The dawn after the Black Meteors clash painted Eternal Era's training complex in hues of silver and blue. Even before the sun fully crested the horizon, the place was alive—reporters clustered outside the gates, fans pressed against barriers, and camera drones hummed in the air like restless insects.

All of them shouted one name.

"Blaze! Blaze! Blaze!"

Dante, hoodie pulled over his head, tightened the strap of his bag and slipped quickly inside, ignoring the flashes. His Titan Name had spread through comm-channels across three galaxies overnight. It was exhilarating—and suffocating.

Inside the facility, the atmosphere wasn't much calmer. The locker room buzzed with layered voices: some jubilant, others tense. Jerseys hung in neat rows, the Eternal Era crest gleaming under fluorescent lights.

Lionel was already there, lacing his boots even though training hadn't started. His calm gaze followed Blaze as he entered.

"Morning, Old man," Lionel said evenly. "Didn't think you'd be able to sleep after yesterday."

Blaze offered a half-smile. "Barely did. Still feels unreal."

From across the room, Scarlet whistled. Her fiery hair spilled down her back like a flare, and she leaned lazily against her locker. "Unreal? Try galactic headlines. 'Blaze Burns the Meteors.' That's what one streamer titled his vid. You've got an army of fangirls already, hotshot."

Laughter rippled through a few teammates. Aya Nakamura, quiet as ever, simply closed her locker, but there was a faint upward curl to her lips—a silent approval.

Not everyone was amused.

Kenji tossed his shin guards onto the bench with a sharp clatter. "Hype's one thing. Winning consistently is another. We still barely scraped any point in the first two games." His tone carried weight—meant for Blaze to hear, even though he didn't look directly at him.

The air stiffened. Blaze sat down, tugging at his own laces, letting the jab roll over him. He wasn't here to pick fights.

Anastasia, serene as always, tied her ponytail before speaking. "Kenji's not wrong," she said. Her voice was soft, but it carried. "One win doesn't erase two losses. But…" She turned toward Blaze, her sapphire eyes cool but direct. "Your performance yesterday gave us breathing space. You showed initiative."

A murmur of agreement spread—mixed, reluctant. Some clapped him on the shoulder as they passed; others stayed silent, fiddling with their gear.

The locker room door opened with a pneumatic hiss, and Jason strode in. The chatter cut instantly.

"Good," Jason said, voice deep, measured. "You're awake. I was worried some of you would still be sleeping off humiliation."

A few players glanced at the floor.

Jason's gaze swept the room, lingering on no one in particular, yet making every player feel pinned. "You want me to clap for one win? Against the Meteors, who sit dead last in the Galactic table?" His laugh was humorless. "We bled for ninety minutes, scraped by with three goals and an assist from a rookie, and you want celebration?"

Blaze felt a sting, but Jason wasn't done.

"We are Eternal Era. The badge on your chest means you represent more than yourselves. Look around. Fans slept outside this facility last night just to get a glimpse of you. And right now, we're not even in the top twenty. That is shameful."

Silence reigned.

Jason paced, then stopped. "Sacrifices brought you here. Every one of you gave something—family, childhood, health—to stand in this room. If you think fame or hype can replace teamwork, then quit now. Because to stay in the top twenty, we need more than sparks. We need a firestorm."

His eyes flicked to Blaze. "That includes you, kid. A striker is only as good as the men and women willing to pass him the ball."

Blaze nodded slowly, swallowing the heat in his chest.

Jason exhaled, tension easing slightly. "We face Solar Blades next. Mid-table, but dangerous. Fast transitions. Aggressive midfield. We'll need discipline. And for that, I'm making changes."

Murmurs broke out immediately. Jason raised a hand for silence.

"Blaze starts."

The room reacted like a field struck by lightning. Scarlet smirked knowingly. Lionel offered a slow nod, unbothered. Aya remained expressionless. But Kenji froze, then looked away, jaw tight. Another forward—Diego—snorted audibly, muttering, "Figures. One flashy game and he's golden."

Jason ignored it. "Lionel, Grim, Aya—you anchor the spine as usual. Anastasia, I want you to link with Blaze. Scarlet, push the left channel harder. Midfield will rotate more aggressively to feed counters. We don't just play. We punish."

The tactical board flickered to life behind him, arcs of light tracing movement patterns.

"Training starts in fifteen. Don't waste it."

He left, boots echoing against the metal floor.

For a while, no one spoke. Then Lionel broke the silence, his deep voice steady. "Pressure builds diamonds—or cracks. Blaze, you've got both eyes on you now. Handle it."

Scarlet chuckled, tossing a towel over her shoulder. "Don't listen too hard, rookie. Some of them just don't like being shown up." She gave Kenji a pointed glance.

Kenji stood abruptly, grabbing his water bottle. "This team doesn't need heroes. Remember that." He stormed out.

The locker room settled into a nervous hum again. Blaze sat still, heart racing, thoughts colliding. His father's voice drifted back to him from memory: Respect isn't given. It's earned, every time you step on the pitch.

He clenched his fists. He would earn it.

That night, in his room, the cheers still echoed in his ears. Blaze lay on his bed, watching the replay of his goals against the Meteors on his holoscreen. Each strike replayed with fan edits—flames around his feet, lightning tracing his aura.

But in the quiet, the doubts lingered. Was he being selfish? Were his teammates starting to see him as a rival rather than an ally?

Mia's soft holographic form appeared by the desk. "Your rise is accelerating. Faster than predicted."

Blaze rubbed his temples. "And that's a problem, isn't it?"

"Not for you," Mia said calmly. "But for others who feel threatened."

Blaze exhaled slowly, shutting off the screen. His Titan Name—Blaze—was no longer just a whisper. It was a roar. But roars attract hunters. Rivals. Shadows.

He whispered to himself, almost like a vow. "I'll be the best striker in the world. But I won't lose the team doing it."

The next morning, as the team filed into the training pitch under the rising suns, the crowd outside was louder than ever. Some carried signs, others chanted songs.

And from the chaos, one voice pierced the din.

"Put the new kid in! We need a real striker!"

The shout carried over the walls, into the players' ears. Blaze's teammates turned their heads—some grinning, some frowning, others unreadable.

Jason, standing at midfield, raised his whistle. "Let's see if the new kid lives up to the noise."

The pitch shimmered with anticipation.

And Blaze knew—this was just the beginning.

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