Zlatan nodded approvingly.
"Now your body moves like a striker. No — like a martial artist. Like someone who can change direction in one heartbeat." He tapped his chest. "This is how legends move."
And despite everything — the stubborn lectures, the endless sparring, the kicks to the back that "trained reaction time" — Lukas felt it.
His body was different now.
His stride. His balance. His control when absorbing contact.
Even the goal last week — slipping between defenders, catching himself with his arm and springing back into motion — that came from here.
It hadn't been luck.
It was training.
Real, painful, relentless training.
TT's voice softened — just slightly.
[*You've come far, you know.*]
Lukas let out a slow breath.
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
He unfolded his legs slowly, smoothly — no stiffness, no hesitation — and rose to his feet.
Zlatan smirked.
"Good. Then today," he said, stepping back and raising his fist, "we work on jump power."
Lukas blinked.
