The stadium was louder than Ares had ever imagined.
Not because it was full.
But because every sound carried weight.
Boots striking grass.
Whistles slicing through the air.
Voices shouting instructions, insults, encouragements—all blending into a chaotic storm that pressed against his ears.
This was it.
The Rising Star Trials.
The place Rowan Vale had warned him about.
The place where dreams were decided in moments—and destroyed just as quickly.
Ares stood among nearly a hundred young players on the outer training pitch, each wearing neutral jerseys with numbers printed on the back. Some stretched confidently. Others laughed too loudly, masking their nerves. A few stared straight ahead, eyes sharp and predatory.
Ares felt out of place.
Not because he was weak.
But because he was unknown.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the faint tightness still lingering from yesterday's training. Rowan had pushed him hard—harder than ever before—and today his body reminded him of it with every subtle ache.
Yet his mind was clear.
Unusually clear.
DING.
The system's chime was quieter than before—restrained, cautious.
⸻
[Trial Phase Initiated]
Reader Presence: LOW–STABLE
Current Influence: Minimal
Warning: Performance must generate reader reaction to unlock full system support.
⸻
Ares exhaled slowly.
"So I really am on my own… for now."
That was fine.
He'd trained for this without relying on miracles.
A sharp whistle cut through the noise.
"All players to their assigned groups!" a coach shouted from the sideline.
Numbers were called.
Ares glanced down at his jersey.
#47
"Forty-seven! Pitch C!"
He jogged toward the far side of the complex, boots crunching against gravel before touching grass again. Pitch C was smaller, more cramped—an evaluation field, not a showcase.
Which meant one thing.
This was where players were eliminated.
Rowan Vale stood near the boundary line, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable. His gaze flicked briefly to Ares, then away.
No encouragement.
No reassurance.
Just expectation.
Ares swallowed.
Don't look for approval, he reminded himself.
Earn it.
Phase One: Technical Assessment
Cones.
Dribbling lanes.
Passing gates.
Timed sequences.
The most basic—and cruel—part of the trial.
One mistake didn't just lower your score.
It branded you.
Ares stepped up when his turn was called.
"Player forty-seven," an evaluator said flatly. "Dribble course. No errors."
Ares nodded and positioned himself behind the first cone.
The ball felt heavier than usual.
Or maybe that was just his nerves.
Whistle.
He moved.
Tap. Control. Shift. Inside foot. Outside foot.
His training with Rowan echoed in his head.
Lower your center.
Relax your shoulders.
Touch before speed.
He followed the rhythm he'd drilled for days.
Cone one—clean.
Cone two—smooth.
Cone three—
The ball slipped half an inch too far.
A ripple of unease ran through him.
Focus.
He adjusted instantly, guiding it back under control without stopping.
One evaluator raised an eyebrow.
But didn't mark anything down.
Ares finished the course.
No errors.
He stepped away, heart pounding.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: TENSION (Minor)
Effect: Mental Stability +5%
⸻
He almost smiled.
Someone's holding their breath.
Phase Two: Small-Sided Match
This was where careers were made—or erased.
Five versus five.
Short field.
Limited time.
Every touch mattered.
Ares was assigned to a mixed group—two academy players, one physically imposing striker, one quiet winger who barely spoke.
The opposing team looked… stronger.
Bigger.
More confident.
The whistle blew.
Chaos.
The ball was fought over immediately, legs tangling, shouts erupting. Ares stayed back, scanning. His instincts screamed to chase—but Rowan's voice echoed in his mind.
Don't chase the game. Let it come to you.
He adjusted his positioning, cutting passing lanes rather than diving into tackles.
The ball swung wide.
An academy midfielder miscontrolled under pressure.
Ares reacted before thinking.
He stepped in.
Stole the ball cleanly.
Gasps rippled along the sideline.
He pushed forward—just two steps—then passed.
A simple pass.
Clean.
Effective.
The striker took it, turned, shot—
Blocked.
But something shifted.
The team began to look at Ares.
Trust flickered.
Minutes passed.
The score stayed locked at zero.
Then it happened.
Ares received the ball near the halfway mark.
An opponent charged.
Time slowed.
Not because of a skill.
Not because of the system.
But because Ares had seen this moment a thousand times in training.
He feinted left.
Cut right.
And threaded a pass through a gap that barely existed.
The winger latched onto it and scored.
Whistle.
Goal.
Silence—then murmurs.
Rowan's pen paused mid-air.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: SURPRISE
Reader Interest Increasing…
Unlock Condition Approaching
⸻
Ares's chest tightened.
It's working.
Phase Three: Pressure
The match restarted.
The opposing team grew aggressive.
One defender shoved Ares after a pass.
Another clipped his heel deliberately.
No foul was called.
Pain flared.
Anger followed.
And with it—a familiar heat.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: ANGER
Unyielding Spark: ACTIVE (Temporary)
⸻
Ares steadied himself.
Not now. Not reckless.
The ball came again.
This time, he didn't pass.
He drove forward.
One defender.
Then two.
Ares twisted his hips, absorbing contact, staying upright through sheer refusal.
He didn't outrun them.
He outlasted them.
He shot.
The ball slammed into the post and rebounded out.
Miss.
Ares stumbled, breath ragged.
The whistle blew.
Time.
The evaluators spoke quietly among themselves.
Rowan closed his clipboard.
Ares stood still, sweat dripping, heart hammering.
Had it been enough?
Or had he fallen just short?
DING.
The system chimed—but didn't display anything.
Not yet.
Rowan approached.
His gaze was sharp, assessing.
"Come with me," he said.
Ares's stomach dropped.
He followed Rowan toward the main building, passing players who were laughing—or crying.
Inside, the air was cooler.
He stopped in front of a closed door.
Rowan turned.
"You weren't the most talented player out there," he said bluntly.
Ares clenched his fists.
"But," Rowan continued, "you were the hardest to break."
Silence.
Rowan opened the door.
"Trials aren't over," he said. "But you crossed the line today."
Ares looked up.
"The line…?"
Rowan met his eyes.
"The one between failure and destiny."
DING.
⸻
[Hidden Condition Met]
Reader Belief Threshold: ACHIEVED
System Support Unlocked (Partial)
⸻
Ares inhaled sharply.
This wasn't the end.
But it wasn't the beginning anymore, either.
He stepped forward.
Into the next stage.
Into the path he'd chosen.
And behind him—
unseen, unheard—
More readers began to watch.