"You’re too kind for your own good, boy." He shook his head. "That’s why I worry about you. The world doesn’t reward kindness. It devours it."
He turned, beginning to shuffle toward the tunnel, but paused after a few steps.
"But then again..." he added, not looking back, "maybe that’s why you’ll outlast them all."
Shun watched the old man disappear into the shadows of the tunnel, the words lingering in the air like an echo.
He stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. Then, with a slow exhale, he turned back toward the pitch.
"Outlast them?" He muttered, a faint smile tugging at his lips. For some reason, he couldn’t help but remember Hiro. The mere thought that he could outperform this beast of a man- he couldn’t even entertain those thoughts.
How was he even supposed to surpass him?
The training ground stretched before him—empty, quiet, waiting.
He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers, and walked towards the field.
**** ****
The thunder rumbled—a low, guttural growl from the heavens as a flash of lightning split the grey clouds, illuminating the world in a brief, violent white.
Rain fell in sheets, hammering the surface below, pooling into gleaming puddles that mirrored the storm above.
Splash! Splash!
The puddles quaked beneath the weight of a lone figure darting across the soaked field. Rain pounded against him, soaking through his jersey, plastering fabric to skin.
But he didn’t slow.
He didn’t flinch.
He ran, dragging his exhausted soul through the deluge, each step a battle against the weight pressing down on his shoulders.
"Two more! Two more!"
A voice cut through the storm from the sidelines—sharp, unrelenting.
His limbs screamed. His muscles trembled with every stride, the drenched jersey clinging to him like a second skin, dragging him down with each movement. The water seeped into his lungs with every ragged breath.
Still, he pushed.
The rain dripped from his jet-black hair, cascading over his brow, blurring his vision into a hazy smear of grey and green. He blinked rapidly, fighting to see, fighting to stay upright.
His breathing came in heavy, broken gasps, each inhale a battle, each exhale a surrender.
He weaved around the obstacles scattered across the field, moving with the fluidity of a serpent slicing through tall grass. His feet danced around the cones, his body twisting and turning with practiced precision.
But the ground beneath him was treacherous.
It clawed at his soles with every step, threatening to pull him down, to swallow him whole.
Yet, he pushed himself.
Then a glint flashed across his pupils as he raised his head, his gaze locking onto the post before him.
The rain blurred his vision—sheets of grey distorting the world into a watercolor smear. But he brushed the distraction aside, his focus narrowing to a single point: the goal.
His pupils contracted, honing in on the gap between the mannequins placed before him. The gap was small, barely enough to fit in a ball.
’There.’
He tilted his head, shifted his weight onto his legs, and unleashed a strike that sent the ball soaring.
BAM!
The sound echoed briefly before the pounding rain swallowed it whole.
The ball cut through the drizzling downpour like a cannonball—unhindered, ruthless, unstoppable. It carved a path through the air, spinning violently as it raced forward.
It slipped through the gap between the mannequins. A passage so narrow it seemed impossible. Yet the ball threaded the needle with surgical precision, grazing nothing but air.
Then it rushed toward the post—
WHIP!
—and crashed against the net.
For a moment, the ball continued to spin, twisting against the white mesh as if threatening to tear free, to break loose from the trap that had caught it.
But the net held.
The ball settled.
And silence returned, broken only by the steady rhythm of rain and the ragged sound of his breathing.
However, he didn’t pause to celebrate. He didn’t allow himself even a breath of satisfaction.
Instead, he turned and rushed back to the starting point, as if nothing had happened, already preparing himself for the next repetition.
The searing pain made every step a battle. His muscles screamed, his joints ached, his lungs burned with each ragged inhale. But he persevered while clenching his jaw, narrowing his focus, and pushing through the wall of agony.
He dragged his exhausted body through another set of drills, each repetition chipping away at his reserves.
"That’s enough!"
The voice from the sideline cut through the rain like a firm and final command.
At the command, the youth stopped.
And then, as if the strings holding him upright had been snipped, he collapsed onto the rain-soaked ground.
For the duration of the drill, he had been occupied—too consumed to notice the weight pressing down on him. But now, with the pause, exhaustion crashed over him like a freight train, pinning him to the earth.
The ground beneath him was cold, drenched, unforgiving.
He didn’t care.
The chill against his skin felt almost relieving, like a grounding sensation in the haze of fatigue. He lay there, sprawled on the muddy pitch, letting his body sink into the wet grass.
His breathing came in irregular, shallow gasps. His heart hammered violently against his ribs, each thud a drumbeat in his ears, making it impossible to stabilize his rhythm.
While he lay there struggling for air, the man draped in a black raincoat walked toward him.
He lifted the hood, allowing the rain to fall freely onto his scalp, and rolled his sapphire-like pupils downward to study the pink-haired youth collapsed before him.
He could see it all—the heaving chest, the trembling limbs, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
The youth looked young. Too young.
His skin, flawless as polished jade, was smeared with streaks of mud. But the rain continued its relentless work, washing away the grime, revealing the handsome features beneath.
Just from his appearance alone, the man could tell—this youth could have chosen an easier life. A different path.
He could have been a model. An influencer. Someone who coasted through life on the currency of his face alone.
Yet here he was. On a rain-soaked pitch, pushing himself past the breaking point, clawing for something greater.
And more than his appearance, it was his work ethic that struck the man. He pushed himself unlike the others, those who showed up just to check a box, just to say they tried.
Even on days like this, when the storm raged and the pitch turned to mud, he didn’t stop.
He never stopped.
Thinking about that attitude, the man’s gaze softened. His stern expression melted into something warmer, almost paternal.
"Yang Min-hyeok," he called out, his tone gentle, like a parent speaking to a child after a fall. "You’re one tough kid, you know."
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