Kael sat cross-legged on his creaky bed, the glow of his tablet painting flickers of blue and white across his face. His room was quiet—unusually quiet. Even the distant shouting from his neighbors or his parents' usual drunken quarrels were absent.
Tonight was sacred.
The VSNL Pro Draft had begun.
One by one, each of the 40 elite Hasteball teams of Vaelora's Super Nation League took turns revealing their rosters: 5 starting players, 3 subs, and 4 reserves.
The broadcast was slick and intense, with holographic displays of the players, stats, slow-mo reels of their best plays, and analyst commentary screaming with excitement.
"AND THERE YOU HAVE IT, FOLKS—THE STORMBRINGERS GO WITH RAZIEL SHARD, THE UNDISPUTED NUMBER ONE SHOCKLINE IN THE DRAFT!"
"THE FROSTGUARD SPECTERS JUST LANDED THREE TOP-FIVE DEFENSIVE PICKS! ANCHORS DON'T GET MORE BRUTAL THAN THIS!"
"THE EMPIRE DAWNS HAVE A STACKED THREADING LINEUP. THIS TEAM IS READY TO CRUSH!"
Kael's eyes darted across every stat card. Every name. Every face.
They all looked like heroes. Like gods.
But then the screen cut to something entirely different.
The background changed to a smoky, copper-colored logo. A thunderbolt over a ridge of mountains. The hologram glitched for half a second as the league's lowest-ranked club finally took the stage.
"And now... the 40th and final team of this year's VSNL Draft... the Caelwyn Ridge Hasteball Club."
The energy in the announcer's voice noticeably dipped. Less awe, more obligation.
A new voice entered the screen—Coach Denrick Fael, standing on the CRHC training field in his long gray coat, arms crossed, expression calm but firm.
"This year, we're not looking for the flashiest or most famous," Coach Fael said. "We're looking for fighters. The ones with broken faceguards and bleeding knuckles. The ones who survived hell and still said, 'More.'"
Kael's heartbeat picked up. His chest felt tight. His mouth dry.
Coach Fael turned slightly and nodded to the camera.
"Our picks are as follows."
Starting Five:
1. Blitzer – Rika Velmora, 18, Frostgard Outriders Academy
Known for her terrifying acceleration and mid-air intercepts.
2. Anchor – Turok Venn, 19, formerly of Ironhold Academy
A human wall. Unmovable, unshakable, unrelenting.
3. Threader – Ezren Kye, 17, street-level prodigy from West Veyla
Scouted directly from underground leagues—vision beyond compare.
4. Pulse – Yula Denin, 18, top Pulse from Midspire Academy
Engine of endless stamina. Born to run.
5. Shockline (Captain) – Kael Drayden, 17, Valkyries Hasteball Academy
Underdog captain. Known for clutch shots, raw intensity, and an indomitable will.
Kael's name flashed on screen. His profile photo beside it. His Academy Finals stats. His face—eyes burning with determination, dark hair slightly messy, faceguard low over his brow.
His ears rang. His breath caught.
The announcers were stunned.
"Kael Drayden? The Shockline from the Valkyries? He was impressive in the academy finals, but this—this is unexpected."
"Not totally. He made waves in the Red Trials with CRHC's camp, but to be made the starting Shockline? And the captain? That's a bold move."
Kael couldn't move.
He wasn't just on the team.
He led it.
His phone buzzed. Messages poured in.
Tsubaki:
You actually did it, Drayden. From the ashes, huh? Respect.
Coach Torma (Valkyries):
Make us proud. We always knew you had it.
Rika Velmora:
Let's win some games, captain. Hope you're ready to work harder than ever.
Kael clenched the tablet tight. His throat burned with emotion. For a second, he thought about showing his parents.
But then he remembered the laughter. The bitterness. The way they spat on his dreams.
No.
This moment belonged to him.
To the sweat and pain and loneliness. To the nights he cried into his pillow after practice. To every bruise, to every sprint, to every "you're not good enough" that he buried under determination.
He stood up and walked to his mirror, still dressed in his faded Valkyries shirt.
He pressed his fingers against the captain's wristband on his left arm.
"From nothing," he whispered. "To captain."
The camera feed faded on Coach Fael's face as he spoke the final line:
"They called us the weakest. Now, we call ourselves the sharpest edge. We may be at the bottom of the mountain—but that just means we're the only ones who know how to climb."