The training pitch was empty that evening.
Most of the squad had already gone, scattered to the recovery rooms or their quarters after Jason’s brutal speech. Only the faint hum of the floodlights remained, casting long shadows across the turf.
Dante stayed behind, juggling a ball alone. Each touch was clumsy, raw, forcing him to chase after it. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he refused to stop. The sting of their loss and Jason’s words burned hotter than exhaustion.
"You push yourself harder when you’re angry," Jason’s voice came from the sideline.
Dante froze, the ball rolling away. He hadn’t realized the coach was still here. Jason walked toward him slowly, carrying a slim holo-projector in one hand.
"I thought you’d left," Dante muttered, wiping his forehead.
Jason shook his head. "Not yet. There’s something you need to see."
He placed the projector on the turf, knelt, and activated it. A soft light bloomed, shaping into a flickering holographic video.
Dante’s breath caught.
On the projection stood a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that mirrored Dante’s own. His hair was darker, his aura heavier, but the resemblance was undeniable. His father.
Jason said nothing as the recording played.
The man was on a dusty pitch, the kind from decades before the rise of Galactic Football. No shimmering stadiums, no cosmic crowds. Just dirt, makeshift goals, and raw ambition. Yet when he moved, the air itself seemed to bend.
Dante’s father dribbled past three defenders with deceptive ease. His touches weren’t flashy—every movement was efficient, purposeful. Then, from nearly thirty meters out, he struck.
The ball curved violently midair, a serpent twisting through impossible angles. It bent once, twice, thrice, before slamming into the top corner of the net. The goalkeeper didn’t even move.
The crowd—small, local, human—exploded with cheers. The camera shook from the noise.
Dante’s eyes widened. His heart pounded in his chest. He had seen many great goals since arriving at Eternal Era, but this was different. Raw. Deadly. A strike carved from instinct and willpower, not advanced techniques.
Jason finally spoke. "That move was his signature. They called it the Serpent Fang ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ novel~fire~net
The hologram replayed, slower this time, showing the precise twist of the ankle, the whip of the strike. Dante leaned closer, eyes locked on every detail.
"He had something most players never learn," Jason continued quietly. "He could kill a game with one strike. He didn’t need to score twice. He didn’t need fancy tricks. He only needed one chance. And when it came—he never missed."
Dante swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Why... why are you showing me this now?"
Jason’s gaze was unreadable. "Because you’re his son. And because whether you want it or not, people will compare you to him. I need you to understand the weight of that."
Dante clenched his fists. "I don’t want to be compared. I want to surpass him."
A rare flicker of a smile touched Jason’s lips. "Good. That’s the answer I wanted."
The video replayed again, looping. Dante watched his father’s movement over and over, his mind already racing. His Jörmungandr shot bent wildly, but it lacked the control his father had shown. If he could merge the two—his father’s deadly precision with his own cosmic power—he could forge something terrifying.
Jason rose to his feet. "I’ll warn you now—chasing his ghost will break you if you’re not careful. But if you can take what he built and make it your own..." His voice hardened. "Then maybe, just maybe, Eternal Era will stop looking at you as a rookie, and start looking at you as a weapon."
Dante stood there long after Jason left, the projection still looping in the grass. His father’s strike repeated endlessly, curving through the air like a serpent.
The boy inside him ached. The player inside him burned.
And somewhere deep within, Dante swore that the next time he stepped on the pitch, he wouldn’t just score.
He would make the galaxy remember the name Anderson.