The training grounds were unusually quiet that evening. Most of the Rising Stars had already dispersed, some celebrating their survival, others carrying the sting of rejection. Dante stayed behind, sitting alone at the edge of the dome-pitch, his boots half-unlaced, his mind replaying the duel against the tall midfielder. The scouts' verdict still rang in his ears—"A wild card. Talented, but dangerous."
He tilted his head back and let the cool air fill his lungs. For once, the storm inside him was calm. The silence didn't last. A sharp click of heels echoed against the turf, cutting through the stillness.
"Not bad."
The voice was firm, female, and unmistakably confident. Dante turned, eyes narrowing as he spotted her.
Anastasia Jasonova.
Jason's daughter. Senior player of Eternal Era's Team A. Her crimson training jacket shimmered under the floodlights, the crest of the lion stitched proudly on her chest. She carried herself with the poise of a warrior-princess—measured steps, sharp gaze, and a presence that silenced the pitch.
"Anastasia," Dante muttered, standing quickly, instinctively tugging his hoodie straight.
She stopped a few meters away, crossing her arms. Her eyes studied him the way hunters studied prey—not with hostility, but with a predator's appreciation. "I saw the duel. More importantly, I saw what you didn't show."
Dante's jaw tightened. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
Her lips curved faintly. "Cosmic Telepathy. Elemental Speed. You think you hide them well, but your body betrays you."
Dante's chest tightened. His abilities weren't supposed to be known, not openly, not yet. "How do you—"
"Because I've fought against it before," Anastasia cut in smoothly. "Your eyes gave you away when the midfielder feinted left but committed right. You moved before his body even shifted. That isn't instinct—it's foresight. Cosmic Telepathy."
She stepped closer, her voice lowering. "And when you accelerated, lightning crawling up your calves… Elemental Speed. It isn't raw sprinting. It's you bending the world's rhythm to match your stride."
Dante exhaled slowly, forcing calm into his voice. "So? You came here to expose me?"
"No." She tilted her head, eyes glinting. "I came to see if you understand what you are."
Anastasia whisetled sharply. From the sideline, a staffer rolled over a basket of balls. She plucked three, tossing them lightly in her hands. "Show me," she said simply.
Before Dante could protest, she launched them simultaneously—one arcing high, one spinning fast across the grass, one flying wide to his blind side.
Time slowed.
Dante's awareness stretched. He felt the ripple of intent, the subtle angle of her wrist when she released, the trajectory hidden in her posture. His Cosmic Telepathy painted the movements in his mind before they even completed.
He moved. His foot intercepted the low ball, his chest cushioned the high one, and his heel flicked the wide ball back into the air—all in a fluid chain.
Anastasia's eyes gleamed. "Good. But anticipation is one thing. Can you separate truth from deception?"
She advanced suddenly, her body weaving in martial grace. Feints, spins, strikes—each motion layered with misdirection. Her aura pressed down like a storm front. Dante felt her real intent pulse beneath the illusions, faint but present. He pivoted, blocked the genuine thrust of her shoulder, and rolled away with the ball still at his feet.
Her smile sharpened. "Excellent. Most would have chased shadows."
Then she blurred. Her kick came in a whip-crack arc, not aimed at him but at the ball. Reflex surged—Elemental Speed ignited. Red lightning streaked across Dante's calves, the world tilting into slow motion. He twisted, toe-tapping the ball just past her strike, then dashed forward, the pitch shrinking under his acceleration.
But Anastasia wasn't done. She pivoted, sliding low into a scissor sweep. For the briefest moment, Dante felt pressure—her control was immaculate, her body positioning flawless. He used Vanishing Steps, splitting into illusions. Her sweep cut through a phantom, leaving her momentarily exposed.
He tapped the ball between her legs, emerging behind her in a crackle of lightning. The ball rolled steady at his foot.
Silence lingered.
Finally, Anastasia straightened, brushing stray hair from her face. She was breathing harder than she let on, but her composure never cracked. "Impressive," she admitted. "You didn't just react—you adapted."
Dante steadied his breath, chest rising and falling. "Was that supposed to be encouragement, or a warning?"
"Both," she answered simply.
Anastasia walked past him, retrieving the stray balls. "Cosmic Telepathy and Elemental Speed… Together, they make you dangerous. Not just to opponents, but to yourself. A gift like that draws eyes. And eyes, Dante, are heavier than chains."
He frowned. "So what, you're telling me to hide?"
"I'm telling you to refine." She turned, gaze fierce. "Unrefined power burns out. I've seen players like you—meteors blazing across the sky, only to vanish. But those who endure? They learn restraint. They learn discipline." Her tone softened slightly. "You've already tasted isolation. Don't let arrogance deepen it."
Dante looked away, fists tightening at his sides. The scouts' verdict—wild card, dangerous—stabbed at him again. Was she confirming it? Or offering him a way out?
"You've got potential," Anastasia said finally. "Raw, volatile, magnificent potential. But Eternal Era doesn't need another spectacle. We need a weapon honed sharp, not a firecracker waiting to explode."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear. "I'll be watching. Next time, I won't hold back. And neither should you."
Her presence lingered like thunderclouds before a storm. Then she turned and strode toward the exit, crimson jacket trailing behind her like a royal banner. She didn't look back.
The pitch felt colder after she left. Dante stood rooted in place, heart still racing, the echo of her words vibrating through him. Cosmic Telepathy. Elemental Speed. Potential incarnate.
He flexed his hands, red lightning flickering faintly before fading. For the first time, he wasn't just wrestling with fear of exposure. He was wrestling with the weight of recognition. Anastasia hadn't dismissed him as a fluke. She'd named him. Defined him. And in doing so, she had lit a fuse.
He sat again on the edge of the pitch, staring at the empty goalposts. Somewhere in the shadows of the stadium, scouts and hunters alike whispered his name. Somewhere outside, his mother slept under Jason's roof, trusting him to keep her safe. And somewhere ahead, opponents sharper than Anastasia, crueller than the Iron Fists, were waiting.
Dante's lips curved intzo a faint, determined smile. "Fine. If you're watching, Anastasia… then I'll give you something worth watching."