The holo-projector’s glow still lingered in Dante’s mind long after Jason had left him alone with the image of his father. The Serpent Fang — a strike so sharp and merciless it bent reality with its curve. Dante barely slept that night, his head buzzing with replay after replay. By morning, his decision was made.
He had to fuse it with Jörmungandr. Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn novel★fire.net
Morning Training – The Attempt
The Rising Stars training ground was quiet, dew clinging to the turf, when Dante arrived early. A single ball under his arm, sweatpants loose around his legs, hoodie unzipped. He didn’t wait for instructions or teammates.
Ball at his feet. Eyes locked on the empty goal.
"Father bent the ball with his ankle rotation, not power. But Jörmungandr... it’s all power and storm." He muttered to himself, setting the ball.
The first strike was raw instinct. Lightning crackled down his calf as he unleashed Jörmungandr, thunder booming in the empty pitch. The ball arced — too violently — and smashed into the stands, shattering a seat.
This time he tried controlling the ankle twist. A snap, a whip — Serpent Fang’s mechanics laced into Jörmungandr’s ferocity. The result? A wobble. The ball curved, yes, but clumsily. It spun out of control and veered wide of the goal, hitting the post and ricocheting back across the turf.
Dante snarled. "Again."
For an hour, he struck and struck, sweat soaking his shirt, lightning cracking with every failed attempt. Some shots curved too late. Others bent too soon. None carried the lethal elegance of his father’s move. Every miss felt heavier than the last.
At last, panting, hands on his knees, he growled through clenched teeth: "Why can’t I do it?"
"Because you’re trying to copy instead of creating," Jason’s voice cut across the pitch.
Dante’s head jerked up. He hadn’t noticed Jason watching from the sideline, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"Uncle, sorry Coach..."
Jason laughed no one here, you can call me uncle but you need to understand, very soon you will be starting after all you are basically over 100 years he joked.
Jason strode forward, picking up a stray ball. "Your father’s Serpent Fang worked because it belonged to him. It fit his body, his instincts, his rhythm. You..." He tossed the ball back to Dante. "...are not him."
Dante caught it, chest heaving. "Then what am I supposed to do? Abandon it? Pretend I didn’t see what he left behind?"
Jason shook his head. "No. Learn from it. But stop trying to wear his skin. Jörmungandr is already yours. Serpent Fang was his. What you need... is something greater."
Dante clenched the ball tighter. He wanted to argue, to snap back. But deep down, the words cut with truth.
Later that day, the team gathered in the locker room. Energy buzzed in the air, but it wasn’t tense like before their last match. The holo-screen on the wall displayed the ranking table of the Galactic League.
At the bottom, glowing in humiliating red, sat their next opponents: Dusk Raiders — zero wins, six from last season losses, bottom of the galaxy’s table.
Jason stood in front, arms behind his back, his gaze moving across every face in the room.
"This week," he began, voice even, "we face Dusk Raiders. They’re dead last. Lowest-ranked team in the Galactic table. Statistically, this should be a walk in the park."
A ripple of smirks and chuckles spread among the players. Some even relaxed in their seats.
Jason’s hand slammed against the board, silencing them instantly. His eyes blazed.
"Don’t. You. Dare. Underestimate them."
Jason continued. "Do you think teams survive in this league by being weak? No. Even the worst of them can destroy you if you get complacent. You want to stay in the top 20? Then every match, every opponent, must be treated like a final. You slip once, you pay for it."
He turned to Dante specifically, his voice sharp. "Anderson. You’ll be benched, but be ready. If I need you, I’ll put you in. You’ve got potential, but right now? Potential doesn’t win games. Execution does."
Dante sat rigid, fists clenched in silence. The words stung, but he didn’t flinch. He had already promised himself — he wouldn’t fail the next time he was given a chance.
Jason scanned the room once more, his voice dropping into something colder. "You’ve sacrificed too much to get here. Your families, your time, your blood. Don’t throw it away because you think one game is easy."
The silence was heavy. No one dared laugh now.
Finally, Jason dismissed them. "Rest. Train. Tomorrow, we hunt."
After the meeting, Dante lingered behind as the others left, his gaze still fixed on the rankings board. The bottom team’s name burned into his mind. Dusk Raiders.
Jason passed him by, pausing only for a moment. "Don’t chase your father’s ghost, Dante. Write your own."
When he was gone, Dante whispered to himself, "Serpent Fang. Jörmungandr. Maybe I can’t copy you, Father. But I’ll forge something that belongs to me."
He dropped his bag, grabbed a ball, and stepped back onto the empty pitch.
The storm inside him had only just begun.