The applause from The Crucible felt like a distant, haunting echo inside the cramped, silent away dressing room. The stench of defeat – sweat, deep heat, and something deeper, a sour tang of crushed hope – hung heavier than the steam rising from the showers. Players slumped where they sat, peeling off mud-caked socks, unwinding tape with slow, weary movements. The initial surge of pride from the comeback had faded, replaced by the hollow ache of the 3-2 scoreline etched onto the board near the door. Carter sat motionless on the physio table, staring blankly at the tiled floor. Holt leaned against the wall, the captain's armband loose on his bicep, his face a mask of exhaustion and simmering frustration. The jubilation after Kai's goal felt like a lifetime ago.
Coach Deng stood near the center, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the wreckage. His face was unreadable, the fury of halftime replaced by a grim, assessing calm. He waited for the last player – Zhao, limping slightly – to sit down before he spoke. His voice, when it came, wasn't a roar, but it cut through the heavy air like a blade.
"Applause is for the theatre," he began, his gaze sweeping the room, lingering for a fraction longer on Lin Kai, who sat trying to process the whirlwind of his debut – the fall, the assist, the goal, the ovation, the loss. "It is a courtesy. A recognition of effort, perhaps. But it does not change the result written on that board." He nodded towards the 3-2. "Losing *this* game, after clawing back from the abyss we dug for ourselves in the first half, is not acceptable."
He paused, letting the stark words land. "The first forty-five minutes were a disgrace. A surrender. You know it. I know it. The fifty thousand in that stadium knew it. You abandoned the plan, you abandoned each other, you abandoned the badge." His eyes found Holt again. "Leadership isn't just shouting. It's organizing when the walls are crumbling. It's holding the line." He shifted his focus to Popov and Lei. "Midfield isn't just running. It's thinking under fire. It's controlling the chaos." His gaze swept the defenders. "Defending isn't just blocking shots. It's communication. It's anticipation. It died in the first half."
He took a step forward, his voice lowering slightly, but losing none of its intensity. "The second half… the *reaction*… that showed something else. Heart. Pride. Refusal." His eyes flickered towards Kai, then Chen Hao, then Park. "The changes brought energy. They brought belief. They brought fight. That *is* acceptable. That is the *minimum* standard. That fight, that refusal to die, is what we must carry forward. Not the surrender that preceded it."
He straightened up, his posture rigid. "The effort in the comeback? Good. Commendable. But effort without the correct application from the start is wasted. It wins applause, not points. Points are what matter. Points are what get us out of the Celestial Championship and into the Imperial Super League." He let that sink in, the ultimate goal hanging in the humid air. "Training tomorrow will be hard. Correction will be hard. We will dissect that first half like surgeons. We will rebuild the foundations we cracked today. We will run until the memory of that surrender is burned out of your legs. Then we run some more."
He didn't wait for questions or reactions. "Showers. Food. Bus. We stay at the Lakeside Hotel tonight. Travel back to Jinjiang tomorrow. Rest. Reflect. Be ready to work." With a final, encompassing look that promised no respite, he turned and walked out, leaving the silence even heavier than before, now laced with the dread of the promised reckoning.
The Lakeside Hotel offered sterile comfort, a world away from the fiery pit of The Crucible. Kai's room was quiet, overlooking a manicured garden, the silence amplifying the echo of the crowd, the phantom feel of Petrovic's shoulder, the sweet connection of the volley, the sting of the final whistle. His phone, silent since before the game, suddenly erupted. A barrage of notifications flooded the screen – messages, missed calls, social media tags. News traveled fast.
His parents called first, their voices thick with tears of pride despite the loss. "My son! You scored! On television! Against Wuhan!" his mother sobbed. "We saw everything! The pass! The goal! Even that big man pushed you, but you got up! My brave boy!" His father, usually reserved, was choked up. "You made Phoenix District proud today, son. Real proud. Head high. You showed them." Lin Mei's voice was pure, unfiltered joy in the background, yelling about "Brother Kai the hero!" until someone gently shushed her.
Xu Bo called next, his voice booming through the speaker, the clang of tools audible in the background. "KAI! YOU LEGEND! That volley! Off the bench! Smashed it! Told you that garage door practice would pay off! Did you see the keeper's face? Priceless! Shame about the result, but mate… you arrived!" Li Xia came on the line, her voice softer but brimming with excitement. "Kai! That pass for Chen Hao… it was like magic! So precise! And the goal! We were screaming in the shop! Everyone was! Old Man Chen says noodles are free for a month! He's beaming!"
Su Yuelin's call came later, when the initial frenzy had settled. Her voice was calm, analytical, but warmth radiated through. "Kai. Breathe. How are you feeling? Physically? The shoulder?" He assured her it was just bruised. "Good. Now, listen. That… that was incredible. Truly. The composure after the foul… demanding the ball… the vision for Chen Hao's run… that was textbook exploitation of the half-space between the centre-back and fullback. And the goal…" She paused, and he could almost hear the smile. "...instinctive brilliance. Pure reaction. Perfect technique under pressure. Textbook? No. Kai-textbook? Absolutely." Her tone shifted, a hint of the sadness he'd sensed in her text. "The result… it's harsh. Unfair, even. You deserved at least a point. But football is cruel sometimes. Focus on what you controlled. You controlled your reaction. You controlled your quality when it mattered most. You announced yourself, Lin Kai. The whole league knows Number Twenty-Five now. Rest. Recover. The grind starts tomorrow." Her words, precise and supportive, were a balm.
The journey back to Jinjiang the next day was subdued but different. The crushing despair of the immediate aftermath had eased, replaced by a weary determination. Players chatted quietly, reviewed clips on tablets, or just stared out at the passing scenery. Kai felt eyes on him – respectful nods from seniors like Holt, a clap on the back from Popov, a genuine "Well done, kid," from Carter. The dynamic had shifted. He wasn't just the slum kid prospect anymore. He was the one who had lit the fuse in The Crucible.
Training that week was brutal, just as Deng had promised. Mornings were relentless video sessions, dissecting the Wuhan horror show frame by frame. Deng's voice was a cold scalpel, pointing out every positional lapse, every missed assignment, every moment of hesitation. The atmosphere was tense, focused, the sting of criticism sharp. Afternoons were physical purgatory – grueling fitness drills designed to replicate the suffocating Wuhan press, intense small-sided games emphasizing compactness and quick transitions, endless defensive shape work. Kai threw himself into it, the memory of his debut goal a fire in his belly, but also the memory of the first-half collapse a stark warning. He pushed his recovering shoulder, ignored the fatigue, chased every ball. He saw Deng watching him, his expression unreadable.
Evenings became a sanctuary. Calls home, filled with his sister's excited chatter and his parents' quiet pride. Messages buzzing constantly – friends from Phoenix District, former coaches, even a few tentative notes from agents sniffing around the new sensation. Training ground banter with Xu Bo and Li Xia, dissecting the day's session over bubble tea. And the long calls with Su Yuelin. They analyzed training, discussed opponents, broke down tactical nuances. She sent him clips of Zhengzhou Warriors, their next opponent, highlighting their rigid 4-4-2 structure and disciplined defensive blocks. "Organized. Disciplined," she noted. "Break them early. Don't let them settle." Her calm analysis grounded him, cutting through the noise of sudden attention.
The days blurred into a rhythm of pain, sweat, focus, and fleeting moments of connection. The raw emotion of Wuhan faded, replaced by the daily grind of improvement. The bruises from Petrovic's challenge faded to yellow, the scrapes healed. The roar of The Crucible became a memory, replaced by the shouts of coaches and teammates on the training pitches of The Forge.
And then, it was Friday. The eve of the Zhengzhou Warriors match. The familiar pre-match tension crackled in the air at the training complex, sharper now after the lessons of Wuhan. The final session was sharp, focused, intense. Afterwards, the players gathered in the main meeting room at The Forge, the large tactics screen dominating one wall. Coach Deng stood before it, remote in hand, his expression stern.
"Right," Deng began, his voice cutting through the murmur. "Wuhan is done. Lessons learned, hopefully. Points dropped. Unacceptable start, acceptable fightback. Now we look forward. The season is a marathon, not a sprint. But every point counts. Every game matters." He clicked the remote.
The screen lit up with the Dragon's Roar Celestial Championship schedule, meticulously detailed. Deng moved a digital pointer dot down the list, his voice a steady, tactical drumbeat:
* **"Sat, Aug 17:** Home vs. **Zhengzhou Warriors.**" The dot pulsed. "Organized. Disciplined. Low block. They frustrate. They wait. Break them early. Don't let them settle into their defensive shape. Force errors. High tempo from the start."
* *Click.* **"Sat, Aug 24:** Away vs. **Qingdao Mariners."** "Set-piece giants. Towers in the box. Watch the aerial battles. Marking must be perfect. Discipline on corners and free-kicks. Win the first contact, win the second ball."
* *Click.* **"Sat, Aug 31:** Home vs. **Chengdu Dragons."** "Technical, fluid. Like to play. Our style clash. We press high, force mistakes in their build-up. Don't get drawn into a pure possession battle. Win it back and attack quickly."
* *Click.* **"Sat, Sept 7:** Away vs. **Nanjing Scholars."** "University brains. Tactically flexible. Don't underestimate. They think the game. We match their intelligence, but impose our physicality and intensity."
* *Click.* **"Sat, Sept 14:** Home vs. **Dalian Waves."** "Physical. Strong. Counter-attack specialists. Don't get caught high. Secure possession. Be patient. Break *them* down."
* *Click.* The dot landed on **"Sat, Sept 21: AWAY vs. Harbor Point B."** A different energy instantly crackled in the room. Shoulders straightened. Eyes narrowed. Deng paused, letting the significance sink in. The Port Derby. Jinjiang United vs. Harbor Point. Even at the B-team level, the ancient dockyard rivalry pulsed with visceral hatred. "You know what this means," Deng said, his voice dropping lower, harder. "Pride. Points. Bragging rights in this city. No excuses. None. We fight for every blade of grass. We leave nothing on that pitch."
* The dot moved on through Tianjin Lions ("Direct. Physical. Match their fight."), Changchun Ice ("Brace for cold. And long balls. Concentration for ninety-plus minutes."), Shenzhen Futures ("Hybrid system. Tech feeder club. Unpredictable but naive."), Macau Fortune ("Flashy. Inconsistent. Exploit the gaps behind their attacking fullbacks."), Suzhou Silk ("Possession 'Artball'. Disrupt their rhythm. Don't chase shadows."), Lanzhou Camel FC ("Endurance. Desert stamina. Outlast them. Fitness will be key."), Xiamen Dolphins ("Fast breaks. Youthful energy. Don't get caught in transition."), Hangzhou Phoenix ("Scenic but ruthless. Wing-play focus. Stop the supply."), Tibet Sky FC ("Altitude won't help them here. Dominate possession. Tire them."), and finally…
* *Click.* **"Sat, Dec 7: AWAY vs. Wuhan Steel."** Deng's gaze hardened. "The return leg. The Crucible. Again. We remember the first half. We remember the fightback. We remember the applause *and* the loss. We prove the point. We take what we left behind."
He continued through the rest of the schedule stretching into the new year, each opponent dissected with a single, sharp tactical insight. The sheer scale of the battle ahead was laid bare – 34 games, different challenges, different styles, different terrains. It was a gauntlet.
Finally, Deng clicked off the screen. The room was silent, charged with the weight of the journey mapped out before them. "One game at a time," Deng stated firmly. "Starting tomorrow. Zhengzhou Warriors. Dragon Bay Arena. Our house. Our pitch. Our chance to set the record straight after Wuhan."
He picked up a sheet of paper. The silence became absolute, thick with anticipation. Every player leaned forward slightly. This was it. The starting XI.
"Right. For tomorrow," Deng began, his eyes scanning the list. "Carter in goal." A nod. "Park Min-ho, right back." Park sat up straighter. "Marcus Holt, centre-back, captain." Holt gave a single, firm nod. "Ruiz, partner him if fit." Ruiz, ribs still taped, nodded grimly. "Diallo, left back." Diallo acknowledged.
"Midfield: Popov holding." Popov grunted. "Lei alongside him." Lei looked determined.
"Wingers: Ahmed Khalid, right. Kenji Nakamura, left." Both wingers exchanged a glance, relieved perhaps after being hooked early against Wuhan.
"Up front: Martins." The target man thumped a fist lightly against his thigh.
Deng paused. The attacking midfield slot, the number 10 role, the position Kai had ignited against Wuhan… remained unspoken. He looked up, his gaze sweeping the expectant faces. It landed briefly on Chen Hao, then moved on. It brushed past another midfielder. Then it settled, inevitably, on Lin Kai. There was no malice, no surprise, just cold pragmatism.
"Bench: Zhao, Kim, Farsi, Chen Hao, Park Ji-sung (the other winger), Liang (GK), and…" Another fractional pause. "Lin Kai."
The words landed with a quiet thud. Kai felt the eyes of the room flick towards him, a mixture of sympathy, understanding, and perhaps a flicker of relief from some. He kept his face impassive, staring straight ahead at the tactics board, now blank. The fire that had burned so brightly after his goal, that had fueled him through the brutal week, didn't go out. It banked. It hardened. He'd known it was a possibility, maybe even probable. Deng valued experience, structure, especially against a disciplined, defensive side like Zhengzhou. Starting a 16-year-old playmaker fresh off one explosive cameo was a gamble. But hearing it confirmed… the disappointment was a cold stone in his stomach, momentarily eclipsing the pride of the week.
"Same instructions apply," Deng continued, his voice unchanged. "Break them early. High intensity. Discipline. Shape. Fight for every ball. Bench, be ready. Your moment could come at any time. Be prepared to change the game." He looked at Kai specifically for a split second. "Understand your role. Watch. Learn. Be ready."
The meeting broke up. Players stood, stretching, murmuring, heading for the showers or the canteen. Kai rose slowly, the echo of "Lin Kai... bench" ringing in his ears. He saw Chen Hao clap Martins on the back, saw Nakamura talking animatedly with Khalid. He saw Deng gather his assistants, already focused on the final pre-match details. He touched the embroidered 25 on his training top, the number Su had teased him about taking. *Good work 25.* He hadn't started, but he was here. He was part of it. The grind continued. The Zhengzhou Warriors awaited. And Lin Kai, Number Twenty-Five, would be ready. Whenever the call came.