The rain didn't fall that morning.
Instead, a suffocating heat pressed down on the training ground like an invisible weight, clinging to skin and breath alike. The air shimmered above the grass, and even standing still felt like an act of endurance.
Ares Locke wiped the sweat from his brow and stared at the cones lined across the field.
Six cones.
Tight spacing.
Minimal margin for error.
Rowan Vale stood at the sideline with his clipboard tucked under one arm, eyes sharp, posture relaxed—but alert, like a predator pretending to sleep.
"Again," Rowan said.
Ares nodded and nudged the ball forward.
Tap.
Turn.
Shift weight.
Tap again.
His movements were cleaner than before. Not flashy, not fast—but controlled. Intentional.
The system remained silent.
No chimes.
No panels.
No guidance.
Just him.
And that silence felt heavier than any failure.
By the time he finished the sequence, his calves were burning, thighs trembling from strain. He forced himself not to show it.
Rowan glanced at his watch.
"Fifteen minutes left," he said. "Then we run."
Ares exhaled through clenched teeth. "…Understood."
As Rowan turned away, a familiar sensation stirred in Ares's chest—subtle, warm, like a pulse beneath the ribs.
DING.
The sound echoed faintly, as if coming from very far away.
A semi-transparent panel shimmered into view.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: TENSION (Moderate)
Reader Expectation Rising
⸻
Ares's jaw tightened.
They're watching again.
Not cheering.
Not praising.
Just… waiting.
Waiting to see if he'd crack.
He set the ball down once more.
Again.
His foot slipped slightly on the damp grass.
Rowan's voice snapped instantly.
"Stop."
Ares froze.
Rowan walked onto the field, gaze sharp.
"You hesitated," Rowan said. "Why?"
Ares swallowed. "I—"
"Don't lie," Rowan cut in. "I don't train liars."
Ares clenched his fists.
"…I was tired."
Rowan studied him for a long moment.
Then, unexpectedly, he nodded.
"Good," Rowan said. "That means you noticed."
Ares blinked. "Noticed… what?"
"That fatigue isn't your enemy," Rowan replied calmly. "It's information."
He crouched and adjusted one of the cones.
"When your body gets tired, your instincts panic. They try to protect you. That's when sloppy habits surface."
Rowan stood.
"Talentless players fail here. They rush. They overcompensate. They break."
Ares met his gaze.
"And you?" Rowan asked. "What will you do?"
Ares didn't answer immediately.
The heat pressed in. Sweat rolled down his spine. His muscles screamed for rest.
And somewhere beyond this field, invisible eyes were focused entirely on him.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: ANTICIPATION
⸻
Ares inhaled deeply.
"I won't rush," he said quietly. "And I won't break."
Rowan stepped back. "Then prove it."
The whistle sounded.
Ares moved.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Deliberate.
Tap.
Pivot.
Heel touch.
Outside cut.
Every movement was chosen. Every touch measured.
His vision narrowed—not through a system skill, not through supernatural clarity—but through raw concentration.
The ball obeyed.
He finished the sequence.
No mistakes.
Rowan's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Again," he said.
Ares did it again.
And again.
By the fifth repetition, his legs were shaking violently. His lungs burned. His heartbeat roared in his ears.
Still—he didn't stop.
On the seventh run, his knee buckled.
He caught himself just before falling.
Rowan didn't move.
The field was silent.
Ares straightened slowly.
"I'm not done," he said, voice hoarse.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: ADMIRATION (Rising)
Unyielding Spark — Resonance Increased
⸻
Warmth surged through him—not enough to erase the pain, not enough to make it easy.
Just enough to keep him standing.
Rowan finally raised his hand.
"That's enough."
Ares staggered to a stop, chest heaving.
Rowan approached him.
"Most players beg for mercy by now," Rowan said. "Or they fake injuries."
Ares shook his head. "I don't have that luxury."
Rowan studied him carefully.
"You know," Rowan said slowly, "there's something more dangerous than a lack of talent."
Ares looked up.
"A player who refuses to accept his limits," Rowan continued. "They burn bright… and then they burn out."
Ares met his gaze without flinching.
"Then I'll burn," he said. "But I won't bend."
For a moment, Rowan said nothing.
Then—he smiled.
Just slightly.
"Good," Rowan said. "Because the trials won't be kind."
He turned and gestured toward the track.
"Now run."
Ares stared at it.
"How many laps?"
Rowan's voice was flat.
"Until you hate me."
Ares laughed weakly.
"…Understood."
He ran.
One lap.
Two.
Three.
His vision blurred. His legs screamed. His thoughts fractured.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: FEAR (Minor)
Reader Doubt Detected
⸻
The warmth faded slightly.
They're afraid I'll fail.
Ares clenched his teeth and ran harder.
Fourth lap.
Fifth.
He stumbled near the curve and nearly collapsed.
Rowan's voice cut through the haze.
"Get up."
Ares forced himself upright.
"I didn't say stop."
He ran again.
On the seventh lap, something inside him snapped—not his body, but a wall he didn't know existed.
He stopped thinking.
Stopped questioning.
Stopped doubting.
He just moved.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: SHOCK
Reader Belief Stabilizing
⸻
By the time Rowan finally blew the whistle, Ares collapsed onto the grass, staring at the sky, lungs convulsing.
Rowan looked down at him.
"You passed today," he said. "Barely."
Ares smiled faintly.
"That's… enough."
Rowan turned away.
"Tomorrow, we work on positioning," he said. "And if you survive that…"
He paused.
"I'll recommend you for a preliminary scrimmage."
Ares's eyes widened.
"…A real match?"
Rowan nodded once. "With real players."
DING.
⸻
New Quest Unlocked
Quest: Survive the Scrimmage
Objective: Hold your ground against academy-trained opponents
Reward: Passive Skill Slot + Physical Stat Growth
Penalty: Reader Confidence Decrease
⸻
Ares closed his eyes.
Pain.
Fear.
Pressure.
And beneath it all—
A will that refused to shatter.
He whispered to the empty sky:
"…I won't let you down."
The heat shimmered.
The field stood silent.
And somewhere beyond this world—
Readers leaned closer.