Kael Drayden stared at the email on his cracked tablet screen. The glowing logo of the Caelwyn Ridge Hasteball Club (CRHC) shimmered faintly at the top—deep burgundy and steel gray colors, wrapped around a weathered crest shaped like a lightning bolt striking a ridge.
The message read simply:
> "Kael Drayden,
We were impressed by your performance during the Academy Finals, particularly your leadership as Valkyries' captain and your decisive role as Shockline.
Though we may not be the most prestigious club in the Vaelora Super National League, we are committed to developing raw, fearless talent like yours.
We invite you to join our 4-week Pro Evaluation Camp at the CRHC Training Complex, starting June 12th. Outstanding participants may be offered a permanent spot on our development roster.
This is your shot, Kael. Bring that fire."
— Coach Denrick Fael,
CRHC Head Coach
Kael could barely breathe.
He re-read the email at least five times before sitting back on his bed, gripping the tablet so tight it creaked.
This is real.
Despite the reputation of CRHC as a bottom-tier club in the VSNL—mocked, overlooked, even used as a punching bag by stronger teams—it was still a pro team. It was still the league. A doorway into the world he'd fought to enter.
A team. A chance. A future.
He stood quickly and threw on his training jacket, heart pounding like a war drum. He burst from his room, ignoring the groan of his hungover mother as he left the apartment. The door slammed behind him like a punctuation mark on his past.
---
CRHC Training Facility – Caelwyn Ridge
The facility sat on the outskirts of the city—gray buildings surrounded by windy plains and rust-colored hills. The training fields gleamed bright green under the noon sun, and Kael felt a strange mix of nerves and excitement crawl up his spine.
Players were already warming up. Around fifteen young athletes, all between 16 and 19, each wearing numbered red practice jerseys. Some looked sharp. Confident. A few wore custom face guards—clearly private academy graduates. Kael's Valkyrie uniform stood out, worn and faded by comparison.
He caught stares. Quiet whispers.
Let them stare.
A tall, broad-shouldered man approached from the side of the field, clipboard in hand. His voice was firm but not unkind.
"You Drayden?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm Denrick Fael. Head coach. Welcome to hell."
Kael blinked.
Fael smirked. "Kidding. This isn't hell—it's purgatory. The place where maybe's go to become pro or die trying. You ready to suffer for your shot?"
"Yes, sir."
"You don't call me sir. Call me Coach."
"Yes, Coach."
Coach Fael pointed at the field. "Pulse drills. Let's see if you can run with the wolves."
---
The first week was brutal.
Kael was pushed harder than he'd ever been pushed in the academy. Pulse drills that lasted 40 minutes straight. Blitzer shuttle sprints that made his lungs feel like they'd collapse. Anchor strength tests. Threader reflex gauntlets.
But none of it broke him.
Every morning, he arrived early. Every night, he stayed after to practice his dodges and shots. He kept to himself mostly, focusing on the game. He didn't have flashy gear or a personal trainer, but he had one thing they didn't: hunger.
And it showed.
Coach Fael took notice.
"Kid doesn't stop," he muttered one afternoon, watching Kael score three consecutive Shockline break drills in under 20 seconds. "He's a damn cannon."
But Kael had rivals.
A loud, cocky player named Trey Vossen—a former Frostgard academy prodigy—mocked him openly.
"Look at this reject. Your faceguard held together with tape, bro?" Trey laughed. "What'd you do, beg CRHC to let you in?"
Kael didn't answer. He just smiled and took the ball. The next time they faced off in a scrimmage match, Kael slammed a clean Shockline curl shot into the net past Trey's outstretched hand as Anchor.
Kael walked past him, calm and cold. "That taped faceguard just made you look stupid."
---
Week 2.
The pressure intensified. Players started to drop—injuries, exhaustion, or quitting altogether. From fifteen, only ten remained.
One night after drills, Coach Fael approached Kael while he was still practicing goal shots.
"You think you're better than this club?" he asked suddenly.
Kael stopped. "No, Coach."
"You'd be lying if you said yes." Fael smiled slightly. "Everyone thinks CRHC's a joke. Even I know it. But I've built this place as a forge. Not everyone survives it—but those who do? They're steel."
He paused.
"You're steel, Drayden. I've seen a hundred players with flashier moves, but not many with your mind. You play like every point is your last breath."
Kael swallowed hard. "That's because… I don't have anything else."
Coach Fael nodded, the look in his eyes softening.
"Well then," he said, walking away, "let's make sure you don't lose the only thing you've got."
---
By the end of Week 3, Kael had risen to the top five in drills and scrimmages. His name was being whispered. Even some minor scouts from low-tier pro teams had begun hovering at practices.
But the last test loomed: the Red Trials.
A three-day competition among the final remaining participants to determine who would receive offers to join CRHC's pro development roster.
Kael stood in the locker room alone that night, staring at his red and black gear. His new faceguard gleamed under the light—standard issue now, but it felt like armor.
He remembered his mother's words. "You were a mistake."
He stared at the mirror.
"No," Kael whispered. "I was a spark."
And sparks become fire. Kael's phone was very bright and on the wallpaper was Keane Mahanadi, the best Hasteball player to ever throw a Hasteball.
He had won 14 Vaelora Super National league titles, 9 Vaelora Cash Cups, 4 World Club Championship titles and 2 World National Championship titles. Keane Mahanadi was worth over 1.3 billion Euros and 2.3 billion Vaeloran Bucks (Vaelora's currency).
Kael stares at the wallpaper, his eyes filled with admiration. "I'll surpass you Keane. I'll become the best Shock line in world history. You can count on it."