The palace's great hall glittered with the kind of wealth Derrick Lawson had only ever seen in magazines. Gold-plated candelabras burned with white flame. Stained-glass windows depicted battles against horned monstrosities. Silk banners draped down from rafters, each embroidered with lions and suns.
And the food—good lord, the food. Whole roasted boars with apples in their mouths. Trays of steaming pheasant draped in herbs. Platters of fruit glazed with honey. Derrick had to stop himself from whistling. His high school team would have devoured this spread in ten minutes flat.
The summoned heroes didn't seem to know how to sit in such a hall. Aiden puffed up like a peacock in his noble robes, clearly at home. Selene stiffened like she was preparing for an oral exam. Ryker attacked his plate like a starving wolf. Liora kept scribbling in her little notebook, jotting down recipes and details about foreign spices. Kaela whispered a prayer over her bread roll before nibbling at it. Darius observed silently, eyes flicking from noble to noble, as though every interaction was a chessboard. And Jax, predictably, was smuggling grapes and coins into his sleeves whenever no one was looking.
Derrick sat at the end of the table in a starched doublet that pinched his armpits. Whoever had tailored it thought "uniform" meant "make him look like a stuffed turkey." He tugged at the collar and muttered, "Give me my whistle and tracksuit any day."
The nobles around them whispered freely, not even hiding their words.
"That's the Instructor of Heroes?"
"From another world, they say. Looks more like a dockhand than a general."
"And what barbaric manner of eating—did you see him grab that drumstick with his bare hands?"
Derrick bit into the drumstick loudly, grease running down his fingers. If they wanted a show, he'd give them one.
A silver goblet clanged. Sir Aldren, the gray-haired knight commander who had opposed Derrick since the summoning, stood. His scarred face caught the glow of the candelabras.
"To the brave chosen ones," he intoned, voice deep and commanding, "summoned by sacred rite to defend Asterion against the Demon King. May your strength bring hope, and may your sacrifice buy us time."
The word hung like smoke.
Liora paled. "Sacrifice?" she whispered to Kaela.
Derrick leaned over, voice low and sharp. "Translation: they're ready to throw you into the fire even if you're not ready. Don't let the pomp fool you."
Aiden scowled. "That's what training is for. If we're heroes, then we should be tested."
"That's what real training is for," Derrick countered. "Not the circus show these nobles want."
He raised his goblet—not elegantly, not like a noble, but like a coach at a team dinner after a hard game. "Here's to my squad," he said loudly enough for the hall to hear. "Not sacrifices. Not tools. A team. And when they're ready, they'll win."
Whispers rippled through the nobles. Some sneered, some frowned, but a few raised their cups reluctantly.
Later, as musicians plucked lutes and dancers spun, Derrick found himself cornered near the wine casks by three velvet-clad lords. Their smiles were polished, their eyes sharp.
"You must understand, Instructor," one began smoothly, "the people need hope. A parade. A demonstration of the heroes' power. Imagine the morale when peasants see lightning in the sky, swords flashing, miracles performed!"
Another added, "It would cement faith in the crown. The Demon King's shadows grow bold. The people whisper. They must be shown proof."
Derrick crossed his arms. "Proof? They can barely run two laps without collapsing. You want them showing off in front of thousands? That's not proof. That's suicide."
The third noble's lip curled. "You insult the prophecy itself. These youths were chosen by sacred spell. They are not common soldiers."
"Chosen doesn't mean prepared," Derrick shot back. His voice rose, carrying across the hall. Conversations dipped as heads turned. "I've seen kids with talent rot on the bench because no one taught them discipline. You put this lot on display too soon, and you won't have heroes. You'll have corpses."
Gasps flared. The nobles flushed, one sputtering about insolence. Derrick was about to go on when a horn blast silenced the hall.
The herald's cry echoed: "His Majesty, King Alaric!"
The king entered with slow, deliberate steps. His crown gleamed with sapphires, robes trailing like rivers of shadow and light. The room bent toward him, like all gravity pulled in his direction.
His gaze swept the heroes one by one—Aiden stiffened taller, Selene straightened nervously, Ryker clenched his jaw, Kaela bowed her head, Liora froze mid-note, Jax rolled a grape across his knuckles, and Darius simply held the king's gaze.
Finally, Alaric's eyes settled on Derrick. "You speak boldly, stranger." His voice was deep, commanding yet weary. "You believe these seven can withstand what armies cannot?"
Derrick stood, the whole hall watching him. He thought of his old team back in the gym—kids sweating, fighting, crying, learning to trust.
"I don't forge weapons, Your Majesty," he said. "I build teams. Give me time, and I'll make them stronger than prophecy ever dreamed."
A ripple ran through the court—outrage from some, intrigue from others.
The king studied him for a long breath, then smiled faintly. "Very well, Coach of Heroes. Time is yours… for now."
The feast resumed, but the air was different. Nobles whispered faster. Servants hurried. Even the heroes seemed to sit taller, though uncertainty lingered in their eyes.
Hours later, after the hall emptied and candles guttered low, Derrick walked the corridor back to the heroes' quarters. His players trailed behind, steps heavy with food and thought.
Kaela slowed until she walked beside him. "Coach… do you really think we can do it? Save a whole kingdom?"
Her voice was soft, trembling under the weight of the question.
Derrick glanced down at her. He remembered a scrawny freshman back home, terrified to take a free throw, asking almost the same thing: "Do you really think I can do this?"
He'd answered then the same way he answered now.
"I don't know if you can save the world," he admitted. "But I know this—if you trust each other, you'll be stronger than you are now. And sometimes, that's enough to change everything."
She nodded slowly, holding her staff tighter.
Jax muttered from behind, "Better hope it's enough. Otherwise, we're all screwed."
Derrick ignored him, fingers brushing the whistle at his neck.
For a heartbeat, the corridor was quiet except for the distant toll of bells. Somewhere beyond these gilded walls, villages burned, fortresses fell, and the Demon King's armies spread.
The nobles might see the heroes as symbols. The king might see them as prophecy fulfilled.
But Derrick saw them for what they were: scared kids with sparks in their chests. Sparks that needed air, time, and pressure to turn into fire.
And he swore, as he clenched the whistle, that he'd give them that fire—whether the court liked it or not.