Second half.
The Rising Stars fanned out across the pitch, breath ragged, bodies bruised. Across from them, the Iron Fists lined up like soldiers, their captain cracking his neck, eyes locked on Dante.
Jason's voice thundered from the sideline.
"Remember football first. Fight with the ball. Not without it."
But even Jason knew what was coming.
Dante rolled his shoulders, red lightning crawling up his calves, eyes sharp as blades. Every nerve in his body screamed to retaliate, to strike back harder than he'd been struck. The Iron Fists wanted a war? Fine. He would give them one.
The whistle shrieked.
Boom, đź’Ą both teams surged forward.
The Iron Fists' Onslaught
Their captain was first. He vaulted into the air, twisting into a Dragon Kick, striking the ball with such force it bent through the air like a whip. Dante blurred forward, vanishing from one spot and reappearing in another, catching the ball mid-curve with his chest.
"Block him!" someone shouted.
Two Iron Fists closed in, fists cutting arcs through the air like blades. They weren't aiming for the ball they were aiming to break rhythm. Dante dipped into a Shaolin stance, ball tight under his control, deflecting one attacker's sweeping kick with his shin, rolling the ball behind him, and pivoting out of reach with Vanishing Steps.
But the Iron Fists pressed harder. A defender dropped into a low sweep, aiming to scissor Dante's ankles. Another leapt high, shadow descending like an axe kick.
For a split second, the pitch looked less like a football match and more like a martial battlefield.
Dante exhaled. His foot tapped the ball, sending it into a lofted flick just as he dropped backward into a controlled roll. The aerial kick missed, the sweep cut empty air and the ball came down perfectly in front of him again.
The Rising Stars gasped. Dante hadn't just survived he'd turned chaos into control.
But the Rising Stars weren't in sync.
The wiry winger darted into space, waving. "Dante! Over here!"
Dante threaded a pass with lightning precision—but the tall midfielder cut across, intercepting it with a scowl. He tried a flashy kung fu spin-pass of his own, only for the Iron Fists' captain to intercept it and slam him to the turf with a brutal shoulder throw.
The Rising Stars groaned in unison. Another turnover. Another humiliation.
The Iron Fists pressed their advantage, slamming a second goal past the keeper. 3–1.
Jason cursed under his breath. The scouts in the stands leaned back, unimpressed. Dante saw it all their folded arms, their disappointed glances.
And for the first time, doubt gnawed at him.
Maybe this wasn't his fight. Maybe these kids didn't want him here.
Then it happened.
The Iron Fists' captain stormed forward again, ball blazing at his feet. He launched into a "Tiger Pounce Tackle," both legs extended, claws of his boots aimed to crush through the midfielder standing in his way.
For an instant, Dante considered letting it happen. Maybe the guy needed humbling. Maybe he deserved it.
But instincts screamed louder.
Vanishing Steps.
In a crackle of lightning, Dante blurred across the pitch, intercepting the strike just as the Iron Fist's boots slammed down. He twisted his body mid-air, absorbing the brunt of the hit, and shoved the midfielder out of harm's way.
The crack echoed as Dante hit the turf hard, ribs burning.
The midfielder stared, wide-eyed. "Why… did you—?"
Dante pushed to his feet, wiping blood from his lip, voice calm but razor sharp.
"Because we're a team. Whether you like it or not."
The words cut deeper than any strike.
The midfielder clenched his fists… then finally nodded. "Fine. Let's do this. Together."
The Rising Stars rallied.
The wiry winger spun into a capoeira handstand, juggling the ball on his feet before flipping it toward Dante. Dante caught it mid-air with a scissor kick, volleying it to the tall midfielder, who now met him with a sharp grin.
The midfielder planted into a Horse Stance, bracing against two Iron Fists trying to shove him off the ball. His arms struck out like an Iron Wall, redirecting their attacks as he shielded the pass.
"Go!" he roared, slamming the ball back to Dante.
Lightning surged. Dante blurred forward, splitting into three illusions with Vanishing Steps. The Iron Fists captain lunged at one phantom, another defender at the second leaving the real Dante to slip free.
The winger sprinted down the sideline, flipping into a spinning heel-kick that launched Dante's pass across the box. Dante dove, twisting his body mid-air, and struck it with a lightning-fueled bicycle kick.
Boom!
The net rippled. 3–2.
The crowd roared. Even the scouts leaned forward, eyes sharp again.
The Rising Stars smelled blood. Their movements grew sharper, faster. Passes linked like chains, kung fu stances flowing seamlessly into football plays.
But the Iron Fists weren't done. Their captain seized the ball, storming downfield with the fury of a warlord. His strikes blended into his dribbling, every touch a weapon.
He broke through two defenders, squared off with Dante, and smirked. "End of the line, lightning boy."
Dante's veins glowed crimson. His body blurred. Their clash ignited the pitch.
Kick met kick. Step met step. Lightning versus Iron.
The captain launched into a Whirlwind Dragon Kick, spinning the ball toward the net. Dante exploded into Vanishing Steps, reappearing behind him, intercepting the ball mid-spin.
Time slowed.
He could feel every heartbeat in the dome. His father's image flickered in his mind—the Lightning Spear, tearing through defenses like gods.
Dante roared, launching himself skyward. Lightning blazed across his entire body, arcing from his eyes, his arms, his legs.
He struck.
Boom!
The ball ripped through the air like a meteor, bending past the keeper's outstretched hands, detonating into the back of the net.
3–3. Equalizer.
The Rising Stars swarmed him, shouting, laughing, alive with fire. Even the tall midfielder grabbed his shoulder, grinning despite his sweat. "Alright, Lightning Boy. Let's finish this."
Last Minute
The Iron Fists pressed again, desperate, brutal, unrelenting. But now the Rising Stars fought as one—kung fu stances solid, movements sharp, every pass a strike, every tackle a parry.
Final seconds.
Dante surged downfield, ball alive under his control. The midfielder slid beside him, shielding him with iron blocks. The winger darted wide, flipping past a defender.
Dante feinted right, vanished left. The Iron Fists captain lunged—too late.
The winger scissor-kicked the ball into the air.
Dante leapt, lightning spiraling off him like a storm unleashed. He twisted mid-air, striking down with a thunderous volley.
Boom! đź’Ą
The net shook. The whistle blew.
4–3.
The Rising Stars had won.
The pitch erupted in chaos. The Rising Stars shouted in disbelief, hugging, grinning through their bruises. Jason crossed his arms, his smirk betraying pride.
The scouts whispered among themselves, pens scribbling furiously. But their eyes weren't on the Rising Stars. They were on Dante.
And far in the shadows of the dome, two figures watched. The same man and woman from the café.
The woman's eyes gleamed. "He's better than the rumors."
The man smirked. "All the better. The higher he climbs, the harder the fall. The bounty will be ours."
Unaware of the storm brewing, Dante stood among his new teammates, sweat dripping, chest heaving. For the first time, he wasn't just surviving.
He belonged.
But the world wasn't about to let him rest.