The next morning, Jim arrived outside the academy gate just as the sun was beginning to rise. The air was crisp, the sky still painted with streaks of gold and pink. He wasn't alone for long — two familiar voices met him near the wall, full of energy and mischief.
"There you are," Jim said, approaching them. "Where were you both yesterday?"
Volt spread his arms wide in mock offense, grinning. "I could ask you the same thing, Bench King!"
Alex stood beside him with his usual calm expression, hands in his pockets. "My father came home after two months," he said simply. "He's been away on business... I wanted to spend some time with him."
Jim nodded with understanding. "I get it."
Before the conversation could dip into seriousness, Volt chimed in with exaggerated pride. "And I was totally heading to the academy—until a cute lady stopped me on the way."
Jim raised a skeptical eyebrow. "A lady?"
Volt grinned wider. "Yup. We had a date. Movie, snacks, the works."
Jim narrowed his eyes. "How much money did you waste this time?"
"Every last coin," Volt declared proudly.
Jim gave him a blank stare. "Volt... You're a minor."
Volt scratched the back of his head, his grin faltering. "Well... After dinner and shopping, she did say I wasn't old enough for her."
Jim didn't even blink. "You're an idiot."
Alex shook his head slowly. "He really is."
The three of them shared a laugh as they walked toward the main field. For a fleeting moment, the tension of yesterday melted away.
But the mood shifted as soon as they reached the training ground. The team wasn't warming up. No cones, no stretching. Just a full squad gathered in a loose formation around Coach Tenjo.
He stood in front of them with arms folded, face unreadable, voice sharp.
"I've heard the whispers," he began. "Some of you want to reach Nationals."
From the back of the group, Volt leaned toward Jim and muttered under his breath, "Whispers? I've been yelling it since day one."
Jim smiled slightly, but his attention remained on Tenjo.
The coach continued, cold and direct. "I'll be honest. Most of you don't have what it takes. Not yet. But if you're serious..." He paused, stepping forward toward the whiteboard, where he picked up a marker and wrote three bold numbers. He tapped the first.
"Type 1 Tournament. Each region has more than twenty academies. Only one team qualifies. The rest go home."
Murmurs stilled. No one dared interrupt.
Tenjo tapped the second number. "Type 2. The top eight teams from each region face off. These aren't ordinary opponents. They're monsters. Players with polished sprites, advanced formations, and years of top-tier coaching. If you think you've faced tough teams before—think again."
Finally, he pointed to the last number.
"Type 3. National level. Only the best four teams in the entire country make it this far. This is where everything changes. Scouts, sponsors, and the national committee will be watching your every move."
He turned back to the group, his expression as firm as ever.
"Win all three. That's your only road to Nationals."
The weight of his words settled like a stormcloud over the squad. No one spoke for several seconds, until Jim suddenly stepped forward.
"We'll reach Nationals," he said—too loud, louder than he intended. His voice echoed faintly across the field.
For a second, silence.
Then laughter rang out — sharp, mocking.
It came from a few players near the left — the same bullies who had poured water on him the day before. One of them snorted. "Nationals? If I were you, I'd kill myself before embarrassing my team."
Another added with a cruel smile, "Sprite-less, bench-warming nobody thinks he's going to Nationals. That's rich."
Jim stiffened, but before he could speak, Volt spun around.
"Shut it," he snapped. "He's got more heart than both of you combined."
Alex stepped forward too, cool and sharp. "You'll regret those words before this season ends."
The bullies muttered something under their breath but didn't respond. The laughter had already begun to die out.
Coach Tenjo watched the exchange silently, then spoke again.
"I've seen teams fall apart in the first round. Brotherhood's nice. But it won't be enough." He paused, then fixed his gaze on Jim. "This journey will test you. You'll cry. Bleed. Maybe even break. But if you're truly serious…"
His voice dropped to a near whisper.
"Then prove it."
Jim didn't look away. He felt heat rising in his chest, not from shame — but from resolve. He clenched his fists and met the coach's stare head-on.
"I will," he said.
And this time, even with yesterday's mockery still lingering in the air… no one laughed.