Lucas stood at the starting line, rolling his shoulders and flexing his muscles before setting off. He dribbled toward the moving mannequins, weaving through them with remarkable precision.
Winston quickly noticed something strange. Lucas's dribbling style was almost identical to Oswin's. In fact, he moved exactly the way Oswin did. Even his stance, footwork, and body posture mirrored Oswin's technique.
Puzzled, Winston glanced at Oswin and found him wearing an expression of pure disdain. Oswin ground his teeth together as he watched.
Winston shifted his attention back to Lucas. After clearing the final mannequin, Lucas finished the run and scored in the same manner Oswin would have.
Once it was over, Oswin let out a long breath.
"Eleven minutes. Nex—"
The bald, short instructor stopped mid-sentence, surprised to see another youth raising a hand to volunteer.
The bald, short instructor rubbed his chin. The youth who had volunteered for this training test intrigued him.
Winston rose to his feet and patted Oswin on the shoulder before making his way toward the mannequin challenge.
As he passed Lucas, who wore a smug grin, Lucas deliberately bumped his shoulder.
"Watch where you're going, amateur."
Lucas's lips curled into a mocking smile as he continued forward.
"The amateur here is you. You can't even clear this challenge without relying on someone else's skills."
Winston shook his head and continued walking, not bothering to wait for a response.
Lucas's expression darkened with disdain.
Winston's words echoed throughout the dome, drawing the attention of every youth present. Several of them were stunned that he had spoken so boldly to the second-ranked player in the Attacking Dome.
Even Oswin was taken aback. Deep down, however, he felt a surge of satisfaction. Winston had stood up for him. A pleased smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned his gaze toward Lucas.
The other youths followed Oswin's gaze. Everyone had noticed that Lucas was copying Oswin's dribbling style, but no one had dared to say anything. The last thing they wanted was to paint a target on their backs and end up challenged in next week's one-on-one matches.
The bald, short instructor, on the other hand, let out a chuckle. He enjoyed competition, and the growing rivalry unfolding before him was far more entertaining than the training exercise itself.
Winston didn't turn back to look at the now-annoyed Lucas. With a nod from the bald, short instructor, he suddenly felt a chilling energy surge from his abdomen down to his legs. The stream was faint but unmistakable.
In an instant, Winston bolted forward with the ball glued to his feet.
His dribbling flowed in a smooth S-shaped zig-zag pattern. Each time he entered the radius of a mannequin, he slipped past it with precision, brushing the edges of its simulated strikes.
The first four mannequins were cleared with ease. But as the speed increased, and the mannequins grew faster, Winston pushed himself harder. The chilling stream intensified.
A strange numbness crept into his toes, then his ankles—but instead of slowing him down, it only drove him forward.
Winston accelerated, switching between multiple dribbling techniques as he weaved through the remaining mannequins.
When he reached the end, he flicked the ball forward to stop it from rolling away.
Silence fell over the dome.
Every youth stood stunned. Even the bald, short instructor looked visibly surprised. What they had just witnessed was far beyond expectations.
Winston's movement had been clean, fluid, and almost effortless—as if he were gliding over the mannequins rather than running through them.
"06 minutes, what's your name, boy?" the bald, short instructor said,
"I am Winston Dalely, instructor," Winston replied,
The bald, short instructor rubbed his chin and said, "Did you play for any senior team?"
Winston hesitated and then replied, "Westminster F.C."
The bald, short instructor snapped his fingers, "Oh yeah, you're the Dumi Crowe boy. How is he, anyway? It's been a long time since I last saw him."
Taken aback, Winston was surprised that the instructor knew he was Dumi Crowe's protégé. From Winston's understanding of Dumi Crowe, the man was never the type to openly reveal he had a protégé. However, Winston had only known Dumi for a month, and their relationship was strictly professional training, despite a few conversations outside football,
The youths seated around them began to murmur, all of them shocked that Winston had been trained by a legend. Even Sebastian's smirk faded, replaced by clear disdain.
Back in Arlesey city, before the Westminster and Arlesey match, Dumi received calls from Sebastian's father's assistant for a job opportunity to train Sebastian. And Dumi declined the job opportunity, and they tried multiple times, but Dumi declined all of them. Of course, Sebastian's father told Sebastian this, and he also told him about Dumi having a new protégé.
And Sebastian's father didn't tell Sebastian about who this protégé was, because his father blamed Sebastian for not standing out. And now that Sebastian hears that this kid who played horribly in his first match before him, although he was playing on a different youth team. It also has to be said that Sebastian was scouted by senior clubs, but his father was not happy because he failed to stand out in the league. Sebastian ground his teeth in frustration. Ever since being sent back to the youth league, the humiliation had lingered. Without turning to look at the companion beside him, he said, "Daigo, make sure you find someone to challenge him next week,"
"Sure, you want me to cripple him?" Daigo asked,
"No, I want you to keep him in group D,"
...…
"I think he is back at Arlesey city," Winston replied,
The bald, short instructor said nothing and simply nodded. He gestured for Winston to join the other players. Darwin shot Winston a disdainful look. Winston returned it with a brief sidelong glance before continuing on and taking his place beside Oswin.
As the bald, short instructor prepared to call on another youth, Darwin raised his hand and stepped toward the starting line.
The bald, short instructor said nothing. If anything, he was pleased to see the youths willingly stepping forward to take on these challenges. Darwin shot Winston an annoyed look. The other youths immediately turned their attention to Winston, who responded with a faint smile.
Honestly, Winston had no idea what Darwin's problem was. Back on the bus a few days earlier, he and Oswin had been looking at the top-scorer rankings and noticed Darwin's name sitting fourth on the list.
Winston could only assume that had something to do with Darwin's hostility.
Unknown to Winston, he and Darwin had once been competing for the same opportunity—a place in Westminster's senior team championship qualifiers.
Darwin had been one of the academy's brightest prospects, already waiting for a senior contract, while Winston was still developing on the reserve squad.
Talent, however, had never been Darwin's problem. His stubbornness was. No matter how gifted he was, the coaches often found him impossible to control.
So when Westminster chose Winston instead of him, Darwin saw it as a betrayal. Refusing to accept the decision, he rejected the contract, walked away from the academy, and headed for the Arlesey tryouts.
Since then, his hatred for Winston—and Westminster F.C.—had only continued to grow.
At first, Darwin had every intention of challenging Winston the following week. However, after witnessing his performance, he found himself hesitating. The Federation Academy was filled with talented players, and he had rivals of his own to worry about.
Darwin burst toward the mannequin course. The first four mannequins posed little challenge, and he slipped past them with ease.
Unlike Winston, who relied on quick footwork and rapid changes of direction, Darwin used his body. Sharp feints, shoulder drops, and subtle shifts in momentum allowed him to squeeze through narrow gaps between the mannequins.
His dribbling ability was on par with Winston's, but there was a noticeable difference. Darwin lacked Winston's lightning-fast footwork and reaction speed. To compensate, he relied more heavily on body feints and acceleration.
His greatest strength wasn't controlling the ball at his feet—it was the explosive speed he possessed whenever he pushed the ball ahead and sprinted after it.
When Darwin reached the final mannequin, he blasted the ball over it with a powerful strike.
Most players preferred to dribble past every mannequin before taking their shot at the goal, but Darwin chose a different approach. Rather than maneuver around the last obstacle, he simply sent the ball soaring over it and continued his run.
It was an unconventional solution, but an effective one. "07 minutes,"
"Yo, wis, thank you for standing up for me back there," Oswin said, fist-pumping Winston,
"Don't worry about it, I won't let him injure you again Win,"
"Ugh, don't call me that, bro," Oswin replied, pushing Winston with his shoulder,
"Why win? Maybe I should start calling you this name from now on," Winston said while laughing,
"Nah, I am cool, you can call me any nickname aside from that one." Oswin shook his head,
"You've definitely been working on your speed. But how are you feeling? Last time, you nearly collapsed after a sprint like that,"
As Winston stretched out his legs, his gaze followed Darwin as he headed toward his twin. Only then did he answer, "I'm cool, just that I still need time to fully master my speed without feeling dizzy or super exhausted,"
Truthfully, Winston was tired, but not nearly as exhausted as he expected to be. The Nethen Essence within him was silently drawing in mana from the environment, easing the strain on his body.
The process was faint, almost imperceptible. To Winston, it felt no different from a gentle stream of cold air drifting past him, and he dismissed it as nothing more than the dome's air conditioning.