After they were done, the bald, short instructor didn't let the players rest; he quickly picked a youth who was sitting next to Winston. The short, bald instructor pointed at the obstacles in the middle of the field. Kicking the ball to the youth, the bald instructor said, "Finish the obstacle without touching those mannequins with the ball, and score a goal,"
All the youths craned their necks. What greeted them was a row of training mannequins lined up in a straight line. Beneath each mannequin were sliding tracks that allowed them to move left and right.
The sight drew murmurs from the youths as they exchanged curious glances. The bald instructor didn't say anything other than chuckling to himself.
Before the youth started, he said out loud, "The time is ten minutes," The challenge began fifty meters (55 yards) from the goal. Between the starting line and the net stood a row of moving mannequins, and the youths had only one task—dribble through them at full speed without touching a single one.
The bald, short instructor raised his hand and made a circular motion with his index finger. And the mannequins started moving left and right. The deliberate and unhurried pace of the first four mannequins is intended to ensure that players of any skill level, including amateurs, will be able to easily dribble past them without any substantial challenges.
The selected youth stood before the moving mannequins, preparing himself for the obstacle course. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he fixed his gaze on the shifting obstacles. He wasn't taking this challenge lightly.
After what the instructor had said the previous day, he was determined to climb out of Group C. More than that, he wanted to improve his skills.
While spending time with the other youths from Building C, he had overheard conversations about challenging players from Building D to earn points. He had also heard several Group D players talking about seeking out weak opponents from Group C as they made their way to the Striker Dome.
The remaining mannequins stood motionless. Around him, the youths whispered among themselves, several already smiling as they looked over the obstacle course. To them, the challenge appeared simple.
Winston wasn't convinced.
The course looked deceptively easy. His eyes drifted toward the bald instructor, who stood quietly with his hands buried in his Federation tracksuit pockets. The memory of the instructor twirling his index finger resurfaced in Winston's mind.
A realization struck him. This challenge wasn't merely testing a player's dribbling ability—it was testing speed as well. And if his suspicion was correct, the instructor could make the mannequins move faster with a single command.
When the whistle blew, the youth burst forward, dribbling the ball at speed. He weaved past the first two mannequins with ease and quickly cleared the third and fourth.
Just as he sprinted toward the fifth mannequin, the bald instructor raised his hand and twirled his index finger.
Instantly, the mannequins accelerated.
The sudden increase in speed caught the youth off guard. His eyes flickered toward the timer mounted above the goalpost before snapping back to the course. Gritting his teeth, he pushed forward.
Then disaster struck.
One of the mannequins swung across its track and clipped his ankle. A sharp jolt of pain shot through his leg, forcing a loud groan from his lips. Refusing to stop, he tried to press on.
A moment later, another mannequin slammed into his shoulder. The impact sent him hurtling sideways.
He crashed to the ground and landed awkwardly on his injured ankle. A sickening crack echoed through the dome.
The youth let out a scream, clutching his ankle as agony surged through him.
With a heavy sigh, the bald instructor raised the whistle to his lips and blew a sharp blast. Moments later, two members of the medical staff rushed onto the field, carefully lifting the injured youth before carrying him away.
The short, bald instructor stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Turning toward the youths, he was met with a sea of terrified faces. A chuckle escaped his lips. This reaction was nothing new to him.
What the young players didn't know was that the instructor was infamous for his brutal training methods. Years ago, in his home city overseas, he had taken charge of a club trapped in a dreadful losing streak. Under his relentless regime, the club transformed into one of the best teams in the league, winning multiple trophies in consecutive seasons.
Naturally, not every player welcomed his methods. Those who complained or refused to adapt often found themselves relegated to the reserve squad. Many eventually chose to retire rather than endure his demanding standards.
To outsiders, the instructor appeared cruel, uncompromising, and devoid of sympathy. The club owners, however, saw him differently. They saw a man who delivered results through tough love—a disciplinarian capable of turning struggling teams into champions.
There was also a financial benefit. By pushing underperforming players to either improve or walk away, he saved the club substantial sums that would otherwise have been spent on long-term contracts for players who no longer met the required standard.
"You, you are next," The mannequins never stopped moving. Their sliding mechanisms produced a loud, continuous hum, reminiscent of a giant industrial fan.
At the front of the line, the selected youth rose to his feet. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he swallowed nervously. Behind him, the other youths remained silent, their heads lowered, unwilling to attract the instructor's attention.
The sight drew a chuckle from the short, bald instructor.
When the youth's name was called, he stepped onto the starting line at the center of the field. His dribbling ability was impressive, but his speed left much to be desired.
As he navigated the obstacle course, he hesitated before every mannequin, waiting for it to pass before making his move. While his caution prevented collisions, it also cost him precious seconds.
The youth's method was effective, but it came with a fatal flaw—it was far too slow.
There were fifty mannequins standing between him and the goal, yet he had only cleared fifteen. Meanwhile, the timer above the goalpost continued its relentless countdown.
"What are you waiting for? Move! Don't dilly-dally!" the short, bald instructor shouted, his patience visibly wearing thin.
The words struck the youth like a slap. His heartbeat quickened as he realized the truth. If he continued playing it safe, he would run out of time long before reaching the end of the course.
Startled by the firm voice behind him, the youth burst forward in a panic. He nearly had his ankle clipped by a passing mannequin. Reacting at the last second, he dragged his foot back and lost his balance, sliding onto his knees.
Planting his hands against the ground, he pushed himself upright and staggered forward. A metallic clang echoed throughout the dome as one of the mannequins grazed his forehead.
A thin line of blood trickled down his face.
The youth quickly wiped it away and pressed on. Despite his injuries, he managed to dribble past the remaining mannequins, stumbling more than once before finally clearing the last obstacle.
Relief washed over him as the goal came into view. He drew back his leg and struck the ball.
But at the crucial moment, blood streamed into his eyes, blurring his vision. The shot veered off target and sailed wide of the goal. The youth could only stare in disbelief as his chance slipped away.
"Mm. Forty-five minutes. Next," the short, bald instructor said, glancing at his assistant beside him. The assistant immediately jotted the result down on the clipboard.
The player he pointed next was Oswin, "Shit… wish me luck, Wis. I just hope I don't get injured out there."
"You got this, Oswin, you are the best dribbler I know," Winston cheerfully responded,
"Yeah, you got this, Os, "You're the best dribbler, mm… so don't go and injure yourself." Lucas said mockingly, with a smirk that rubbed Oswin the wrong way.
Oswin gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in annoyance. He let out a heavy sigh before stepping forward. He had been ignoring Lucas for a while now, even going out of his way to avoid any confrontation with him back in Building A. Ever since encountering Lucas again, Oswin had focused entirely on his training.
He had begun staying out late, pushing himself harder than ever. The injuries he suffered the previous year still lingered in his mind, and this aggressive training had become his way of coping—of keeping the anger under control.
When the whistle blew, the bald, short instructor gave the signal. O immediately surged forward, dribbling past the first four mannequins with ease.
As the mannequins accelerated, Oswin adapted seamlessly, combining sharp dribbling techniques with precise ball control. His movements were now fluid—both his agility and speed had noticeably improved.
Winston couldn't help but smile, impressed by his friend's performance. Around them, the other youths watched in awe.
Lucas, however, wore a look of clear disdain.
Oswin pressed on and finished the course with a clean strike, sending the ball into the goal.
"Impressive, 11 minutes, nex…"
"May I go, instructor?"
The bald, short instructor raised an eyebrow. At once, the youths whipped their heads toward the voice. To their surprise, it was Lucas.
He wore a smug smirk, as though he had been waiting for this moment. The instructor, meanwhile, seemed delighted that someone had finally stepped forward.
"Okay, you're next."
Lucas brushed his shoulder against Oswin's as he passed, a smug grin tugging at his lips. "I see you've recovered. Good. It'll make our rematch a lot more interesting."
Oswin shot Lucas a menacing glare and clicked his tongue. Choosing not to respond, he continued walking until he came to a stop beside Winston. "You know he's baiting you, right?"
"Yeah, I know. But I'm not the only one who's got someone watching their every move."
Winston swept his gaze across the dome and briefly locked eyes with one of the twins and Sebastian. Turning back to Oswin, he shook his head.
"Maybe I should volunteer after Lucas. I want to see their reaction. And besides, I'm curious to know who has the better speed—me or those two."
"What happened to the quiet, timid Winston? You're a lot bolder than I remember," Oswin said with a grin, slinging an arm around Winston's shoulders.
Since awakening the Nethen Essence and the Voltage Core, W had been unable to control or utilize them at will. Even so, his confidence remained high. He believed that once he mastered these newfound powers, no one would be able to stop him on the field.
Winston also wanted to test his speed. More than that, he craved competition. Ever since defeating Maximilian, he had been eager to tap into those mysterious abilities again, but he had no idea how to access them.
That was one of the reasons he was excited about underground football. Perhaps through intense competition and experience, he would finally learn how to harness the power of his awakenings.