Without wasting a second, Wakshi sprinted toward the goal, scooped up the ball, and rushed it back to the center circle. As the players gathered for the restart.
With a controlled, deliberate pass, he knocked the ball back to their midfielder, a boy with bright, hopeful eyes named Haruto.
The First-Years started passing amongst themselves, a careful, measured game of short passes, trying to build up some confidence.
Wakashi, despite the coach's earlier instruction to play as a stationary striker, began to move.
He ran forward into the opponent's zone, his powerful legs eating up the ground, trying to create space.
Haruto, seeing the potential in Wakashi's raw forward movement, made a decision.
He ignored the safer option and, with a hopeful pass, kicked the ball towards Wakashi.
Seeing the ball coming, Wakashi's heart pounded.
This was his chance.
He prepared to trap it, to take his first meaningful touch of the match. He concentrated, trying to recall every practice drill, every lesson.
But the old habit of using raw power returned. The ball hit his leg with a dead thud and simply dropped to the ground, a few feet in front of him.
It didn't go forward, it didn't even bounce. It was a pathetic, static trap.
The Regulars, acting on instinct, pounced on the loose ball.
A Regular midfielder easily secured possession and began to pass it back and forth with his teammates, their movements a fluid, mocking display of control.
The ball zipped between their feet with an infuriating ease.
Frustrated, Wakashi started to run for the ball, his long legs churning in a desperate, wild chase.
But he was a beat too slow, a step behind every pass.
The Regulars, with their superior skill and chemistry, simply passed around him, using his clumsy attempts to create even more space for themselves.
Haruto, seeing the futility of Wakashi's solo attempt, yelled,
"Fall back! Everyone, fall back!"
The First-Years immediately heeded the warning, their formation collapsing as they retreated to defend their own half. But it was too late.
The Regulars were too experienced, too skilled. They easily bypassed the disorganized defense, their passes sharp and precise.
A few quick exchanges, a deft dribble, and the ball was once again at the feet of their striker, who effortlessly passed the goalkeeper and slotted it into the net.
"Pheew"
The sound of the ball hitting the back of the net felt like a silent scream of frustration to Wakashi.
"Score 2-0"
They had conceded another goal, and once again, it was because of his lack of skill.
He was no longer just the clown; he was a liability.
The raw, untapped power he had was a cage, trapping him in a cycle of humiliation. The monster was awake, but it was still a prisoner.
The match slipped out of their hands before Wakshi even realized it.
After the second goal, the regulars didn't slow down—they kept striking again and again, each one sharper, cleaner, and more ruthless.
By the time Wakshi caught his breath and looked up at the scoreboard, the numbers glared back at him
"8–0"
His stomach sank. It felt less like a game and more like a lesson—one delivered with merciless ease.