The locker room was quiet.
Not the bitter kind of quiet that came after failure. This was heavier—like everyone was holding their breath and trying not to exhale regret. Gear bags lay half-zipped. Water flasks untouched. The stink of sweat and mana residue clung to the walls. A faint hum from the overhead lights sounded like it echoed from the bottom of a cavern.
Rowan stood at the front, arms folded, coat slung over the back of a broken chair. His gaze swept the room with a calm that felt unnatural, eerie almost. The lights above buzzed faintly, flickering now and then like they weren't sure if they belonged here anymore. Shadows danced across the floor. The air hung thick.
The team sat scattered—some slumped on benches, others staring at the floor, blinking hard to hold back emotion. A few sat upright, backs rigid like they'd just returned from battle. No one was speaking. No one could.
Rowan let it hang there. Let the silence settle into the room. He didn't want to break it until they had truly sat with it.
Then, he spoke. His voice didn't rise. It didn't break.
"I'm proud of you."
Several heads lifted. Some turned just enough to show surprise. Others stayed down, unconvinced. A few expressions twisted, trying to reconcile pride with the sting of the loss.
"You fought. You gave everything you had. And for that, I'm proud. I won't ask more than what you've got to give. Not ever."
He paused, scanning each face slowly. Let the words land.
"But we need to talk about what happened."
A few players stiffened. One cleared their throat quietly. The silence had started to change texture—less weight, more friction.
"This wasn't about talent. Or fitness. Or who played and who didn't. We didn't lose on the field. We lost in our heads."
Someone let out a shaky breath. Another sniffed.
"The first half, you were Knights. You played with bite, with belief. You shocked a top-tier team, and made them afraid. Then the second half came—and a few words, a few jabs, and the wheels came off. That wasn't fatigue. That was fear."
He stepped forward. Slowly. Boots scuffing against the cracked tile.
"I've never seen the same team play at two different standards in one match. That tells me something: we haven't spent enough time together. We haven't forged the trust yet to withstand a second punch."
He let that linger. Then added, more gently:
"But that's okay. Because this? This was your first real fight together. And now we build. From this. With this."
He pointed at his chest. "With what's still beating in here."
He nodded at Tenri, at Cival, at Dara. "You've already proven you belong."
Then at the others. "And all of you will have your moment. If you work. If you learn. If you remember what it felt like to believe."
He picked up his coat and slung it over one shoulder.
"We have a lot of work to do. But we're not broken. Not even close."
He reached the door, then turned.
"And if anyone here thinks this is the best we'll ever be... find another academy."
Then he left them in the quiet.
Later, in the tunnel outside the press room, Rowan leaned against the wall, arms folded. The hum of conversation from reporters and camera techs filtered in like static. He was calm now—on the outside.
Auren approached—coat sharp, collar high, jaw set. The tunnel lights caught on the edge of his emblem, Deepvault's sigil gleaming with quiet pride.
"I'm about to give my team the credit they earned," he said without preamble.
Rowan didn't move. Just watched him.
"But this? This wasn't a clean win. Not for me."
Rowan's brow lifted slightly.
"You didn't even use your best. I don't know if it was punishment, or a message. But it wasn't the real fight."
His voice didn't carry arrogance anymore. It was low, grounded.
Auren's tone softened just enough. "Next time? I'm coming to crush you. Completely. I want to beat you when you're at your best. Not like this."
Rowan studied him. Eyes cold but not cruel.
Then smiled. Just a sliver. "Good. Because I'm going to make sure the next time... it'll be one you'll remember."
Auren gave a single nod, then vanished into the press chamber.
The press room buzzed.
Lights. Recorders. A half-dozen floating cam-runes captured every angle. Rowan stepped into the light, blinking slightly. The air felt warmer here—close and full of expectation.
He could already feel the heat of attention. The questions fired before he reached the podium.
"Why didn't you use your star players today?"
He nodded at the reporter. "Because no one is above the team. I needed to send a message—to them, to this locker room, to everyone. We don't earn minutes with names. We earn them with belief."
Another hand. "You were winning at halftime. Why not protect the lead?"
Rowan's expression didn't change. "Because I made a tactical mistake. I thought our cohesion could hold under pressure. I was wrong. That's not on the players. That's on me."
Another voice joined: "Do you think relegation is now inevitable?"
He laughed, once. Quietly. "I think nothing's inevitable. Especially in this league. If you watched the first thirty minutes today and think we're doomed, you weren't paying attention."
A sharper tone cut through: "Are you protecting your players or just shielding failure?"
Rowan leaned into the mic.
"I'm telling the truth. They gave me everything. They bled for the badge. We're not perfect—but failure? That belongs to the person who set the gambits. Who chose the rhythm. That's me. Don't mistake honesty for deflection."
The room quieted. A beat of silence.
One final question: "What do you want people to take from this match?"
Rowan looked into the cameras. His face was still, but his eyes were burning.
"The first half was our statement. The second half was my correction. And the full ninety minutes? That's our foundation. We're just getting started."
He stepped away as the murmurs began to grow.
This time, the applause didn't come from pity.
It came from curiosity.
And maybe... belief.