Days passed like a blur, a whirlwind of school and relentless practice.
The old man's words had become a silent mantra, a brutal truth that ignited a new kind of discipline within Wakashi.
He no longer kicked his lumpy, homemade ball with aimless rage. Instead, he forced himself to focus on the basics, replaying the old man's mocking nutmeg in his mind.
He worked on his touch, trying to feel the ball, to guide it, to make it obey.
He practiced trapping it against the wall of his house, forcing himself to absorb the impact and make the ball stick.
He ran endless drills along the coast, his lanky legs moving with a new, controlled purpose.
His hard work, slow as it was, began to yield results.
His passes, once wild cannon shots or pathetic dribbles, now occasionally held true.
He could connect with a teammate in practice without causing a wince or a shout. He still made mistakes, of course. The occasional pass would still veer sharply off course, and he'd find himself fumbling a simple trap.
But these failures no longer sent him into a rage. Instead, they were cold fuel, a reminder of the chasm between his raw strength and the skill he craved. He was no longer the clown who didn't know he was bad; he was the learner who knew exactly how far he had to go.
One afternoon, after a long, grueling practice, Harada-sensei gathered the entire team in the center of the field.
"Alright, everyone," the coach announced, adjusting his glasses.
"We need to get a feel for our final lineup for the tournament. So, this Saturday, we're holding a practice match. Regulars versus first-years."
A murmur of excitement went through the first-years.
It was a chance to prove themselves against the upperclassmen, to show their progress.
Wakashi stood silently, his gaze already scanning the regulars' team, picturing players like Kensuke.
Then came the final order.
"Since we have an odd number, Tanaka-kun,"
Harada-sensei said, his eyes resting on Wakashi with an unreadable expression,
"you'll be playing with the first-years. Consider it an opportunity to apply what you've learned from their drills."
The subtext was clear. Wakashi was a third-year, but his lack of skill meant he was being officially demoted to the level of the youngest and most inexperienced players.
A few of the older boys on the regulars' team smirked.
Kensuke simply shook his head, a look of smug pity on his face.
The first-years, including Hinata and the others, shot him nervous glances, a silent plea that he wouldn't revert to the "clown" they'd witnessed weeks ago.
Wakashi ignored them all. He felt no anger, just a cold, focused calm.
This wasn't a game for a prize. This was his test. The ultimate test of his talent, of his hard work, and of the monster he had sworn to awaken.
He took his position on the first-year side, his tall frame a looming, intimidating presence, not just to his opponents, but to his own teammates.
"Pheeeww"
The whistle shrieked
a sharp call that officially began the practice match.
Harada-sensei stood on the sidelines, his arms crossed, a wary expression on his face.
Kensuke, the star sophomore, led the Regulars
Their faces a mix of cocky confidence and grim determination.
On the other side
The First-Years huddled nervously, with Wakashi standing at the very front
His imposing height making him look like a lone, silent monument.
Due to his lack of skill, Harada-sensei gave Wakashi a simple, if humiliating, instruction:
Hewould play as a single striker. His job was to stand up front and use his size to pressure the defenders.
It was a role that required no passing, no complex movement, only raw force, which was all the coach believed he had.
The rest of the team was filled with the smaller, more agile First-Years, including Hinata in the midfield.
The kickoff went to the Regulars.
Their main striker, a fast and wiry boy named Hayato, tapped the ball back to his star midfielder, Takeru.
Wakashi's gaze locked onto the ball, his mind replaying the old man's words: power without control is just a tantrum.
He would not let this be a tantrum.
He bolted forward, his long legs churning, a raw, powerful engine.
But the Regulars were a different class.
The ball, a blur of motion, zipped between them.
Hayato and Takeru exchanged a series of sharp, one-touch passes, their movements fluid and practiced.
Wakashi tried to intercept, to pressure, but the ball was always a step ahead, a ghost he couldn't grasp.
The First-Years scrambled to defend
But their efforts were futile.
Takeru, the Regulars' star midfielder, easily glided past the First-Years' defender, a boy named Satoshi, who lunged and missed.
Takeru's movement was like water flowing around a rock. With a clean, precise pass, he sent the ball forward to Hayato.
Hayato received the ball in a pocket of space, his movement swift and decisive.
He faced the final defender, a nervous First-Year named Ryo.
With a quick change of pace and a simple feint, Hayato easily bypassed him.
Now, it was just him and the goalkeeper.
Hayato didn't even have to break a sweat. He calmly slotted the ball into the corner of the makeshift goal.
"Pheeeww"
The net billowed.
Score "1-0"
The Regulars cheered, a short, triumphant sound.
The First-Years' shoulders slumped, their hopes deflated by the speed of the attack.
They had been scored on, and the game had barely even started.
The scoreboard, a simple piece of cardboard, was already a lopsided 1-0.
The "clown" had been given a chance to prove himself, and the only thing he had proven was that his raw power was useless against true skill.