(Nnamdi's perspective)
I woke up heavy, the same leaden feeling in my gut I'd carried since the whistle blew. The 6-0 loss to Lord's Academy wasn't just a number on a scoreboard; it was a scar on my soul. A constant, replaying loop of humiliation. I saw the Lord's Academy striker, a blur of red and white, dancing past me. He didn't even need a fancy move. Just a simple feint, and I was gone. A phantom limb, reaching for something that wasn't there.
I felt the burn of my father's words, "If you can't guard your post, you're no son of mine." It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of fact, a law of my family. My father, a retired soldier, built his life on discipline and unwavering purpose. I was meant to be the same: the silent wall, the unbreakable guardian. But that day, the wall cracked. It shattered. I was useless. I wasn't a flashy player like Miracle, weaving through a hundred defenders, or a fiery striker like Frank, who lived for the taste of the goal. I was the rock. The one who held the line. And I had failed.
The image of Kelvin's leaderboard, my name next to "Positional lapses," was a fresh wound. I was used to being invisible, to doing my job in the background, but this public shaming cut deep. It wasn't just a coach's criticism; it was an accusation that I had betrayed the one thing I was supposed to be.
(Third-person perspective)
Kelvin's training regimen was a reflection of his brutal philosophy. For Nnamdi, it was a test of both body and will, a punishment custom-made for his specific failure. The drill was called the Cerberus Gauntlet. It was a narrow, 20-meter Fastlane, lined with obstacles that flickered in and out of existence—blinking lights, sliding barriers, and sudden jets of compressed air. But the true challenge was the three balls. Three parallel balls, each launched from a different point and rolling down the lane at staggered intervals, would come at him.
His task was monstrously simple: intercept and stop all three before they passed the end line. The obstacles were designed to distract, to break his focus. The multiple balls were designed to overwhelm him, to expose his single-minded defensive flaw. Each time he failed, the punishment increased. First, he was given a weighted vest. Then, his rest periods were cut in half. And if he continued to fail, the entire team would suffer a harsher, unannounced drill.
(Nnamdi's perspective)
My first attempt felt like a humiliation. The balls were a blur, a white flash of mockery. The first one, a simple, slow roll, was easy. I stepped in front of it. But as I went for the second, a faster one, my eyes shifted. My body followed my gaze, and I lost track of the first ball, which had bounced off the wall and was now rolling behind me. I heard the buzzer, a deafening shriek of failure.
Kelvin's voice, sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, cut through the air. "You're a dog without teeth, Nnamdi." I felt the familiar burn of shame. He was right. That day against Lord's Academy, I was a dog without teeth. I was a guard with a broken wall.
I thought back to middle school, to the way attackers would hesitate before trying to come at me. My reputation preceded me. I was the guy you didn't want to mess with. I wasn't the fastest or the most athletic, but I was relentless. I was feared. That pride, that memory of being an unwavering force, stung now. The Cerberus Gauntlet wasn't just a drill; it was a reminder of everything I had lost.
(Third-person perspective)
He ran the gauntlet countless times, each failure more painful than the last. The balls would fly past him, a blur of white, and he would stumble, his movements too slow, his instincts scattered. He would lunge for one ball and lose track of the other two. The weighted vest dug into his shoulders, and the lack of rest made his muscles feel like lead. He was pushed to his breaking point. After one particularly brutal session, he stumbled off the Fastlane, vomiting into the grass. The other boys watched, silent and grim. They understood his struggle, the public nature of his failure.
That night, lying half-dead on the turf, gasping for air, Nnamdi began to visualize. He wasn't just visualizing the drill. He was visualizing himself. He saw himself as more than just a single defender. He saw three shadows of himself—each one faster, stronger, and more ruthless than the last—snarling like beasts, their eyes fixed on the three balls. The images were so clear, so real, that he could almost feel the phantom limbs moving with a purpose of their own.
(Nnamdi's perspective)
My body was a battlefield. My mind, a whirlwind of doubt and pain. But as I lay there, I saw them. Not just in my mind, but in the air around me. Three shadows, each one me. The first one, strong and rooted, standing his ground. The second, a blur of motion, a flash of speed. The third, a ruthless hunter, a silent killer. We were one. We were three. We were a single entity, a triple-layered defensive instinct. My body felt it, my mind felt it. I was no longer a boy. I was a monster. I was Cerberus. The hound of Hades. The eternal guardian. I felt my eyes tracking from multiple angles, my body reacting before I could even think. I had found the parts of myself I had lost. The three-headed hound that guarded the gates of hell.
(Third-person perspective)
The next morning, Nnamdi returned to the gauntlet, his movements no longer hesitant but full of a chilling purpose. He didn't just walk to the starting line; he stalked it. The other boys watched, silent and grim. The three balls rolled down the lane, a trio of white missiles, but Nnamdi wasn't a single defender anymore. He was a beast. He took on the gauntlet with a monstrous precision. The first ball was met with a brutal, single-minded block. The second was a blur of motion, a flash of speed, an impossible interception. The third was a ruthless tackle, a silent kill. He blocked every ball, his body a symphony of precision and controlled violence. He growled under his breath, a low, guttural sound that was not his own.
He finished the drill, not with a gasp of exhaustion but with a snarl of defiance. The leaderboard update flashed, and the boys watched in awe as Nnamdi's name rocketed up the ranks. He was no longer a quiet wall but a beast guarding the gate. Miracle, still at the bottom, watched him go, his fists clenched, a silent resolve burning in his eyes. From the ruins of humiliation rose Cerberus, the hound of Hades, the eternal guardian. The first of the new gods had awakened.