Sebastian chucked, rose to his feet, and made his way toward the mannequin challenge. The bald, short instructor said nothing. He merely cleared his throat and, with a flourish reminiscent of a Victorian gentleman, gestured for Sebastian to begin.
The strikers, wingers, and other youths fell silent. Everyone knew who Sebastian was—the son of the founder and CEO of Halbrook Corporation, one of the most influential figures in the country.
Years earlier, when Sebastian was around twelve or thirteen, another youth had nearly crippled him during a football match. The incident had caused a major uproar. Shortly afterward, Sebastian's father had pressured the club into dismissing its head coach, and the club's owners eventually sold the organization to Halbrook Corporation.
Since then, few people in football circles had been willing to cross Sebastian or his family.
Stretching his body, Sebastian's bones crackled softly. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that every youth was watching him—even Winston.
Oswin, on the other hand, merely rolled his eyes.
Turning back to the course, Sebastian looked at the bald, short instructor, who gave him a nod. Tapping his cleats against the ground, Sebastian burst forward.
As he approached the first four mannequins, he smirked and glanced over his shoulder once more. The youths were clearly expecting him to weave through them with fancy dribbling.
Instead, he simply sprinted around the mannequins.
The spectators weren't entirely disappointed. Those first four mannequins were considered the easiest part of the course, and nearly every player could get past them without much difficulty.
When Sebastian reached the fast-moving mannequins, he suddenly came to a stop. He glanced at the bald, short instructor, who raised a hand. Instantly, the numbers on the digital board froze.
Sebastian bent down and unclipped the ankle weights strapped around his legs—the same kind Winston wore.
A wave of murmurs swept through the youths. Some wondered whether this was even allowed.
As if hearing their doubts, the bald, short instructor swept them with a piercing glare. The murmurs died immediately.
Sebastian straightened up and nodded at the instructor. Then, as though he had been waiting for the perfect moment, he exploded forward.
His speed rivaled Winston's.
A faint afterimage seemed to trail behind him as he darted between the mannequins. His footwork flowed like water, smooth and seamless.
His dribbling was equally breathtaking. Rather than keeping the ball close beneath him, Sebastian controlled it at the very tip of his cleat. Using the inside and outside edges of his foot, he guided the ball with precise, direct movements that wasted no energy.
The youths watched in stunned silence. Even Winston couldn't hide his amazement.
Then, suddenly, he felt it.
A sharp chill surged toward him. The cold seeped through his body, sending a shiver racing down his spine. For a brief moment, it felt as though the surrounding air had dropped several degrees.
Winston's eyes narrowed. That sensation was far too familiar to be ordinary.
This chill was different from the one Winston had felt while playing against Maximilian. That sensation had been wild and unstable, spilling outward without restraint.
This one was different. It was controlled. Stable.
The cold seemed to originate from a single source, yet whoever wielded it had complete command over it.
Winston kept his eyes on Sebastian as a troubling thought crossed his mind.
Could he have undergone an awakening as well?
Perhaps he possessed a Core System too.
A surge of unease washed over Winston. Only now did he realize the implication. If Sebastian truly had a system like his, there was a chance their paths would inevitably collide. The system might even force them into a match where neither could afford to hold back.
The thought sent a chill down his spine, far colder than the one he was sensing from Sebastian.
Carefully scanning the surrounding youths to make sure no one was paying attention, Winston quickly opened the Core System.
Ding!
[Core stats]
Name: Daley Winston
Age: 19
Weak Foot: 2
Foot: Right
Profession: Footballer
Team: N/A
Player Rating: 86
Position: Center forward.
Potential: 89
[CORE MERIDIAN]
[Voltage Core: Level 1]
Acceleration
Sprint Speed
[Innate Terra: 12%]
Shooting
[Spatial Zenith: 12%]
Passing
[Absolute: 12%]
Dribbling
[Nethen Essence: Level 1]
Physical
Reward Points: 20
Acquired skills: 03
Skills shop
Seeing that the Core System wasn't glitching like it had the last time, Winston let out a sigh of relief. The relief lasted only a moment before a fresh wave of fear washed over him.
It had been a long time since he had received a daily challenge, and the one-on-one matches were scheduled for next week. He already knew that several players had their eyes on him.
I need to find a way to master the Voltage Core. I only have a few days left before next week arrives.
Suppressing the urge to clench his fists, Winston folded his arms across his chest instead. He then shifted his gaze back to Sebastian, just in time to see him weave past the final mannequin and bury the ball into the back of the net.
"06 minutes, very well done, Mr. Halbrook,"
"Thank you, sir," Sebastian replied,
Sebastian flashed a smug grin at the group of youths. As their attention shifted, their gazes settled on Winston.
Winston met their eyes with a fierce stare.
For a brief moment, an intense silence hung over the dome. Neither Winston nor Sebastian looked away, and the tension between them was palpable. The stalemate lasted only a few seconds before Sebastian broke it with a chuckle and a dismissive scoff.
Turning his back on the crowd, he walked toward the spot where his friends were waiting.
As soon as he left, the youths erupted into louder murmurs, eagerly discussing what they had just witnessed.
"Damn it. I wanted to challenge this kid next week, but now that Sebastian's got his eyes on him, there's no way I'm getting involved. Guess I'll have to challenge someone else."
"Bah! Why can't he just target someone in the B and C group," one youth shook his head,
"Shhh, you crazy, you will be the target if they hear you," One youth said, silencing the disgruntled player.
The murmurs continued until the bald, short instructor cleared his throat.
"Next?"
He didn't point at anyone or call out a name.
Instead, a skinny, mop-haired youth stepped forward.
Several of the youths immediately recognized him. He had drawn attention during the first test when he blasted the ball with remarkable power, earning himself a place in Group B.
His name was Duke Meyers.
Winston recognized him at once. Duke was the same youth he had encountered in Arlesey City, behind the hotel.
Moments earlier, Duke had been sitting beside the twins, quietly watching the events unfold. The three of them had been childhood friends, but unlike the twins, Duke always felt as though he was struggling to catch up.
If he were being honest with himself, it frustrated him.
Time and time again, he found himself watching others surge ahead while he remained stuck in place. Whenever he thought he had closed the gap, they would take another step forward, leaving him trailing behind once more.
The feeling was infuriating.
It was as if he were standing still while everyone else continued to race toward the future.
Duke clenched his fists at his sides and settled into a runner's stance, the ball resting between his feet as he waited for the bald, short instructor's signal.
The moment the instructor raised his hand, Duke exploded forward.
He relied on short, stutter-step dribbles, patiently waiting for openings as the mannequins swept across his path. At first glance, the technique looked slow and cautious, but in reality, it allowed him to change direction quickly and maintain excellent control of the ball.
The first four mannequins posed little challenge. Duke slipped past them with ease.
When he reached the faster-moving mannequins, he increased his pace. Like Sebastian, he kept the ball near the tips of his cleats, his heels slightly raised off the ground.
In essence, Duke moved almost on his toes, lightly guiding the ball while remaining ready to change direction at a moment's notice.
He lacked the raw speed of Winston, Sebastian, and Darwin, but he made up for it with technique and flair.
In fact, his dribbling style resembled Oswin's more than anyone else's—fluid, creative, and full of subtle tricks that made it difficult to predict his next move.
"There goes Duke again. I was surprised when he ended up in Group B. With skills like that, I honestly thought he'd be in Group A," one youth player said to the other youth beside him.
"Yeah, me too. But as you can see, we've got some seriously talented youths here. Only two people finished in six minutes, and three others finished in seven. The rest of us will probably end up somewhere between fifteen and twenty minutes—assuming we don't get ourselves injured like the first guy."
The youth shook his head, "Man, don't remind me. I honestly thought those mannequins were harmless. Then that guy got injured, and now I'm terrified of making a mistake. I've worked way too hard to lose my football career over something like that."
Duke weaved past the last mannequins before he blasted the ball, ricocheting the goal post before the rustling net rang out. "07 minutes," the bald, short instructor said,
After all the youths had completed the challenge, the bald, short instructor informed them that their rankings would be announced at the end of the day.
With that out of the way, he immediately began the attacking drills. Using mannequins as obstacles, he put the youths through a series of exercises designed to sharpen their dribbling, movement, and ball control.
The instructor was strict and uncompromising. His training methods were brutal, leaving little room for rest. Whenever a youth thought a break was coming, another drill followed. By the time the session was near its end, many of the players were already drenched in sweat and struggling to keep up with the relentless pace.