Days bled into weeks, weeks into a month, then two. Wakashi's routine became a rigid cycle: school, followed by football practice with the first-years. He was a silent, imposing fixture on the field, a lone island in a sea of chattering teenagers. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him, beyond the occasional nervous instruction from Kensuke or a cautious glance from Harada-sensei. His world had shrunk to the rhythmic thump of a ball, the grit of the field, and the ceaseless, private battle with his own clumsiness.
He dedicated himself with a ferocity that bordered on obsession. During practice, he was a sponge, watching every movement, trying to internalize every drill. After practice, under the fading light or the moon's glow, he would return to the coast with his homemade, lumpy ball, kicking it aimlessly for hours, trying to replicate the effortless control he'd witnessed. His legs ached, his feet bruised, his mind constantly replayed his failures.
Two months. Two months of unwavering, relentless effort. And for all his hard work, for all the sweat and quiet frustration, Wakashi felt... nothing. No breakthrough. No sudden click of understanding. His passes were still either wild rockets or pathetic nudges. His control was still non-existent. He still tripped over his own feet, still fumbled simple traps. He was faster, stronger, could run longer than any of the first-years, but when it came to the ball, he remained a clumsy giant.
He watched the other first-years. Haruto, despite his cheerful demeanor, showed slow but steady progress. Kaito, quiet but observant, was beginning to string together short, accurate passes. They were improving, visibly, incrementally. Wakashi, by contrast, felt stuck. He was working ten times harder, yet yielding a fraction of their results. Sometimes, a chilling thought would creep into his mind: Why am I doing this? The initial fire of "revenge on the ball," the desperate need to shed the "clown" label, felt increasingly distant, buried under layers of frustrating failure. He was forcing himself through something he was inherently terrible at.
One evening, after another practice session that had left him seething with quiet disappointment, he walked towards the familiar solace of the coast. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in melancholic hues. His mind was a tangled mess of self-doubt. He recounted every failed pass, every missed trap, every clumsy touch.
His sight fell upon a familiar figure. The old man sat on a weathered rock near the water's edge, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of the sea. He looked like a permanent fixture of the coastal landscape, carved from the same stubborn rock.
Wakashi, drawn by an unspoken pull, walked over and sat down beside him, his gaze also drifting out to the ocean. The rhythmic crash of the waves filled the silence, a long, profound quiet stretching between them. There was no need for words. The old man didn't acknowledge Wakashi's presence, didn't even turn his head. He just continued to stare at the horizon.
Then, his voice, low and calm, cut through the sounds of the sea.
"You're not talented for football."
Wakashi stiffened. He didn't turn. He didn't protest. He didn't argue. His grip on his knees tightened. He knew it was true. He knew. He felt it in every awkward movement, every miskick, every frustrated breath. He was not talented. He was a fool. A clown. The label he despised, the reality he stubbornly refused to accept, was finally spoken aloud by the one person who seemed to see him clearest. And he, the clown, was still doing more hard work, foolishly pushing against an undeniable truth.
The old man finally turned his head, his gaze softening, almost with a hint of pity.
"Your physique is better than others,"
he began, his voice gentler now, persuasive.
"You've got strength, speed, endurance. You could become great in other sports. Track and field, perhaps. Rugby, even. Football... football is not for you."
The suggestion, calm and logical as it was, ignited something deep within Wakashi. It wasn't the blind rage of before. This was different. This was a cold, pure flame, born from the ashes of humiliation and the stark admission of his untalented reality. He stood up abruptly, his tall frame looming over the seated old man.
His eyes, usually sullen or filled with frustration, now blazed with an intensity that startled even the weathered old man.
"I will not,"
Wakashi stated, his voice low, guttural, vibrating with a fierce, unyielding resolve.
"I will make it. Whatever it takes."
He met the old man's gaze directly, his own eyes burning.
"Even if I have no talent, I will do more hard work than anyone else. Whatever it takes, I will make it in football."
His voice rose slightly, a raw, primal declaration against destiny.
"If I am untalented, then I will awaken my talent through hard work. No matter how many years it takes."
The old man's calm, knowing eyes began to shake. He could see the fire in Wakashi's gaze, raw and untamed. But it wasn't just the fire. As Wakashi spoke, his conviction growing with each word, the air around him seemed to thicken. A dark aura began to emanate from his imposing figure, not malicious, but intense, unyielding, a force of nature unleashed. The old man felt a chill crawl down his spine. He was no longer just seeing a frustrated boy; he was seeing a monster awaken, a relentless, singular being who would stop at nothing to achieve its impossible goal. The waves crashed behind Wakashi, mirroring the storm that had just ignited within him.