(Frank's perspective)
The dry bread on Miracle's tray was an insult, but my grilled chicken, plantain, and steaming jollof rice were the taste of deserved victory. I bit into the chicken, savoring the smoky flavor, the triumph of my 9.2 score. I wasn't surprised I was leading the board. I was Frank Anyiam—the striker, the fire, the one with the raw talent.
I watched Miracle, the great Atlas, picking at his scraps, still wearing the shame of his 4.8. He had the brain to talk about Titans and systems, but when it came to the actual grind, he was useless. A liability.
Eric had made his breakthrough, conquering his messy temper to hit an 8.8. Good for him. But his battle was over control; mine was over dominance. The only thing I needed to control was the defense in front of me. I was the force, the explosion, the spearhead. I was Ares.
(Third-person perspective)
Frank swaggered onto the pitch, riding the high of his perfect run in the shooting drills. He was fastest in the sprints and most lethal in the power-finishing challenge. He was the only one who seemed to be thriving under Kelvin's new regime.
Kelvin stood by a freshly erected training setup—a dense, low-walled grid of fluorescent orange cones, forming an intricate, impossible maze. The walls were lined with pressure sensors linked to the main tactical screen.
"Frank Anyiam," Kelvin's voice cut through the air, devoid of inflection. "You believe your strength is lethal finishing. I agree. But lethal finishing requires a build-up. You are not an event, you are a process. You will learn to navigate the enemy before you can destroy it."
Kelvin called the drill The Minotaur's Maze.
"The goal is simple: You will take one ball into that grid. You will dribble it through the maze, hitting every marker in sequence. You will use the inside and outside of both feet, maintaining a speed of no more than two meters per second. The sensors track pressure and angle. Ares is a master of disciplined violence, Frank. Not chaos. Lose control, hit a cone, or use excess force, and the drill resets. Your clock stops only when you emerge on the other side. Now, begin."
(Frank's perspective)
Slow down? Two meters per second was less than walking speed. It was pathetic. But the sight of the clock and Kelvin's cold, expectant stare fueled me. Fine. I'll humor him. I'll finish this thing perfectly and still beat any time they set.
I entered the maze. I started slowly, trying to thread the ball through the tight corners. Immediately, my ankle clipped a sensor. The buzzer shrieked—a mocking, metallic sound—and the counter reset.
"Failure due to excessive force, Ares," Kelvin stated flatly.
I bit back a curse and started again. I got three markers deep this time, focused entirely on my feet. But the required slowness killed my rhythm. I hated it. I pushed the ball slightly too hard to compensate, and it rebounded off a cone. BUZZER. Reset.
The rage started to simmer. I was the fastest player here! I should be flying past these pathetic plastic cones, not crawling. I looked at the clock, which was now creeping toward forty-five seconds for just three markers. This is taking too long. I have to speed up.
I drove the ball forward with increased tempo, relying on my usual speed and power to bully the ball through the gaps. It was a spectacular, immediate failure. I knocked over five cones in succession, the sensors wailing like distressed ghosts. The force was so immense, the ball nearly bounced out of the chamber.
I stopped, chest heaving, the red mist descending—the same red mist that had earned me the red card against Lord's Academy. I wanted to smash the cones, to kick the ball into the dome's ceiling.
Kelvin's voice cut the silence, sharper than a red card. "Look at your data, Frank. Your heart rate is at 180 BPM, your accuracy is zero, and your force output is at 98%. You are wasting 98% of your strength fighting plastic cones. You are not Ares, the God of War. You are a liability. You are an idiot wielding a priceless sword that you cannot control."
(Third-person perspective)
Frank stood frozen, the insult landing with devastating accuracy. He was so used to being validated by his power that the realization of its uselessness in this environment broke his spirit. He tried one more time, his movements jerky, trying to force the precision, but the frustration was too deep. He failed again and stumbled out of the maze, sweat pouring down his face, his breathing ragged.
"Ares is the master of controlled, surgical chaos, Frank," Kelvin said, tapping the screen. "You are a wild animal. You failed The Minotaur's Maze because your Hubris told you power was enough. The enemy—like the maze—will use your ego against you. You abandon your team when you abandon your discipline."
Kelvin then delivered the final blow that shattered Frank's pride and impacted the entire team.
"Until Frank completes this maze flawlessly, the entire army will eat the lowest-tier meal. He will learn that his failure costs more than his own pride."
He then looked directly at Miracle. "Johnson, you think the 4.8 is harsh? At least your failure is due to weakness that can be trained. Frank's failure is due to pride that must be purified."
Frank, humbled and furious, watched his name plummet on the Pantheon Leaderboard, the majestic 9.2 replaced by a miserable, failing score of 5.1 and the new note: Hubris. He was no longer the strongest; he was the costliest failure.
Miracle, still at the bottom, felt a strange, cold wave of understanding. His 4.8 was a burden of weakness. Frank's 5.1 was the burden of unearned strength. The Atlas burden suddenly felt less lonely. He knew his next move: he had to climb the mountain, but first, he had to master the patience that Ares had just lost. He had to learn the system's flaw before Kelvin broke him for good.