The night air clung to Dante as he walked back through the academy's sprawling courtyards. Neon billboards flickered with highlights of matches he had just played in ed eclips of him sprinting past defenders, the crowd roaring as "Blaze" was painted in bright letters across the screen.

But the cheers felt distant. He could still hear Sang-hee's words far louder than any stadium roar:

"Make it chase you. Don't lose yourself. Character wins the war."

By the time he reached the dormitory, the laughter of his teammates spilled into the corridor. The Rising sStars occupied the first floor, their doors left ajar, music thumping, voices joking about Lionel's impossible block during training and Scarlet's fiery sprint that had nearly singed a goalpost.

Dante slipped past quietly. They were his comrades, his peers—but tonight he felt worlds apart. He entered his room, closed the door softly, and sat on the edge of his bed.

His boots were still stained with grass from training. His body ached, but it was the ache in his chest that lingered longest.

For a while, he simply sat there, staring at the folded jersey on his desk. Not the black-and-gold of the academy, but the spare jersey his mother had washed and ironed, the one he'd worn in his debut. The crest glimmered faintly under the dim lamp, and in it, he saw both his father's shadow and his mother's hope.

Eventually, exhaustion won. He drifted into sleep with one thought burning through the haze:

I can't just play. I have to win.

The morning sun rose sharp and merciless over the academy fields. The players jogged onto the grass, sweat already glistening on brows before Jason's whistle even pierced the air.

"Line up!" Jason barked, voice cutting through the chatter. "Two matches, zero wins. That's behind us. What's ahead? A chance to prove we're not flukes."

The team assembled, shoulders squared, faces tense. Even Grim, usually stoic, had a grimness that matched his name. Anastasia adjusted her wrist guards, Scarlet twirled a strand of her flaming hair nervously, and Lionel stood tall at the back like a fortress ready to be tested again.

Jason's gaze swept over them, sharp as a blade. Then it landed on Dante.

"Blaze. With me."

Murmurs ran through the squad. Scarlet arched a brow. Anastasia smirked knowingly. Dante's stomach tightened as he jogged forward.

Jason walked him a few paces away from the group, into the shadow of the dugout. His arms were crossed, eyes unblinking.

"You know why I'm pulling you aside?" Jason asked.

Dante shook his head.

"You're starting the next match."

The words hit harder than any tackle. Dante blinked, certain he'd misheard. "Starting…?"

Jason's lips tugged into something that was neither smile nor frown. "You earned it the moment you turned the stadium with that strike. But earning a chance isn't the same as earning trust. You'll be carrying more than your own name out there."

Dante's pulse hammered. He thought of Sang-hee coughing softly at the dinner table, of her hand on his shoulder, warning him not to lose himself. He thought of the fans shouting "Put in the new kid!" He thought of the defenders who had marked him with blades in their eyes.

"I won't let you down," Dante said, his voice steadier than he felt.

Jason leaned closer. "I'm not asking you not to let me down. I'm telling you not to let yourself down. When you step on that field, every defender will look at you as prey. Your Titan name won't scare them. Only your game will."

For a long moment, silence stretched. The breeze rustled across the field, carrying with it the faint smell of damp earth and sweat.

Finally, Jason clapped a hand on Dante's shoulder. "We'll work on positioning today. You're quick, you're sharp, but you're still raw. Don't chase glory. Chase space. Understand?"

"Yes, coach."

Training that day was brutal.

Jason split the squad into two teams, forcing Dante to line up against Lionel and Anastasia. Stronghold towered like a wall of iron, blocking passing lanes with uncanny precision. Autumn Leaf's movements were graceful yet relentless, every challenge timed to near perfection.

Every run Dante made felt like sprinting into a storm.

But he didn't stop. Again and again, he cut in, darted wide, sprinted behind, demanding the ball even when the odds looked impossible. He scored only once in nearly two hours of play, but the fire in his legs never dimmed.

By the end, sweat poured off him, his chest heaving, but Jason's eyes followed him with a rare glimmer of approval.

"Not bad," the coach muttered. Then, louder: "Blaze, Stronghold, Autumn Leaf—stay behind. Extra drills."

The three exchanged glances, exhaustion mixing with silent pride. Being singled out meant only one thing: Jason saw them as the spine of his evolving strategy.

As they worked—Lionel hammering him with shoulder checks, Anastasia testing him with sudden interceptions—Dante felt something stir. Not just his own flame, but the shape of a team forming around him.

---

Later, as the squad huddled for cooldown, Jason addressed them.

"Our next opponents are second bottom of the galaxy table. On paper, it should be an easy win." He paused, his gaze hardening. "But we don't play on paper. We play on grass, against Titans who want nothing more than to drag us down with them. Lose this, and we're staring at three matches without victory. That's the edge of disaster."

A heavy silence fell. Even Scarlet's usual fire dimmed.

Jason's voice cut sharper. "We've sacrificed too much to crawl this far. If you want to stay in the top twenty, if you want your names remembered, then you bleed for every tackle, you run for every blade of grass, and you fight for every spark in your chests. No excuses."

He pointed at Dante. "Blaze starts. The rest of you—make sure he doesn't stand alone."

The squad broke, each player carrying a different weight in their hearts. For Dante, it was the heaviest yet—a blend of pride, fear, and something more fragile: the memory of his mother's smile, urging him to carry the fire but not lose himself to it.

As the sun dipped low over the academy, casting long shadows across the pitch, Dante whispered to himself:

"This time, we win."

And for the first time, he believed it.

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