The locker room smelled like sweat, disinfectant, and something heavier—anticipation.
Ares Locke sat on the wooden bench, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. Around him, dozens of young players adjusted their boots, stretched their legs, or stared silently at the floor.
No one was talking.
This wasn't the Rising Star Trials yet.
But it felt just as deadly.
Today was the final internal evaluation match—the unofficial gatekeeper.
Only those who performed well here would be formally recommended to participate in the Trials.
Everyone in this room knew it.
One bad half.
One mistake.
One moment of hesitation.
And thirty days of blood, sweat, and belief would mean nothing.
Ares exhaled slowly.
Across the room, he felt it again—that invisible pressure.
Eyes that didn't exist in this space… yet were undeniably present.
The readers.
They had been quiet today.
Too quiet.
No chimes.
No sudden boosts.
No reassuring warmth.
Just silence.
For the first time since the system awakened, Ares felt something close to fear.
What if they stop watching?
He clenched his jaw and pushed the thought away.
This match wasn't about miracles.
It wasn't about flashy shots or impossible goals.
Rowan Vale had made that very clear.
"Today," Rowan had said earlier, standing in the tunnel with arms crossed,
"I don't care how talented you look. I care about one thing."
Rowan's eyes had locked onto Ares.
"Can you survive pressure when everyone is watching you fail?"
Now, as the referee's whistle echoed faintly from outside, Ares stood up.
The sound snapped the room into motion.
Players grabbed their jerseys.
Boots scraped against concrete.
A door creaked open.
The field awaited.
The Pitch
The grass was pristine. Too pristine.
This wasn't the abandoned district stadium.
This wasn't his lonely training ground.
This was a professional-grade pitch, surrounded by silent stands and a row of scouts seated behind clipboards.
Ares swallowed.
Among them—Rowan.
No umbrella this time.
No casual posture.
Rowan Vale looked like a judge.
Ares jogged onto the field, assigned position flashing through his mind.
Central Attacking Midfielder.
The most dangerous place to stand.
You see everything.
And everyone sees you.
The whistle blew.
The match began.
First Ten Minutes
Chaos.
The ball moved fast—faster than anything Ares had experienced.
Players collided. Shouts echoed. Boots clashed.
Ares touched the ball once.
Then lost it.
A murmur rippled through the sidelines.
He felt it immediately.
The weight.
The judgment.
The system remained silent.
No assistance.
No warning.
Just raw reality.
Calm.
Ares inhaled deeply, grounding himself.
Iron Will activated—not by prompt, but by instinct.
His next touch was better.
Cleaner.
A short pass.
Safe.
Nothing special.
But he didn't panic.
Minute Twenty
The opposing team began targeting him.
One shoulder check.
Then another.
A late tackle that scraped his ankle.
Pain flared—but he didn't go down.
The crowd—small as it was—murmured again.
Not impressed.
But curious.
The system flickered faintly.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: TENSION (Low)
No buffs applied.
⸻
Ares almost smiled.
At least they're still watching.
The Mistake
It happened in the thirty-second minute.
Ares received the ball near the center circle, turned too slowly—
—and lost it.
The counterattack was brutal.
Three passes.
One shot.
Goal.
Silence.
Then whispers.
Ares stood frozen at midfield, chest tight.
He felt the weight of it crash down all at once.
This is it.
This is where they stop believing.
His vision blurred slightly.
Then—
DING.
The chime wasn't loud.
But it was clear.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: FRUSTRATION
Will Pressure Increasing
Unyielding Spark: Passive Effect Amplified
⸻
Ares's fingers curled.
Frustration.
Not disappointment.
Not boredom.
They were angry.
At the mistake.
At him.
But anger meant expectation.
They wanted him to do better.
Rowan's voice cut across the field.
"LOCKE!"
Ares snapped his head up.
Rowan pointed sharply.
"Don't drop your head. Show me your response."
Ares nodded once.
Second Half
He changed nothing.
And everything.
He didn't chase glory.
He chased control.
Short passes.
Smart positioning.
Cutting lanes.
He moved like a shadow—quiet, relentless.
Opponents began hesitating.
"Watch him."
"He's reading us."
The system hummed softly.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: FOCUS
Minor Cognitive Synchronization Enabled
⸻
The world slowed—not dramatically, not overwhelmingly.
Just enough.
Ares saw the gaps.
He threaded a pass between two defenders.
Gasps.
Another through-ball.
A chance.
Missed.
But pressure built.
The Moment
Seventy-eighth minute.
Score still 1–0.
Time running out.
Ares received the ball near the edge of the box.
A defender lunged.
Another closed in.
His body screamed.
His mind screamed louder.
Now.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: ANTICIPATION
Limitless Vision: Partial Activation
⸻
He saw it.
Not the goal.
The movement.
The defender's weight shifting.
The keeper leaning half a step left.
Ares didn't shoot.
He chipped.
A delicate, impossible arc.
The ball floated.
Time held its breath.
Then—
GOAL.
The net rippled softly, like it almost didn't want to believe it.
Silence.
Then—
Noise.
Not cheers.
Shock.
Rowan stood slowly.
His pen stopped moving.
The referee blew the whistle moments later.
1–1.
Match over.
Aftermath
Ares stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his chin.
No celebration.
No roar.
Just relief.
The system chimed one final time.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: BELIEF
Growth Path Stabilized
⸻
Rowan approached him after.
Up close, his gaze was unreadable.
"That chip," Rowan said quietly.
"You didn't force it."
Ares swallowed. "I… trusted the moment."
Rowan nodded once.
"Good."
He turned away, then stopped.
"Prepare yourself," he said over his shoulder.
"The real trial begins next."
As Rowan walked off, Ares looked up at the sky.
For the first time, the pressure didn't feel crushing.
It felt… earned.
The readers were still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And he was ready.