His chest throbbing from the previous impact, Winston puffed it out once more and braced himself for the next launch. Beside him, Oswin staggered back to his feet and stumbled into position. Still struggling to catch his breath, he nearly collapsed onto the turf again before Winston caught him by the arm and steadied him—Oswin winced and fought the urge to rub his ribs with a grimace.
"Ah... damn, that stings," he muttered through gritted teeth.
He looked toward the bald, short instructor and raised his voice. "Instructor, how many balls are we supposed to trap with our chests?"
"If you're going to complain, you can quit right now," the bald, short instructor said, sweeping his gaze across the exhausted youths. "Anyone else?"
No one answered—despite their aching chests, every youth forced themselves back onto their feet. Once everyone was in position, the bald, short instructor slowly raised his hand again. The youths braced themselves, drawing deep breaths as they prepared for the next volley.
A smirk tugged at the instructor's lips. He suddenly jerked his hand forward.
Almost every youth flinched—for a brief moment, the dome erupted in laughter as they caught one another jumping at the fake signal. Seeing the tension ease, the instructor's grin widened. Then he dropped his hand for real.
Click!
The football-launching machines fired in unison. Footballs screamed through the air toward the waiting youths. Those who hadn't been caught laughing leapt forward with their chests puffed out, meeting the balls in midair.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Heavy impacts echoed throughout the dome as ball after ball slammed into their chests. Winston felt the force drive him back half a step, but he dug his cleats into the turf and held his ground.
Beside him, Oswin wasn't as fortunate. The impact shoved him backward, causing him to lose his balance. Before he could fall, Winston reached out, grabbed his forearm, and steadied him.
Oswin let out a relieved breath before nodding his thanks.
Most of the youths were blasted backward once again. Some crashed onto the turf, while others blacked out from the force of the impact.
"I give up!" one youth groaned, clutching his throbbing chest.
His words broke the dam.
"Me too!"
"I'm done!"
Nearly half the group threw in the towel, unable to endure the punishment any longer. The remaining youths slowly climbed back to their feet and reformed the line, puffing out their aching chests in preparation for the next round.
A satisfied smirk spread across the bald, short instructor's face. He raised his hand and twirled his index finger. Immediately, the staff members beside the football-launching machines loaded two footballs into each launcher before pressing a series of buttons.
A low mechanical hum filled the dome. The youths exchanged uneasy glances. They had already learned enough to know that the instructor never made a change without making the next drill even more painful. Without another word, the bald, short instructor turned and walked into a room on the right side of the dome.
His sudden departure only heightened everyone's anxiety. The dome fell into an uneasy silence. A minute later, the instructor returned with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He took a leisurely sip before strolling back to his original position, as though he had all the time in the world. The youths who had already quit sat in the stands, rubbing their bruised chests while watching the remaining players with anxious expressions.
The soreness in Winston's chest gradually faded. He could feel faint streams of Nethen Essence flowing through his body, slowly mending the bruised muscles beneath his ribs.
Glancing beside him, he found Oswin bent over with his hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath. Winston reached over and rubbed his friend's back in silence. Then he surveyed the rest of the line.
Sebastian stood with his hands clasped behind his back, calm and composed as though the previous rounds had barely affected him. His companions, however, looked no better than Oswin. Their breathing was ragged, and their chests rose and fell heavily.
Farther down the line stood Darwin. Unlike the others, he remained upright, his posture unwavering and his eyes fixed on the launchers with quiet determination. The rest of the youths shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Some clenched their jaws, while others fought the urge to rub their bruised chests, knowing the instructor would only reprimand them if they did.
The sharp click of the launcher echoed through the dome like the cocking of a firearm, causing every youth to stiffen instinctively. The bald, short instructor raised his hand. Still sipping his coffee, he casually lowered it.
The operators manning the football-launching machine immediately fired two footballs in rapid succession.
In unison, the youths leaped into the air to meet the incoming balls.
Grunts and groans filled the dome as several players were knocked backward by the sheer force of the impact. Winston cushioned the first ball with his chest before taking a step back to absorb the momentum.
The second ball arrived a split second later. This time, he remained grounded, leaning into the impact and bringing it under control with another clean chest trap. Beside him, Oswin controlled the first ball reasonably well, but the second slammed into his chest before he could brace himself, sending him sprawling onto his back.
"Ugh… I give up," Oswin groaned as he slowly sat up. "Sorry, Wis. I feel like my chest's about to burst." Clutching his chest, he stumbled toward the stands.
A member of the medical staff waiting nearby beside a cooler box took out an ice pack and handed it to him. Oswin slumped onto the bench and immediately pressed the ice pack against his aching chest.
One after another, more youths admitted defeat.
Unable to withstand the relentless barrage, they volunteered to drop out and made their way toward the stands, leaving fewer and fewer players on the training floor.
Only eight youths remained standing—The bald, short instructor took another leisurely sip of his coffee, his gaze sweeping over the remaining competitors before shifting to those seated in the stands.
With a lazy twirl of his index finger, he signaled the operators.
The men at the football-launching machines loaded three more balls into each launcher and waited for the command. The instructor slowly raised his hand.
"I give up!" one youth shouted.
"Me too!" another called out moments later.
The two hurried toward the stands, leaving only six youths on the training floor.
Winston, Sebastian, Darwin, Benjamin, Diago, Duke.
They were the last ones standing—Several of them bore the toll of the challenge. Thin streams of blood trickled from the corners of their mouths, while others struggled to steady their breathing after enduring the relentless barrage.
The bald, short instructor raised his hand once more. He took another sip of coffee, cleared his throat, and casually lowered his arm.
The launchers roared to life—Footballs blasted forward one after another, each fired at precise one-minute intervals, giving the remaining six just enough time to recover before the next bone-rattling impact arrived.
Winston puffed out his chest and planted his feet firmly on the ground. Holding his breath, he spread his arms slightly to brace for the impact—The first football slammed into his chest.
He absorbed the force and deadened the ball's momentum, allowing it to drop and roll neatly in front of his cone. The Nethen Essence immediately surged through his aching chest, desperately trying to mend the damage.
Ignoring the pain, Winston pushed forward.
He sprinted toward the second incoming ball and leaped into the air. Puffing out his chest once more, he cushioned the impact and guided the ball safely to the ground in front of his feet.
But before he could recover—the third football screamed toward him. There wasn't enough time to brace. The ball slammed squarely into his chest. The violent impact knocked the wind out of him and hurled him backward through the air.
The blow disrupted the flow of Nethen Essence that had been repairing his battered chest, scattering the energy before it could finish its work.
Winston crashed onto the turf.
Dazed and gasping, he struggled back to his feet, coughing up a mouthful of blood. His vision blurred as he staggered forward, forcing himself to stay upright. Glancing to either side, he saw the other remaining youths collapsed across the field, writhing in agony.
Duke, Diago, and Benjamin slowly raised their hands. Their exhausted voices rang out together.
"I give up."
Sebastian remained standing.
Calmly wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth, he let out a quiet chuckle before clasping his hands behind his back and stretching his legs, waiting for the next volley.
Winston steadied himself beside him, struggling to keep his balance. Closing his eyes, he reached inward, trying to sense the flow of his Nethen Essence.
At that moment, he wished he had visited Haruto sooner. Maybe the doctor could have taught him how to control his Awakening.
Being able to sense the essence but not command it felt utterly useless. The bald, short instructor raised his hand once again before lazily twirling his wrist. The operators immediately loaded four footballs into the launching machine and stood ready, waiting for the signal.
With his coffee resting behind his back, the instructor lowered his hand.
Click.
The launcher sprang to life—A relentless barrage of footballs screamed toward Winston and Sebastian.
From that moment onward, everything became a blur. Winston barely remembered what happened next. It felt as though his body had taken over, moving on instinct alone while his mind faded into darkness.
When Winston opened his eyes again, a ceiling fan spun lazily above him. Groaning, he forced himself upright. Fragments of the training session flashed through his mind.
He slowly scanned the room—an office chair came into view, swiveling slightly. Seated in it was Haruto, still dressed in his white doctor's coat—adjusting his glasses, Haruto smiled.
"Oh, you're finally awake." His smile widened with relief.
"Wow… you've healed already." Confused, Winston looked at him.
Haruto simply gestured toward Winston's chest. Following the gesture, Winston looked down. His vest had been unbuttoned during the examination. Flushing with embarrassment, he quickly buttoned it back up.