Redhollow locker room. Halftime.
The players were electric—sweating, grinning, breathing like warhorses. Dara's hands shook with excitement. Cival and Juno sat next to each other in stunned disbelief, as if they'd woken up in the wrong story. Tenri leaned forward, eyes burning with determination. Even the substitutes on the bench, those who hadn't played a single minute, seemed to glow with borrowed adrenaline.
Rowan let them have it. The joy. The adrenaline. He watched it. Let it swirl around them like charged mist.
They deserved this. Every second of it.
Then he walked to the center of the room.
"It's not over," he said, calm.
The room quieted instantly. Even the buzzing enchantments embedded into the walls seemed to hush.
He grabbed the mana board with both hands and slammed it down onto the bench.
The burst of sound cracked the air. Glyphs on the board glowed wildly, mana lines distorting from the impact. A few players jumped.
"You hear me? It's not over. They're wounded—but not broken. And if you walk back out there thinking this is done, they will bury you."
No one spoke.
Rowan stepped forward, voice hot, cadence deliberate.
"This isn't about playing well. This is about being something. This is what it means to be a Knight of Redhollow. You fight, and bleed, and hold the damn line no matter how bright the other team's crest glows. You do not let up. Not now. Not ever."
He pointed at the cracked banner above.
"That banner? It was hung in better days. But today, you've brought it back to life. Don't make it mourn again."
He looked each of them in the eye.
"If anyone here thinks three goals is enough, you can stay in this room. I want no passengers. Only believers."
Tenri stood first, her armor scraping against the bench. Then Juno, hands curled into fists. Dara followed, still trembling—but with resolve now.
One by one, they rose.
Even the subs.
Rowan gave a single nod.
"This half, we make them regret leaving us breathing."
Deepvault locker room. Halftime.
Tension. Anger. Controlled fury.
Their headmaster—Auren—paced like a man haunted by humiliation. He didn't scream again. Not now. That had been his first instinct, but rage alone would not save them.
"We score two before minute fifty," he said tightly, jaw clenched. "Do that, and we kill their momentum. They're running on belief right now. Break that, and they fall."
He stepped to the mana board, dragging up updated glyph layouts with one hand, the other raking through his silver-streaked hair.
"Rotational Sequence Four," he barked. "Thalos and Venik on. I want Mana Surge Pressure and Overchannel Control to start the half. They've used too much mana. Their enchanter's shield work is thinning. Their trapsetters are overextending. We punish that."
The midfielders huddled in tighter, eyes scanning the diagrams. Wingers adjusted gear. A striker twisted his gloves tighter, breathing hard.
Auren spun on them.
"Listen to me. Redhollow is not better. They're lucky. Motivated, sure. But they're burning bright and fast. Its the brightest burning stars in the night sky—they are the ones that are dying. We're disciplined. We're trained. We have structure. Let them play hearts—we'll play ruthlessness."
He locked eyes with his striker.
"You're staying wide. You pull their defender out and stretch their gambit. Force them to chase angles they can't cover. We get our shard flow back and we don't stop."
He turned to the midfield core.
"We run them down. We keep pressure high until their youth core collapses. They will. They're tired. They're not used to this intensity. They've had their moment—now it ends."
His tone lowered to a growl.
"You want to be league champions? Then act like it. Don't die in this mud-pit. Burn it down."
Silence.
Then a deep breath from the striker.
"Yes, Headmaster."
Another followed.
"We break them."
And then the fire returned to their eyes.
They stood.
Not eager.
Determined.
Tunnel.
The two teams walked side by side toward the pitch. Redhollow looked serious. Not cocky. Focused.
Deepvault looked sharp again—disciplined now, but cold. Controlled. Rebuilt.
The fans screamed from overhead, thunder in stone and wood. Banners waved. Glyph-cam recorders hovered.
Rowan met Auren's eyes.
Auren's glare was flat.
Rowan tilted his head, just enough.
"You remember our chat last night?" he said lightly. "You said you'd take it easy on me. First match and all. Family legacy."
A pause.
"Funny how things change."
He walked ahead.
Auren said nothing.
Second half.
Redhollow started slow. Too slow.
The high of the first half had left its mark. Muscles stiffened. Coordination lagged. Momentum, once fluid, fractured with every pass.
Cival mistimed a loop pass. Dara's hand trembled mid-glyph. Juno overstepped a formation cue and nearly collided with Revi.
Even Tenri looked winded. The pressure was returning. Heavy. Suffocating.
Rowan watched. Silent. But seething inside.
He knew this pattern.
The youngest players were caught between disbelief and fear. Caught between the pride of the first half and the fear of losing it all.
At minute 38, Rowan made a move.
Substitutions.
But not the stars.
He benched Revi and Cival for two utility players from the bench. Raw, but grounded. Heavy-footed but reliable.
The crowd murmured. The commentators upstairs whispered.
But no one spoke against it.
He was winning.
So far.
Internally, a few staff exchanged glances. Why not bring on Lain? Or Calyre? Or even Theren, who had once carried entire matches solo?
Rowan heard none of it. Saw none of it. He held his grudges like iron.
He wasn't just teaching the players on the field.
He was teaching everyone.
Respect was earned. And nothing came free.
And he shifted to Gambit Alpha. Defensive shell.
Redhollow turtled. Compact. Measured. Back lines reinforced with heavier mana shields. Wingers pulled in. Formation collapsed inward.
Deepvault found air.
They began to stretch the field. First one channel, then another. Their striker feinted deep before pushing high into the gaps left behind. Their enchanters fanned wider, slinging mirror glyphs and false-gambit signals across the pitch to bait traps.
Minute 40 approached. Pressure mounting.
Redhollow's spellcasts began flickering.
Juno stumbled. Dara took a hit to the side and needed a quick mana stabilizer.
Even the crowd began to sense it.
The shift.
The tipping point.
And from the sideline, Rowan didn't blink.
He watched.
Arms crossed.
As the second half thundered on into fire.