window blinds, painting his walls with fractured gold. His body was sore, but his mind refused to rest.
Every tackle, every sneer, every strike from the Iron Fists replayed in his head. He thought of Jason’s warning. The scouts’ eyes. His mother’s message. The tall midfielder’s burning glare.
And beyond it all, something he couldn’t name—the sense that unseen eyes followed his every move, waiting, hunting.
He clenched his fists beneath the covers, red lightning whispering faintly at his knuckles.
Tomorrow would bring choices. Tomorrow would bring battles.
And tomorrow, Dante vowed, he would not just survive.