The sun was still low over the Eternal Era training grounds when Dante arrived, hoodie up, lightning humming faintly across his arms. His mind kept replaying yesterday’s scene—the gasps in the classroom, the way Jörmundgandr had torn through the air like a living serpent, the look of fear in the other students’ eyes.
He should have felt satisfied. But he didn’t.
Because in his chest, he knew the truth: that shot was unstable. One wrong strike and it could fly out of control, or worse—break someone.
And Jason knew it too.
The Rising Stars’ head coach was already waiting for him on the pitch, arms crossed, his presence cutting sharper than the morning chill.
"You made quite the spectacle in class," Jason said without looking at him. "I heard you nearly shattered the protective shields."
Dante clenched his jaw. "It was just one move."
Jason finally turned, eyes locking with his. "Exactly. One move. Do you think a striker at the galactic level survives with just one trick?"
Dante opened his mouth but hesitated. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ɴovelfire.net
Jason stepped forward, his voice low but heavy. "Every great striker you’ve heard of—the ones in the Titan League, the ones in the Top 100—they don’t just have a weapon. They have an arsenal. When defenders study your tape, when they anticipate Jörmundgandr, what will you do then? Pray?"
The words stung, but Dante forced himself to meet his gaze. "Then I’ll make another."
Jason’s sternness cracked just enough to allow a faint smile. "Good. Then today, we build your arsenal."
The First Drill – Precision Over Power
Jason tossed him a ball. "Forget lightning. Forget aura. Forget the serpent. Right now, I want accuracy. You’ll hit all ten targets on that frame."
A steel frame rose from the ground behind the goalpost, ten glowing discs scattered across its surface.
Dante scoffed. "That’s for rookies."
Jason’s eyes hardened. "Then prove you’re not one."
Dante set the ball and fired. His crimson lightning flared, the ball smashing into the frame with thunder—missing the glowing disc by a meter.
Each time, power but no precision. Sweat dripped down his forehead. His chest heaved.
Jason didn’t move. "Your control is sloppy. That’s why your serpent veers wild. Until you can pin a coin in the corner net ten times out of ten, your arsenal is useless."
By the twentieth shot, Dante dropped to his knees, gasping. The discs glowed mockingly. His legs trembled.
He slammed a fist into the turf. "Damn it..."
Jason crouched beside him. "Listen, Dante. Power thrills the crowd. But accuracy breaks defenders’ hearts. The greats aren’t remembered for the shots they attempted. They’re remembered for the ones they never missed."
The words sank deep. Dante wiped his face, forcing himself back up. He set the ball again. This time—no lightning, no aura. Just his foot, the ball, the target.
When the ball struck the glowing disc dead-center with a satisfying ping, Dante finally allowed himself a small grin.
"One," Jason said simply. "Nine more."
The Second Drill – Creating Space
After an hour of pure accuracy training, Jason shifted focus. "Now, variety. Jörmundgandr is devastating, but it’s a straight-line finisher. You need ways to create space before you unleash it—or any shot at all."
He snapped his fingers, and holographic defenders rose from the pitch, solid-light constructs programmed with professional-level reactions.
"Vanishing Steps gave you footwork," Jason continued. "But what about the body? The feints, the shoulder drops, the deceptive pauses that pull defenders off-balance?"
The constructs swarmed Dante. He tried weaving through them, lightning crackling, but they adapted fast. One slid into his path, forcing him to stumble. Another shoulder-checked him off the ball.
Jason’s voice rang out: "Power is nothing if you’re boxed in. Show me creativity!"
Dante gritted his teeth. Creativity... fine.
He let one defender press close, then flicked the ball sideways and spun his body the opposite way. The construct bit on the fake, opening a gap. Dante slipped through, chest burning, the ball still under his control.
Jason’s eyes lit faintly. "Better. But again. And again. Until you can manufacture space even when there is none."
For the next hour, Dante danced with the constructs, failing, learning, adjusting. His mind replayed Lionel’s mastery of space, Autumn Leaf’s effortless grace. If they could control games without raw power, then so could he—if he worked.
The Third Drill – Building New Weapons
When Dante finally collapsed on the turf, Jason tossed him a bottle of water. "You’re learning. But you need signatures—plural. Not just serpent. Give me another."
Dante blinked. "Another?"
Jason nodded. "Jörmundgandr is your hammer. But what about your dagger? A quicker, subtler shot—one you can unleash in tight spaces, without charging half the pitch with lightning."
Dante sat up, thinking hard. His eyes narrowed. "Something fast. Something unpredictable."
He stood, grabbing a ball, and started experimenting. He tried curving it low, then high. He tried flicking it with the outside of his boot, adding sparks of lightning for acceleration. The ball bent, wobbled, even spun backward unnaturally.
After several failures, one strike caught Jason’s attention. The ball cut sharply at the last instant, swerving past the final construct as if pulled by invisible strings.
Jason raised his brows. "That... is promising."
Dante smirked. "I’ll call it the Phantom Curve."
Jason crossed his arms, hiding his approval. "Keep refining. A striker with one move is a gimmick. A striker with three is a nightmare."
By the time the sun dipped low, Dante’s body was wrecked. His shirt clung to him, his legs felt like lead, but his mind was burning alive.
Jörmundgandr—the serpent.The Phantom Curve—the dagger.And the beginnings of something more.
Jason finally dismissed him. But before Dante left the pitch, Jason called out.
"One last thing, Dante."
Jason’s eyes carried both pride and warning. "Don’t chase only destruction. Every move you craft should tell a story. Make defenders fear not just your lightning—but your mind."
Dante nodded slowly. "I’ll build an arsenal."
Jason gave the faintest smile. "Good. Because in this galaxy, strikers aren’t measured by their goals. They’re measured by the nightmares they leave behind."
As Dante walked into the night, crimson sparks trailing faintly at his heels, he whispered to himself:
"Then I’ll make sure they never sleep again."