As the clouds split and gave way to the sun, its glare intensified tenfold, searing the field in merciless heat. The game had reached a fever pitch—every player pushed to the brink, muscles screaming, lungs burning.
The Kaiju was just meters from the goal, but exhaustion clawed at him, dragging his limbs like anchors. In that fatal heartbeat of hesitation, the opposing team pounced. The ball was snatched away, and they scored with swift, surgical precision. The shift in momentum hit like a sucker punch to the ribs.
With every passing second under the sun's brutal gaze, time stretched and warped—minutes felt like hours, each breath heavier than the last. But the Kaiju clenched his jaw. He refused to yield. No matter how oppressive the elements or how humiliating the scoreboard, he would not quit.
Desperation burned through him as he lunged again and again for a goal, each attempt collapsing under poor aim, awkward timing, or outright blunders. Skating? That, he'd grasped. But the game itself—the nuance, the rhythm, the IQ of movement—remained a mystery, slippery and cruel.
The opposition seized that weakness with glee.
In the minutes that followed, they crushed his team under an avalanche of points—six to one. The blonde captain led the assault, a golden-haired menace with predator instincts. The Kaiju barely registered the goals anymore—just the growing ache of failure and the way his teammates now hesitated before passing to him.
Their caution was justified.
Every time he made it to the goal, he shot for the wrong one.
And scored. Repeatedly. For the other team.
Orenji couldn't take it anymore. His voice tore across the field. "Take it slow! Slow down! Don't overpace yourself!"
Take it slow?! the Kaiju groaned inwardly, gasping for breath. My heart can't take any more disappointments. I can't even touch the ball, let alone aim right. Every time I push, they slip away. If I wait, we rot. This was supposed to be my chance, my moment to shine...
He grit his teeth.
The drive to score, that hot rush—it accelerates the rhythm of the game. But… maybe that's the problem.
A realization struck, cold and clear.
Speed can be diabolical.
His eyes widened.
That feverish urge, that hunger to win—it stiffens your limbs. It narrows your vision. You breathe wrong. You panic. And when you make mistakes, they stack. They spiral. You try harder and get worse. The more you care, the more you crumble.
He's right… play smart,not hard.
Slapping his face with both hands, the Kaiju centered himself.
Get it together. Focus. Stop sprinting toward failure. I'm burning out before I even get started.
His body screamed. Legs heavy. Lungs on fire. Sweat stinging his eyes. But the command rang clear in his head.
Get it together!
He'd become the weakest player on the field—an easy mark. The enemy treated him like an open wound. Anytime he had the ball, two defenders collapsed on him, pressuring him into panic passes.
Orenji, ever the anchor, bellowed to rally the team. "One goal! That's all we need! More, and we might just survive this. Give it your all!"
Survive…
That word hit differently.
The Kaiju looked at Orenji, a flicker of hope in his eyes.
Funny, how one word can carry so much weight.
Then—opportunity.
One of Orenji's teammates intercepted a pass and surged forward. She was tall, thin, with dark violet-blue hair capped by a beanie, one side streaked in bold amaranth. Her features bore the grit of Undertown, but her eyes were razor sharp—an old soul in young skin.
Her team was choked by a full-court man-to-man. A defense built not just to block, but to suffocate. Every route was sealed, every option clamped shut. The pressure was surgical.
She froze, cornered by strategy.
Then—
"Pass it!"
The voice cut through like a blade.
She turned—Orenji, waving emphatically. Not at her. Past her. Toward the one player the enemy had ignored.
The boy in the yellow hoodie.
Her lips parted in disbelief. Him?
She shook her head. Orenji only nodded harder, his eyes unyielding. And slowly, her resistance broke.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she muttered and launched the pass.
The Kaiju stood still, locked in. He saw the ball. Felt it before it touched his hands. When it landed, it hit like a punch—dense and heavy. He didn't flinch.
He moved.
A jab-step to the right. A defender lunged. Too late. The Kaiju flowed left and stormed forward, every movement precise. He wasn't flailing anymore—he was hunting.
One. Two.
Twelve players. Six on each side.
He dodged another.
Three. Four. Dodge!
His body moved on instinct. Not refined, not pretty—but fierce. Determined.
Five.
This was it.
His eyes gleamed faintly blue, his chest pounding with primal urgency.
This is where I survive.
He was nearly at the goal.
Then—
"NO. NOT THAT ONE!"
Orenji's shout shattered his tunnel vision.
The Kaiju turned, stunned.
Too late.
An elbow slammed into his jaw. His vision jolted white. He hit the ground hard, the grit digging into his skin. The world reeled.
Sean Brannigan Komatsu loomed above him, blond hair haloed by sunlight, his expression cold. No remorse. Just thrill.
He walked past like the hit had never happened.
The Kaiju blinked through the pain, trying to piece it together.
One... two... three... four... five... six?
But he only dodged five…
His scraped forehead dripped blood into his eyes. Yet he didn't groan. Didn't scream.
He sighed.
A long, weary breath that told a story of years of pain, of wounds both physical and not.
And then—he smiled.
A soft grin tugged at his lips, bitter and serene all at once.
He's faster. Stronger. But still…
His fingers curled together, pressing fingertip to fingertip, a gesture almost reverent.
That's me. That brute strength, that wild drive, that chaotic hunger… that's me.
And still—
I want to win.
A laugh slipped from his lips—strangled and manic.
I want to crush them. And that feeling… that gleeful anticipation spreading across my damn face?
He bared his teeth.
That's how I know I'm not done yet.