The morning air inside the Eternal Era training dome felt different. Heavier.
The Rising Stars filed in one by one, boots squeaking against the polished pitch, their usual chatter cut short by the weight pressing down on them. Yesterday's battle with the Iron Fists had left more than bruises it had left doeec toubt. Whispers floated between teammates: who would be cut, who would be promoted, who had been exposed as dead weight.
Dante sat in silence, hoodie shadowing his eyes. He could feel it—the stares, the resentment, the curiosity. Some of the younger players looked at him with awe, but the older ones? They wanted blood. Especially the tall midfielder(Athen).
The man stretched with deliberate slowness, every motion a challenge, eyes locked on Dante. He hadn't forgotten being flipped to the turf yesterday. He wanted payback, and the entire squad knew it.
Jason strode into the center circle, his presence shutting down the whispers like a slammed door. His voice carried across the dome, sharp and uncompromising.
"Listen up. The scouts are here. Some of you will be advanced. Some of you will be cut. Every move today matters."
He let the words hang, scanning each face until shoulders stiffened. Then his gaze sharpened, landing on the tall midfielder.
"And since there's been a lot of noise in this squad…" His smirk carried a dangerous edge. "…we're going to settle it. One-on-one. Dante. Midfielder. Center circle. Now."
The dome vibrated with a low ripple of excitement. The Rising Stars leaned forward, eager to watch. Even the scouts straightened in their seats, pens poised above clipboards.
Dante rose, exhaling slowly, and tugged down his hoodie. His opponent was already waiting, cracking his knuckles, a grin flashing across his face.
Jason's whistle cut the tension in half.
"Ball in play. Show me football."
The ball dropped between them.
The midfielder struck first, exploding forward with a driving kick disguised as a tackle. His shin skimmed the ball, nearly toppling Dante in the same motion. Dante caught himself with a Vanishing Step, sliding just out of reach, the ball still tight at his feet.
The crowd roared. The duel had begun.
The midfielder pressed harder, his style raw but effective—elbows out, shoulders heavy, his movements closer to grappling than dribbling. He tried to muscle Dante off balance, slamming his body in with the weight of a wrestler.
Dante absorbed it, weaving through kung fu footwork. His stance was low, balanced, every step redirecting force instead of resisting it. He tapped the ball side to side, his movements economical, almost surgical.
For the first minute, he kept the storm in check. No lightning. No illusions. Just pure football skill.
The midfielder surprised him. He wasn't sloppy—he was powerful, disciplined. He cut off Dante's angles, forcing him toward the edge of the circle, each shove heavy enough to rattle his ribs.
"Not so easy when you can't cheat with tricks, huh?" the midfielder growled.
Dante's jaw tightened, but he didn't rise to it. He spun on his heel, rolled the ball behind him, and slipped past in a fluid pivot. The Rising Stars gasped. The midfielder stumbled—then recovered with a feral grin, lunging again.
The duel intensified. Martial arts fused with football—kicks disguised as clearances, feints hidden inside sweeps, shoulders colliding like rams. Dante moved with speed and grace, but the midfielder's brute force kept pace.
Finally, the ball ricocheted high. Both men leapt. Midair, Dante twisted into a crane kick to control it, while the midfielder snapped his body sideways in a scissor strike. Their legs collided with a crack of impact. The ball shot free. Both landed hard, breath heavy.
The dome went silent. Even Jason's eyes narrowed with interest.
Dante flexed his hands, heat crawling under his skin. He could feel it—the storm begging to be released. Red lightning itched at his calves, whispering promises of dominance.
He had a choice. Blend in. Stay humble. Or prove, once and for all, who he was.
The midfielder sneered, chest heaving. "What's wrong, freak? Out of tricks already?"
Something in Dante snapped.
His next step blurred. Red sparks flashed against the turf as he vanished, reappearing behind the midfielder with the ball already at his feet. Gasps erupted.
The midfielder spun, too slow. Dante split into three illusions, each darting in a different direction. The real Dante ghosted past him, carving through with impossible speed. In a single heartbeat, he was at the far side of the circle, the ball untouched by his opponent.
The scouts leapt forward in their seats. Pens scratched furiously.
Jason's whistle shrieked, slicing the air. "STOP!"
The dome froze. Dante stood still, lightning fading from his veins. His chest rose and fell slowly, eyes locked on the midfielder, who stood panting, fists trembling with frustration.
Jason stepped forward, voice thunderous. "That's enough. We've seen what we need to see."
The scouts huddled quickly, papers shuffling. Jason let the Rising Stars stew in the tension before finally turning back to the squad.
"Verdict's in. Some of you advance. Some of you don't." His eyes swept the room. "This is the reality of football in our era—talent rises, dead weight falls."
One by one, names were called. A handful of Rising Stars slumped in despair, cut from the squad. Others shouted with relief as they advanced to the next stage.
Then Jason's gaze locked on Dante. "Dante, the scouts are impressed."
A murmur rippled through the players. Some in awe. Some bitter.
Jason's tone hardened. "But you're flagged. They call you a wild card. Too unpredictable. Too dangerous. You could be the future of Eternal Era… or a disaster waiting to happen."
The words cut deeper than Dante expected. He kept his face calm, but inside, the storm stirred.
In the shadows of the dome, two figures watched from the upper stands. The bounty hunters.
One leaned forward, smirking as his eyes followed Dante. "See that? Fame spreads fast. The kid's already making waves."
The woman beside him folded her arms. "The higher he rises, the harder he'll fall. We just need to time it right."
The smirk widened. "And when he falls… we collect."
Outside the dome, another figure waited by the gates.
The Iron Fists captain. His arms crossed, steel-plated boots glinting in the sunlight. His gaze burned with unfinished fire.
"Dante…" he muttered, voice low and grim. "Our fight isn't over."
Dante walked out of the dome with the Rising Stars, but his mind was elsewhere. He'd won the duel, but the victory tasted bitter. Praised, but distrusted. Feared, even by those meant to judge him.
For a moment, his mother's words echoed in his mind from that message days ago: Focus on your training. Don't worry about me.
He clenched his fists, red lightning flickering faintly between his fingers before fading.
He wasn't here to be a wild card. He wasn't here to be controlled.
He was here to survive. And to win.
And somewhere above, unseen by him, another pair of eyes had been watching closely.
Anastasia.
She turned from the window overlooking the pitch, her expression unreadable.
Her verdict wasn't spoken—not yet. But soon, Dante would stand before her too.
Her judgment would cut deeper than the scouts' ever could.