The locker room reeked of sweat, turf, and silence.

Nobody dared break it.

The scoreline still burned in their minds: 2–1. Their first league match of the season. Their first loss.

Some players sat with their heads lowered, jerseys clinging to their skin. Others rubbed their faces with towels, as if they could wipe away the sting of defeat. The echo of the opposing crowd's cheers still rang in Dante's ears.

For him, it was different. His first real game for Eternal Era—called in from Team B, thrust into the spotlight, with the crowd screaming for a miracle. And he had delivered—he had scored. For a moment, the stadium had roared his name.

But it hadn't been enough.

Now he sat with his hoodie pulled up over his damp hair, staring at the floor, the glow of adrenaline fading into a heavy knot of frustration.

Then the door opened.

Jason entered.

The coach's expression wasn't angry. That almost made it worse. His eyes were cold, sharp, unreadable. He stood before them with arms crossed, scanning each face in silence, letting the tension fester.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was calm, measured, but it carried like thunder in the still air.

"Do you know what it costs to stay in the Top 20?"

The players stirred. Grim lifted his head, but didn't answer. Scarlet chewed the inside of her cheek. Lionel clenched his fists against his knees.

Jason's gaze swept across them all, then stopped on Dante—just for a heartbeat—before moving on.

"It costs everything."

He paced slowly in front of the benches, boots clicking against the tiled floor.

"Do you think the teams above us got there because of luck? Because they had a good day? No. They bled for it. They tore their bodies apart in training. They sacrificed their youth, their families, their peace of mind. Some of them haven't seen their homes in years. And what about us?"

He stopped. The silence grew heavier.

Jason's voice sharpened. "We play a brilliant twenty minutes, then switch off. We rely on one or two sparks of brilliance instead of fighting for every blade of grass. We score, and then what? We relax. We forget that the opponent across from us wants this just as badly—no, more. Because they want to tear us down."

Scarlet finally muttered under her breath, "We didn't relax—"

Jason's eyes cut to her like knives. She froze.

"Don't justify failure," he said, tone low but deadly. "Learn from it."

He let that hang, then continued.

"To remain in the Top 20, every match is a battlefield. Lose once, and your position trembles. Lose twice, and sponsors start whispering. Lose three times, and you're no longer Eternal Era—you're history. Forgotten. Replaced."

The players shifted uncomfortably. The weight of his words pressed against their ribs like stones.

Jason exhaled, slower now, as if the storm inside him had passed but left behind something colder.

"You've already sacrificed to get here. The early mornings. The brutal drills. The hunger when you had to cut weight. The pain when your muscles screamed for rest and I told you to push harder. And yet—" He tapped his chest with a fist. "It is still not enough."

His gaze landed on Dante again. This time, it stayed.

"The crowd shouted for the new kid today." His tone was steady, but the words cut. "They wanted something different. And Dante delivered—one goal. One bright moment. But football is not won by moments. It's won by mastery. Consistency. Eleven players working as one mind, one body, one will. Until you understand that, until you live it, victories will slip through your fingers like sand."

Dante's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away.

Jason turned from him, addressing them all again.

"The requirement to stay in the Top 20 isn't just talent. It's not even just teamwork. It's sacrifice. You want to celebrate your names, your Titan Titles, your little highlights? Then prepare to fall. Because the only thing that keeps us alive here is the willingness to do more, give more, suffer more—than every single team clawing at our backs."

The words hit hard. Even Lionel, usually so composed, looked down at the floor, shoulders tense. Grim's fists stayed clenched, his shadowed eyes unreadable. Anastasia's lips pressed thin, her focus deep.

Jason finally uncrossed his arms. His voice softened—but in a way that cut even deeper.

"You think this loss hurts? Good. Remember it. Burn it into your bones. Because pain is a better teacher than I will ever be. Let it drive you. Let it remind you that being Eternal Era isn't about comfort. It's about survival."

He paused. Looked at them each, one by one.

"Do you still want it?"

The silence that followed was different this time. Heavier, yes—but alive. Scarlet straightened her back. Aya's eyes glimmered like sharpened steel. Lionel's fists loosened, then tightened again with purpose. Even Dante, sitting apart, felt the words coil inside him like fire.

Jason nodded once. "Good. Because from tomorrow—training doubles. No excuses. No complaints. We climb until we can breathe in the same air as the top five, or we fall into nothing."

With that, he turned and left the room, the echo of his boots fading into the corridor.

The locker room stayed quiet.

But it wasn't the silence of despair anymore. It was the silence of resolve, of sharpened will.

Dante pulled down his hoodie. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. He thought of his mother's words. He thought of Lionel's wall-like presence. Of Anastasia's elegance. Of Jason's demand for sacrifice.

And he thought of his own burning need—not just to belong, but to rise.

For the first time, defeat didn't feel like an end.

It felt like the beginning of something far more dangerous.

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