The noise inside the Eternal Era Dome was suffocating. The Rising Stars were a goal down, and the clock ticked into the 72nd minute. Their midfield looked ragged, attacks were stalling, and frustration bled through the crowd like smoke. Every time Eternal Era pushed forward, the opposing defenders—sharp, disciplined, merciless—snuffed out the play before it could spark.
Jason stood at the edge of the touchline, jaw locked, arms crossed. His eyes scanned the pitch like a battlefield commander, and what he saw only deepened the crease in his forehead. His formation had failed to create penetration, and their lone striker had looked isolated since the second half began.
From somewhere deep in the east stands, a fan bellowed, voice raw:"Put the new kid in! We need a real striker!"
Others joined in. A chant grew, spreading like wildfire through the Dome."Dante! Dante! Dante!"
Jason turned his head toward the bench. Dante sat there, hoodie up, eyes fixed forward, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t moved an inch despite the roaring chants. He looked like he was waiting, not hoping.
Jason clicked his tongue. The boy’s raw. He’s volatile. But... we need a spark.
He called to the assistant coach. "Warm him up. He’s going in."
When Dante jogged toward the sideline, the chant exploded. The Dome shook with it. His black kit clung to him like armor, and faint red sparks danced across his calves as if his body knew it was time to awaken.
The outgoing striker slapped his shoulder with a grim look. Dante nodded once, then stepped over the white line.
From her position on the right flank, Anastasia "Autumn Leaf" Lockwood glanced at him briefly. Her eyes didn’t linger, but the flicker was enough—recognition, not distraction. She wanted to see if the rookie could truly rise in a storm.
"Striker role, free to roam," Jason barked from the sideline. "But don’t get reckless. Blend in."
Dante smirked. Blend in? The lightning in his veins wouldn’t let him.
Within seconds, the ball found his feet. An opposing defender pressed immediately, eager to welcome the newcomer with a crushing tackle. Dante dropped his weight low, his Vanishing Steps flickering. The defender blinked—and Dante was gone, slipping past as if space itself bent to his stride.
He surged down the left channel, eyes flashing with Cosmic Telepathy. In a heartbeat, he sensed Anastasia streaking into space on the opposite wing. He fired a diagonal pass that curved unnaturally, skimming just beyond the defenders’ reach. Anastasia caught it clean and fired a cross.
Volley attempt. Blocked.
The crowd roared approval anyway. Eternal Era finally looked alive.
The opposing captain barked orders, tightening the backline. But there was unease now. The new kid wasn’t normal.
In the 80th minute, Lionel "Stronghold" intercepted a through ball with his immovable aura. He looked up, found Dante signaling, and launched a pinpoint pass—a long, thundering drive that cut the air like a spear.
Dante received it on the chest, his boots sparking with Elemental Speed. One defender lunged with a sliding tackle, another closed in high.
Dante’s breath slowed. This was the moment.
He shifted into the stance he’d been refining with Lionel in training. Jörmundgandr 2.0—the strike that was still raw, but sharper, faster, hungrier.
The ball bounced once. Crimson lightning erupted across his frame. He twisted, foot whipping in a savage arc.
The strike ripped forward, a serpent of pure force. The ball didn’t fly—it hissed, curved, and bent like it was alive, writhing past the keeper’s desperate hand.
The Dome detonated. Fans leapt from their seats, voices colliding in a storm of sound. Chants of "Dante! Dante!" rolled across the stadium like thunder.
He stood there, chest heaving, lightning flickering across his body. For a moment, he looked less like a footballer and more like a myth carved into reality.
Anastasia smirked faintly before turning back into position. Lionel clenched his fist, satisfied. On the sideline, Jason exhaled slowly, relief and caution mingling in his eyes. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by novel★fire.net
The score: 1–1. Game on.
But the opponents weren’t finished.
In the 86th minute, their midfield maestro unleashed a wave of pressure. Eternal Era’s young midfielders cracked, coughing up possession under relentless pressing. The ball ricocheted across the box, panic flooding the Rising Stars’ defense.
Grim shouted commands, trying to anchor them, but the tempo had tipped.
Their striker, the Phantom, slipped free. With Void Step footwork, he ghosted between two defenders and slammed the ball into the corner of the net.
The stadium fell silent for a split second before the away fans erupted in cruel glee.
Jason slammed his fist against the bench. "Damn it! Hold the line!"
Dante’s knuckles whitened. His veins screamed to unleash everything, to drown the pitch in red lightning, but Jason’s words echoed in his mind: Football, not war. Control without killing.
He forced himself calm, but his jaw was tight.
The Rising Stars threw everything forward in the last few minutes, but the equalizer never came. The whistle blew, slicing through the Dome like a blade.
Final Score: 2–1. Loss.
The Rising Stars trudged off, heads low. Jason’s expression was stone, though his eyes flicked once toward Dante.
The crowd was torn—half cheering for Dante’s spectacular debut goal, half booing the defeat. The chant of "Dante! Dante!" still lingered even as others cursed the team’s weakness.
In the tunnel, Anastasia slowed near Dante. She didn’t stop, didn’t soften her stride, but her words brushed past him like the edge of a blade.
"One goal doesn’t win a match. Learn that."
Her boots clicked against the concrete as she walked away.
Dante stood still, sweat dripping, body humming with lightning. He clenched his fists.
Not anger. Not despair. Resolve.
If one goal wasn’t enough... then he would forge ten more weapons.
And somewhere in the crowd above, the bounty hunters watched again.
"He’s shining too fast," the man said.The woman’s lips curved. "Good. The brighter the flame, the darker the shadow that follows."
Dante pulled his hoodie back on, stepping into the night. His debut had begun. His journey was far from finished.