The sky was a washed-out gray when Ares Locke returned to the empty stadium the next morning. The sun had not yet fully risen, but the air already carried a cold bite that scraped against his skin. His legs felt heavy, his back stiff, and his mind cluttered with the echo of yesterday's training.
Yet he was here.
Before Rowan.
Before any system prompt.
Before any reader emotion.
Because this—showing up—was the one thing he could control.
Ares placed his worn-out backpack by the bench and walked toward the cones Rowan had forced him to memorize yesterday. They looked deceptively simple, little orange pyramids lined neatly across the turf, but they had nearly broken him.
He rolled the ball beneath his foot, inhaled deeply, and let the breath out slowly.
"Again."
The word tasted familiar by now—an unshakable mantra.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Tight turns. Controlled motions. Eyes low, awareness high.
His touch was better today. Still rough, still unrefined, but gradually smoother, like a blade beginning to find its edge.
Halfway through his tenth cycle—
DING.
Ares nearly stumbled.
A panel flickered quietly into existence.
⸻
System Notice: Reader Curiosity Rising
Minor engagement boost applied.
Skill Enhancement: Touch Precision +3%
⸻
Ares blinked, sweat dripping into his lashes.
"Someone's watching… now?"
DING.
Reader Emotion Detected: Concentration
Ares felt a faint clarity wash over him—like invisible fingers brushing away the fog inside his mind.
He resumed his dribbling.
Tap.
Tap.
Turn.
Shift.
His body still ached, but the movement was more fluid than before. Yesterday, he fought the ball. Today, the ball started to obey.
He was beginning to understand something the system had been hinting at since the beginning:
When readers focused, his mind sharpened.
When they admired him, his endurance grew.
When they believed—
he evolved.
He didn't have millions of supporters. Not yet.
But somewhere in the distance of time, in that strange future dimension the system pulled from—
someone was paying attention.
Someone believed.
Ares inhaled deeply and pushed harder.
Tap. Tap. Tap—
"You improved."
The voice came from behind him.
Ares stopped instantly, chest heaving.
Rowan Vale stood at the entrance again—coffee in one hand, umbrella in the other despite the lack of rain. His sharp eyes tracked every movement, analyzing, categorizing, judging.
"You came early," Rowan said.
"I needed practice," Ares answered.
Rowan smirked faintly. "Good. Because today we increase difficulty."
Ares swallowed. "I figured."
Rowan set down his coffee and placed new cones in a zigzag pattern—tighter, denser, brutal.
"You want to qualify for the Rising Star Trials? You need control under pressure. Nerves of steel. Composure in chaos." Rowan stepped back. "Start."
Ares stepped toward the drill, heart pounding. His legs screamed in protest before he even began.
But he didn't hesitate.
Tap. Tap. Tap—
Turn—
Recover—
Tap—
Rowan's voice cut in sharply.
"Too slow!"
Ares tried again.
"Too stiff!"
Another attempt.
"Too predictable! Again!"
Ares bit down the frustration rising in his throat. Every mistake felt like a punch. Every correction sliced through his confidence.
But he pushed forward.
Again.
And again.
And again.
After nearly twenty minutes of relentless repetition, Ares collapsed onto his knees, hands braced against the turf, panting so hard his ribs felt like they might crack.
Rowan watched him silently.
"You're improving," he said finally.
Ares coughed. "It… doesn't feel like it."
"That's because you're not used to being coached properly." Rowan crouched down beside him. "There's something strange about you, Ares. Something unpredictable. Something raw. Yesterday's shot… I still can't explain it."
Ares stiffened, pulse quickening.
Rowan continued, "But talent alone—if that's even what it was—won't get you into the Trials. You'll be competing with children trained by elite academies since birth."
Ares lowered his gaze.
"I know."
"Do you?" Rowan asked quietly. "Do you really understand what you're going up against?"
Ares hesitated.
Then—
"Yes."
Rowan's eyes sharpened. "Then stand up."
Ares forced himself to his feet.
Rowan pointed at the cones. "Again."
Ares nodded, breath ragged but determined.
Tap. Tap. Tap—
Turn—
Tap—
Tap—
His movements stuttered, but he pushed through.
DING.
Another panel appeared.
⸻
Reader Reaction: Tension
Effect: Short-term concentration boost activated.
⸻
Ares felt his awareness sharpen instantly.
His dribbling tightened.
His steps quickened.
His turns smoothed.
Rowan's brows lifted subtly.
"There," he murmured. "That's the movement I want."
Ares didn't stop. He couldn't. The skill buzzed faintly under his skin, thrumming like a heartbeat. A strange sensation fluttered in his chest—like invisible encouragement.
For the first time, he felt like he wasn't training alone.
Twenty more minutes passed before Rowan finally raised a hand.
"Enough."
Ares staggered back, chest burning.
Rowan nodded. "Not great. Not terrible. But…" His eyes sharpened. "It's progress."
Ares's heartbeat steadied with pride.
DING.
Reader Emotion Detected: Hope (Minor)
Temporary Bonus: Mental Recovery +8%
Ares exhaled shakily.
Someone out there… believed.
Rowan picked up his umbrella.
"Tomorrow, we move to speed drills. You'll hate them."
Ares managed a faint laugh. "I already hate today."
"Good," Rowan replied flatly. "It means you're learning."
As Rowan walked toward the exit, Ares called out:
"Rowan!"
The scout paused.
Ares tightened his fist. "Why are you investing in me? Really?"
Rowan stood still for a moment, then turned slightly—just enough for Ares to see the faintest hint of a smile.
"Because you want this more than anyone I've ever seen. And sometimes… desire is more terrifying than talent."
Ares felt something surge inside him—fiery, powerful, alive.
Rowan walked away.
Ares looked at the cones, the ball, the field.
Then he whispered to himself:
"One more round."
And the system chimed softly—
Its glow warm.
Its tone approving.
Someone out there, in that strange hidden future—
was watching.