The silence between Belt and Uncle Jisk was thick, heavy with the scent of damp grass and the ozone of a coming storm. Belt stood frozen, his hand still unconsciously touching his lips. The phantom sensation of Quiena's kiss felt like a lingering electric shock, a glitch in his otherwise perfect logic. He forced his hand down, his voice sounding distant and mechanical.
"No," Belt replied, finally looking at Jisk, though his eyes were vacant. "There is nothing. I didn't meet any monster. I am just... calculating."
Uncle Jisk squinted, his eyes disappearing into a web of wrinkles. He looked amused, almost knowing. "Are you sure, kid? I could have sworn you crossed paths with a ghost—or maybe a siren—on the way here. Your aura is vibrating like a broken radio. But fine. Let's move on to real matters."
The old man stood up, the wooden bench creaking under his weight. He approached Belt to inspect his new gear. The black fabric was sleek, absorbing the dim light of the streetlamps. Belt stood tall, pushing out his chest to showcase the ferocious tiger logo he had commissioned for the jersey. It wasn't just a design; it was a statement of intent.
"Not bad," Jisk murmured, circling Belt like a judge. "Light shoes, dark outfit. You look like you're ready to vanish into the night. But explain this... logo. A tiger?"
Jisk burst into a loud, raspy laugh that sounded like dry leaves being crushed. His dog, Tink, woke up with a start and let out a sharp, rhythmic bark.
"You, a tiger?" Jisk wiped a tear from his eye. "That's the best one yet! You're more like a lost kitten in a storm right now. But... the idea isn't bad. A tiger is a solitary hunter. It doesn't need a pride like a lion does. It only needs its own shadow."
The old man took a worn-out football in his hands, his face suddenly turning into a mask of absolute seriousness. The air seemed to grow colder.
"Listen carefully, kid," Jisk said, his voice dropping an octave. "What you have forgotten—or what you are too arrogant to see—is that before being a predator, you must first accept being a prey. You must know the fear of the hunted before you can master the kill."
"I don't understand the logic behind that," Belt snapped, his frustration bubbling up.
"You don't need logic yet. You need instinct," Jisk countered. "Let's talk tactics. Where do you want to stand in this jungle?"
Belt closed his eyes, visualizing the pitch as a mathematical grid. "I want to be far enough away to observe the entire system, but close enough to strike before they can react. I don't want them to see me coming. I want to be the variable they didn't account for."
Jisk smiled, a dark, impressed glint in his eyes. "You really are a strange piece of work. The ideal position for you is not the 'Main Striker.' You shouldn't be the Number 9. You are a Second Striker—the Shadow Striker."
"Why not the lead?"
"Because the Number 9 is the Light," Jisk explained, pointing the ball at the empty field. "He is the Lion. Everyone watches the Lion. The defenders mark him tightly, they breathe down his neck, they never let him hide. But the Second Striker... he lives in the Lion's shadow. He uses the dead zones. He moves in the silence. It is the perfect position for a Tiger who wants to appear out of nowhere and slaughter his prey while the world is busy looking at someone else."
Belt felt a shiver of recognition. "Using the shadow to bite... That is exactly what I want. Absolute sovereignty from the dark."
"Careful, kid," Jisk interrupted, his tone sharp as a blade. "Before you can acquire that strength, you must first fix the rot in your foundation. Your body is a weak machine."
"What are you talking about? I'm in good shape."
"Is that so? Then let's see the engine work. On the track! You owe me ten laps of this field. Full speed. No stopping. No excuses."
Belt's jaw dropped. "Ten laps? That's impossible! Even the high school starters only do five during their warm-up. Why are you doubling the standard?"
"Because the 'standard' is for people who are satisfied with being mediocre," Jisk growled. "The greatest are those who endure more than the world expects of them. If you want to walk into that high school selection in two weeks and survive the monsters there, you must be a machine. Now, move!"
Belt froze. "How do you know about the selections?"
"I know everything that matters in Krow City," Jisk said, sitting back down. "Do you prefer twenty laps?"
"No! I'm going!"
Belt took off. The first lap was easy, fueled by anger and the lingering adrenaline of Quiena's kiss. The second lap began to burn. By the third lap, the burn turned into torture. His lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass. Every breath was a struggle against the heavy, humid air. His legs began to shake, his vision blurring at the edges. Finally, he collapsed into the tall, dry grass, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"I... I can't..." he panted, the metallic taste of blood in the back of his throat. "It's too much."
Jisk approached quietly, his footsteps silent. "Now the real match begins, Belt. I advise you to get up. Right now."
"I told you... I'm done."
Jisk looked down at him with a cold, detached pity. "The world doesn't stop because you're tired. Predators don't wait for you to catch your breath." He made a discreet signal with his hand. "Tink. Wake him up."
The bulldog, Tink, was no longer a sleepy, grumpy pet. His ears pinned back, his eyes fixed on Belt with a terrifying intensity. He let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated in Belt's chest. Then, he dashed.
Fear is the ultimate fuel. It overrides the mind and forces the body to ignore its limits. Surprised and absolutely terrified, Belt scrambled to his feet. He didn't think; he just ran. He forgot the pain in his legs. He forgot the fire in his lungs. He only heard the frantic thud-thud-thud of the dog's paws on the dirt behind him.
"Run!" Jisk screamed from the distance, his voice echoing off the rusted fences. "A tiger with no cardio is just an overweight kitten! Your best friend is your physical condition! I will make you drool until your blood turns into liquid gold! Don't let the shadow catch you!"
Belt managed two more laps, pushed by pure survival instinct. He was no longer a student or a geek; he was a hunted animal. Every time Tink's barking got closer, Belt found a new, hidden reserve of energy. But eventually, the adrenaline ran out. On the fourth lap, his legs simply gave out. He hit the dirt hard, his face pressing into the soil.
Tink stopped immediately, his tail wagging. He walked over and licked Belt's sweaty face, suddenly the gentle pet again. Jisk walked over, looking down at his notebook, scribbling something with a pen.
"It's okay, Tink. He's had enough of the whip for tonight." Jisk looked at Belt's inert body. "You don't win a fight if you are already defeated by your own shell. You have one week to succeed in the ten laps without the dog. If you fail, you're just another mediocre boy with a dream. See you tomorrow."
Belt was too breathless to speak. He watched Jisk's silhouette disappear into the Krow City fog. His muscles screamed in a language of pure pain, but through the agony, a cold realization settled in: Jisk was right. Talent was a lie if the body couldn't carry it.
The next morning, Krow High School felt like a nightmare. Belt walked through the gates like a zombie, his movements stiff and mechanical. Every step felt like a needle being driven into his thighs. He was stopped at the lockers by Quiena.
She looked different today—nervous, her eyes darting around, her fingers playing with the strap of her bag. "Hi, Belt... Listen," she started, her voice barely a whisper. "I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I don't know what came over me... the stress of the manager role, I guess? Anyway! Let's just forget it happened, okay? It was a 404 error. Let's focus on the test in two weeks!"
Belt looked at her. He had dark circles under his eyes, his face pale from exhaustion. He was too tired to analyze the social awkwardness or feel the heat of embarrassment.
"Understood, manager," he grumbled, his voice raspy.
Quiena blinked, surprised by his flat response. "Uh... are you okay? You're walking like you've been run over by a truck."
"Training," Belt said, his voice cold. "The Tiger is learning how to breathe."
"I see..." Quiena watched him walk away, a mix of concern and admiration in her eyes. "If you're ready, let's go. Class is starting, and the world doesn't wait for zombies."