Wakashi pushed open the front door of his small, inherited house.
The scent of a simple dinner lingered in the air, a familiar comfort. He slipped off his shoes, the quiet of the home a stark contrast to the roar of his own inner fire.
He walked to the living room and silently sat on his usual chair, his body still humming with the aftershocks of the match.
His mother, Akari, was in the kitchen, her back to him as she washed a few dishes.
Her life since his father's passing had been one of quiet, relentless struggle. Every day was a cycle of work and exhaustion, her hands rough, her shoulders perpetually slumped with the weight of it all.
The burden of supporting her son was heavy, but she carried it without complaint. She was a woman of silent strength, her love expressed in the meals she prepared and the bills she somehow managed to pay.
Without turning, Akari's voice, soft and weary, cut through the silence.
"Wakashi... did something happen today?"
Wakashi stared at his clenched fists.
He wasn't ready to explain what he had just done, what he had just become.
He was no longer just the sullen boy he had been that morning.
"No,"
he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Hearing his familiar, short answer, she didn't push.
She knew better. But as she finished the dishes and turned to face him, she saw it.
He was still and silent, but something was different.
The perpetual cloud of anger and listlessness that had hung over him for so long had lifted, replaced by a focused, intense stillness.
Akari watched him, her mind drifting back.
Before his father's death, Wakashi had been a different boy.
A clumsy, goofy kid with a laugh that filled the entire house. He had been so bright, so full of a simple, pure joy.
But that smile, that light, had been extinguished. He had retreated into a shell, into a place she couldn't reach.
She had grieved not only for her husband, but for the son she felt she had lost.
Now, looking at him, she saw the first glimmer of something new.
It wasn't a smile. It was something deeper, something more powerful. It was a look of purpose, of raw, unyielding will.
She didn't know what had happened on the field today, but she knew it was important.
Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of the change she had so desperately hoped for.
She walked over to him, her hand gently resting on his shoulder.
"Don't worry about me, Wakashi,"
she said, her voice filled with a mother's selfless love.
"Just... enjoy school. Enjoy being a boy."
Wakashi didn't look up, but his posture softened just slightly.
He had no words to describe the monstrous will that now burned inside him, but for the first time in a long time, he felt something he hadn't thought possible: a reason to try.
The days that followed the practice match became a steady, relentless grind.
The "clown" was no more;
In his place was the silent, determined figure of Wakashi Tanaka.
Nothing about his basic routine changed. He still walked to school, still went to practice, still kept to himself.
But now, his training had a singular, focused purpose.
Harada-sensei, true to his word, had started to take an active interest.
After the initial warm-up, the coach would pull Wakashi aside.
"Tanaka-kun,"
he'd say, his voice firm but encouraging,
"I want you to add heading practice to your routine. And keep working on those basics."
On the field, the coach began to use Wakashi as a specialized weapon, just as he had envisioned.
When the team ran drills, Wakashi was positioned at the front of the formation, a big tank designed to clear a path.
His job was not to score, but to use his massive frame to hold off defenders, win aerial balls, and create space for the more nimble players to attack.
In these training sessions, Harada-sensei discovered something crucial:
while Wakashi was hopelessly unskilled at dribbling, once the ball was at his feet, it was almost impossible to take from him.
His raw physical strength and low center of gravity turned his body into a fortress.
He was a battering ram, a force that could not be moved.
He wasn't a player who could weave through a defense; he was a player who could simply bulldoze through it.
A month passed in this new routine. Wakashi's basic skills had improved, but only in small, almost imperceptible increments.
His passes were slightly more accurate, his touches marginally softer.
He was no longer a complete liability, but he was far from a natural.
Frustration still simmered, but it was a controlled heat now, focused on his own slow progress.
One evening, after another grueling training session, he was walking along his usual route by the coast.
His mind was replaying a failed trap from practice when his eyes fell on a familiar figure.
The old man was there, his silhouette stark against the setting sun.
Wakashi, without hesitation, walked toward him.
There was no need for words. The old man's presence was a silent challenge. When he was close enough,
Wakashi simply said,
"Match."
The old man's lips curled into a familiar, knowing smile.
He stood up, his body lean but poised.
Wakashi lunged, trying to snatch the ball from the old man's feet, but the man was a ghost.
His footwork was fluid, his movements precise. The ball danced just out of Wakashi's reach, a constant, mocking presence.
The old man would feint, Wakashi would fall for it, and the ball would be gone. Wakashi, despite his power and his newly-found focus, was easily fooled.
He was running on pure instinct, and the old man was playing a game of chess.
Finally, exhausted and defeated, Wakashi stopped, his chest heaving. The old man let the ball rest at his feet.
"Help me," Wakashi said,
his voice raw with a desperate honesty.
The old man looked at him, his gaze unwavering.
"I will," he said.
"But only if you can do one thing."
He tapped the ball with his toe.
"If you can snatch this ball from my leg."
He stood up straight, a final challenge issued. With those words, he began to walk away, his pace slow, his body a beacon of unattainable mastery, leaving Wakashi to stare at his back, a new, impossible goal before him.