With a new plan solidified in his mind, Wakashi walked directly towards the seaside.
His usual long, slouching strides were replaced by a purposeful, determined gait. The setting sun cast long shadows, but Wakashi felt no fear, only a burning focus.
The old man was waiting. The solution to the impossible challenge was finally within his grasp.
He reached the familiar spot on the coast, the sound of the waves a low murmur. He scanned the rocky shore, his eyes searching for the silhouette of the old man. But the rock where he usually sat was empty. The entire stretch of beach was deserted. Wakashi's shoulders slumped slightly, the raw energy that had fueled his walk dissipating into the cool evening air.
He stood there for a moment, a tall, lonely figure against the vast ocean. He felt a sting of disappointment, a momentary return to the frustration that had once consumed him.
But then, a splash of color caught his eye further down the beach. A group of children was playing, their laughter carried on the wind.
Among them, Wakashi saw a familiar face and a familiar football.
It was Hana, her long hair tied back, her smile bright and carefree as she kicked the pristine, orange-and-white ball to her friends. It was Hinata's ball, the one he had given her. It wasn't scuffed, torn, or beaten. It was being used exactly as it was meant to be, a simple, beautiful tool for a simple, joyful game.
Wakashi just stood and watched, the intensity in his eyes softening. He saw her pass the ball to a smaller boy, her movements fluid and unburdened.
The fire that had burned in him all day, the rage and the desperate need to win, faded into a quiet, profound observation.
For the first time since his obsession began, his focus shifted from the "monster" within to the simple, beautiful game that had started it all.
One of the children, a small girl with a brightly colored hair tie, looked up from the game.
Her gaze drifted past Hana and her friends, and landed on the tall, silent figure standing motionless in the distance.
Her eyes widened slightly, and she stopped playing.
"Hana," she whispered,
tugging on her friend's sleeve.
"That guy. He's looking at you."
Hana, who had been laughing, followed her friend's gaze.
Her smile faded instantly. Her eyes, usually so bright, met Wakashi's across the wide, empty beach. It was a single, fleeting second, a silent collision of past and present.
Wakashi saw the moment of recognition in her eyes, followed by a faint flicker of fear—a ghost of the pain he had caused.
Then, just as quickly, she looked away. She turned back to her friend, her voice low but clear.
"Ignore him,"
she said, and with a swift kick, she sent the ball back into the game, a subtle but firm dismissal.
Wakashi just stood there, his hands still in his pockets. He felt no anger, no frustration, only a cold, sharp pang of regret.
His "monster" side, the one that had so easily dismissed his past, was silenced. He was just a boy who had broken a promise and shattered a beautiful moment. The scorn from the field had fueled his rage, but this quiet, deliberate rejection from Hana stung more than any insult.
He wasn't the clown; he was the ghost of a painful memory, a presence to be ignored.
He had come to the coast to find a way to beat the old man, but what he had found instead was a powerful reminder of what he was truly fighting for.
Wakashi was still standing motionless, when his eyes snapped to a movement far down the beach.
A lean figure was walking toward him, his hands tucked into his pockets, his posture loose and confident.
The old man.
Wakashi's internal world instantly narrowed.
The quiet, introspective regret over Hana vanished, replaced by the cold, focused intensity of the "monster."
As the old man drew closer, he stopped and smirked, his eyes glinting in the twilight.
"Ready, boy?"
Wakashi didn't waste breath on a reply. He reached down, grabbed his lumpy, homemade ball, and with a grunt of raw challenge, threw it hard at the old man's feet.
"Ohoo, interesting,"
the old man chuckled, watching the ball fly. It came toward him with speed and power, yet with a swift, almost casual touch of his foot, the ball settled instantly, coming to rest obediently on his leg.
It looked like the ball was simply exhausted and found its home there.
"Let's start, boy."
Without a second of hesitation, Wakashi charged.
He ran fiercely, his long legs devouring the sand, all his monstrous strength directed into snatching the ball and tearing it away.
He was a force of nature, a giant coming in for the kill.
But the old man was a ghost.
As Wakashi closed the gap, the old man merely shifted his weight, and with a swift, precise touch, the ball zipped past Wakashi's right foot.
He was swiftly dribbled, his massive body lumbering past the empty space where the ball had been.
Wakashi spun, fury burning in his eyes, and charged again. The old man easily repeated the maneuver, dribbling past him again, then again, passing him with a frustrating, mocking ease.
Wakashi continued to charge, his efforts clumsy and futile. He was being fooled, continuously dribbled past, a powerful wild horse chasing a phantom, once again using all his strength to achieve nothing.
He had fallen back into the trap. He was still fighting the old way.
But now, the word he'd discovered—the solution—screamed in his mind, cutting through the red haze of his failure.
Lure.
He had to stop chasing the ball and start chasing the man.
The old man easily repeated the maneuver, dribbling past him again, then again, passing him with a frustrating, mocking ease.
Wakashi spun, charging, his efforts clumsy and futile.
He was being fooled, continuously dribbled past, a powerful wild horse chasing a phantom.
The old man, however, sensed a slight hesitation, a subtle holding back in Wakashi's normally reckless attacks.
He wasn't getting the normal, all-out physical pressure.
"What happened, Wakashi?"
the old man taunted, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves.
"You got chicken legs?"
Gritting his teeth, Wakashi immediately responded, channeling the heat of the taunt into a physical surge.
He pressed closer, giving more pressure by pushing and pulling, using his sheer mass to try and box the old man in.
"That's the thing I'm expecting from you! Ha ha ha!"
the old man's laugh echoed, the sound both encouraging and infuriating.
The match continued, the ball dancing mockingly around Wakashi's desperate lunges.
Wakashi tried his maximum to snatch the ball, but it was futile.
Now, he was actively waiting for the chance to lure him. He forced himself to stop relying on instinct and started experimenting, testing the old man's reactions.
The old man zipped right with the ball, and Wakashi followed suit, shadowing him tightly.
But suddenly, the old man pivoted and turned left, opening up a space for himself. Instead of desperately following, Wakashi deliberately left him to do that, allowing the gap to form.
He was trying to set a trap, giving the old man a "beating" path to take, leading him towards a pre-planned dead end.
The trap didn't spring immediately. The old man, too experienced to fall for a simple gambit, simply maintained control.
But Wakashi remained patient, playing a long game he had never attempted before.
Suddenly, the old man stopped dead, letting the ball rest at his feet. His playful expression vanished.
"Wakashi,"
he said flatly, his voice devoid of humor.
"You can't snatch the ball from me. It's a waste of time. Go and do other things."
He stopped and started to walk away, ending the match without preamble, without another chance.
"No,"
Wakashi said, his voice deep and quiet, a profound refusal to accept the dismissal.
"One more chance."
The old man paused, turning his head slightly. He looked back at Wakashi, and in the young man's eyes, he saw not the flash of anger he expected, but a cold, immovable determination.