The morning sun cut across the shabby neighborhood like a thin blade of gold, slipping between rusted roofs and cracked brick walls. Ares Locke stood outside the old stadium with a backpack slung over his shoulder, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his skin, and breath trembling from exhaustion.
He'd been sprinting drills since before sunrise.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Thirty days.
That was the time he had left before the Rising Star Trials.
Thirty days to turn from a nobody into someone worthy of stepping onto that field.
Thirty days to become the player he had promised Rowan Vale—and himself—he could be.
Ares dropped to one knee, gripping the fence for balance. His legs were shaking violently. His lungs felt like sandpaper. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal trying to escape.
But the system remained silent today.
Almost annoyingly silent.
No quests.
No skill prompts.
No motivational chimes.
Just him.
Alone.
And that was more terrifying than anything.
Because without the system's assistance, he had only himself left to rely on… and deep down, he wasn't sure that was enough.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and forced himself upright.
"Again," he muttered.
The word felt heavier each time, but he repeated it anyway. It was the only thing he could rely on—his refusal to stop.
He lined up another ball, braced his foot, and struck.
THUD!
The ball skimmed over the grass, not clean enough, not strong enough, and definitely not accurate enough for a trial that would be filled with prodigies, academy elites, and rich kids with professional training.
Ares sighed. His breath formed a faint mist in the morning air.
"Why isn't the system helping…?"
As if responding to his frustration—
DING.
A quiet chime echoed in his mind.
Ares straightened immediately.
"Finally."
A soft panel appeared—not bright, not overwhelming. Almost… cautious.
⸻
System Notice: Reader Activity Low
Reader engagement has decreased temporarily.
Skills relying on reader willpower are weakened.
Recommendation: Take action that inspires interest.
⸻
Ares blinked.
"…Reader activity is low?"
He hadn't even realized readers—the mysterious source of his strength—could lose interest. Or go silent. Or forget about him.
His heart twisted slightly.
"So if I'm not impressive enough… I really lose power."
The system flickered gently.
DING.
Correction: You do not lose power.
But your evolution slows when readers feel nothing.
Your growth accelerates when readers react.
Ares exhaled slowly.
This system wasn't just about hard work—it demanded attention. Expectation. Hope.
In a way… he had to earn their belief.
Even if they were invisible.
"Understood," he muttered.
He squared his shoulders, planted his feet, and set up three more balls.
"If I have to inspire them… then I'll give them something worth watching."
For the next hour, he worked relentlessly:
Sprint to ball.
Turn.
Shoot.
Sprint back.
Repeat.
His muscles burned. His vision blurred. But he refused to stop.
Some failures. Some barely decent shots. One perfect strike. Then two awful ones.
His identity—both in life and now apparently in the system—was built on one thing:
He didn't know how to quit.
After what felt like hours, he finally collapsed onto the ground, arms sprawled out, chest heaving.
DING.
Another panel appeared, soft but encouraging.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: ADMIRATION (Minor)
Skill Boost: Unyielding Spark +20% duration
⸻
Ares smiled faintly.
"Someone is still watching… even just one."
He closed his eyes, letting the confidence seep into his bones.
But a sharp voice cut through the stadium.
"You're training wrong."
Ares jerked upright.
Rowan Vale stood by the gate, arms crossed, expression severe. He was wearing a crisp grey jacket, hair perfectly combed despite the morning wind.
Ares scrambled to his feet.
"H–how long were you watching?"
"Long enough," Rowan replied. "And long enough to see you waste energy."
Ares stiffened. "I'm practicing."
"No," Rowan corrected. "You're flailing."
The words stabbed deeper than they should have.
Ares bit his tongue, swallowing the sting of embarrassment.
"What… what am I doing wrong?"
Rowan stepped onto the field, his leather shoes sinking slightly into the wet grass.
"Everything," he said bluntly. "Your posture collapses after three sprints. Your balance is inconsistent. Your shooting form isn't repeatable. And your stamina is tragic."
Ouch.
Ares lowered his gaze. "…I'm trying."
"I know," Rowan said softly. "That's the only reason I'm here."
Ares looked up.
Rowan gestured with his chin toward the field. "You have thirty days. I'm not going to pretend that's enough time to perform a miracle. But we don't need a miracle. We need efficiency."
Rowan placed three cones on the grass.
"We start simple."
Ares blinked. "Simple?"
"Yes. Simple. Because talentless players—"
He stopped, correcting himself.
"Players without proper training improve fastest through fundamentals."
Ares nodded nervously.
Rowan pointed at the cones.
"Dribble tight circles around them. Slowly. Controlled. Don't think about speed. Think about touch."
Ares swallowed his pride and stepped up.
First cone.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
He moved awkwardly, too tense, too stiff.
Rowan sighed audibly.
"Relax your shoulders. Lower your center of gravity. Dribbling isn't about force—it's about precision."
Ares tried again.
Better… but still clumsy.
The system chimed.
DING.
Reader Emotion Detected: AMUSEMENT
"…Great," Ares muttered, cheeks burning.
But Rowan's expression didn't change.
"Again."
Ares obeyed.
"Again."
He repeated it.
"Again."
And again.
Rowan watched each attempt with sharp, calculating eyes.
It felt like torture.
But it was the first real training he had ever received.
After nearly an hour, Ares was drenched in sweat and frustration.
Rowan finally nodded.
"Good enough for today."
Ares dropped onto the grass, exhausted beyond belief.
"Why… why are you helping me?"
Rowan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked at Ares with an expression that was strange—neither soft nor cold. More like someone evaluating an unsolved puzzle.
"Because the shot you made last night… no normal amateur can make that shot."
Ares froze.
Rowan continued, "Either you're a genius—which I doubt—or something is driving your body beyond its limits."
Ares's breath hitched.
Did Rowan suspect the system?
He forced his expression into neutrality. "I… I just tried my best."
Rowan smirked slightly. "If you say so. Just don't disappoint me."
He turned to leave.
"Same time tomorrow," he said over his shoulder. "And don't you dare show up late."
Ares smiled weakly. "I won't."
As Rowan disappeared through the gate, the system chimed again.
DING.
New Quest Available
⸻
[Quest: Impress Rowan Vale]
Objective: Execute a controlled dribble sequence without errors.
Reward: Physical Stat Boost (Minor) + Random Passive Perk
Penalty: Loss of Reader Engagement for 24 hours
⸻
Ares clenched his fist around the grass.
Impress Rowan?
Not impossible.
But certainly not easy.
He exhaled deeply, staring up at the wide, cloudless sky.
Thirty days.
Readers watching.
System evolving.
A scout scrutinizing him.
A life-changing trial approaching.
A future waiting.
Ares sat up, eyes burning with determination.
"Fine. If that's the quest… then I'll clear it."
He looked at the cones again.
Then stood up.
Then began practicing.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each tap of the ball echoed across the empty field—
—and carried the promise of the player he was becoming.