The war room was quiet except for the hum of the holo-screens. Jason Lockwood sat alone, his elbows propped on the sleek steel table, eyes sharp as blades as he studied the moving projections above the glass surface.

Clips of the Stellar Titans, Eternal Era's first opponent of the week, replayed endlessly. Their captain a behemoth midfielder named Kronstadt—bulldozed through defenders on one screen. On another, their goalkeeper launched counterattacks with throws that traveled half the pitch. Jason's gaze was unflinching. He'd been here a thousand times before, dissecting enemies like prey.

But this time was different.

He zoomed the screen in, highlighting their pressing structure. The Stellar Titans suffocated play by collapsing on the ball in waves. Eternal Era's usual approach—possession with surgical precision—would be smothered if Kenji and Aya were neutralized. Jason rubbed his chin, muttering under his breath.

"We've got elegance. We've got balance. But we don't have disruption… not yet."

His eyes flicked to a separate screen. A profile lit up: Dante Anderson.

The boy's stats were incomplete. His passing range: untested. His stamina: questionable. His discipline: unstable. And yet, Jason's lips curved into something caught between irritation and fascination.

The next morning, Jason stood on the dome-pitch with his whistle dangling at his neck. The seniors assembled, their silver kits glowing under the training lights. Behind them, Dante jogged nervously, hood pulled low.

"Mixed squads," Jason barked. "Half seniors, half reserves. Play at sixty percent intensity."

The players exchanged wary glances. Training matches with Jason never stayed at sixty percent.

The game began, and it didn't take long for the cracks to show. Dante's runs clashed with Kenji's rhythm. Scarlet snapped after a misplaced pass.

"He's not in sync, coach!" she shouted.

Jason didn't respond. He only observed, arms crossed, eyes locked on Dante.

The boy was struggling—then something shifted. An opposing defender telegraphed a pass. Dante's crimson lightning flickered faintly. He lunged, intercepting it before the ball even left the boot. Cosmic Telepathy. In three touches, he slalomed between two markers and fired a shot that rattled the crossbar.

The pitch froze. Even the seniors blinked.

Jason scribbled something onto his data-slate. Instinctive disruption. Dangerous.

Later, the squad gathered in the holo-chamber. The tactical board flickered to life, projecting a glowing 3D model of the pitch. Jason paced in front of it, a commander before his troops.

"Our first game is not practice," he began, voice low but firm. "The Stellar Titans will crush you if you play predictable football. Their midfield wall doesn't break—it absorbs."

With a swipe of his hand, he displayed their standard formation: 4-3-3.

"Option one," he said. "Kenji leads the line, Aya supports, Scarlet cuts inside. Balanced. But predictable."

He switched to a 3-4-2-1, diamond midfield spinning like a martial glyph. "Option two: rotating diamond. Grim anchors, Anastasia wide, Lionel covering deep. More flexible, but vulnerable to counters."

The seniors murmured, offering suggestions. Grim demanded balance, Anastasia argued for fluidity on the wings, Scarlet pushed for aggression. Jason listened, then silenced them with a raised hand.

With another flick, Dante's figure appeared on the board. A ripple of unease spread through the room.

Jason's gaze was cold."The question isn't if he can score. The question is—can we bend space for him to score?"

The silence was sharp enough to cut steel.

After the session, Jason lingered by the board, formations still glowing. He replayed Dante's trial run in his head. The interception. The shot. The raw, unrefined instinct.

He tapped his pen against the slate. Starting Dante would be madness. He was green, undisciplined, unpredictable. The Stellar Titans would eat him alive.

But ignoring him was worse. Jason knew talent when he saw it. He'd seen it once before—in Anastasia, when she was still just a girl dribbling on backwater pitches.

Jason leaned back, exhaling through his nose.

"Too risky to start. Too wasteful to bench. Damn it."

Finally, he etched the solution into the slate:

Wildcard Substitution – 70th Minute.

Dante would be the dagger hidden until the armor cracked. He would enter when defenders were tired, when the match demanded chaos. The boy could change the game—not with control, but with disruption.

But Jason's chest tightened with unease. Could Dante accept that role? Would he have the discipline to wait?

Outside the chamber, Dante had lingered by the door. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but fragments of Jason's words had reached him.

Wildcard. Not starter. Risky.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, teeth clenched.

On one hand, Jason was building tactics around him. That meant respect. On the other, he was still being treated like a gamble, not a core player.

That night, Dante crept back to the dome-pitch. Alone under the floodlights, he placed a ball at his feet. Crimson lightning rippled across his calves as he whispered into the stillness:

"If I get twenty minutes… I'll make them regret not giving me ninety."

He struck the ball, unleashing a bolt that cracked against the crossbar. The rebound rolled back to his feet, and this time he struck again—harder, faster, sharper.

Each shot echoed louder than the last, until the night itself seemed to roar with him.

In his office, Jason watched the pitch feed from the security cams. Dante's lone figure moved like a storm, relentless, refusing to stop.

Jason's lips twitched into something close to a smirk.

"Stubborn as hell. Maybe… just maybe… that's what we need."

He leaned back in his chair, shutting off the lights. The first game of the week loomed like a battlefield. And somewhere between tactics and chaos, Jason would have to gamble on the boy who carried lightning in his veins.

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