Chapter 21: The Engine
The digital clock on the gym wall flickered: 04:15 AM.
While the rest of Building 5 was submerged in the heavy, restless sleep of the defeated, Eshan was already mid-set. The only sound in the cavernous weight room was the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of his breathing and the low, tectonic groan of the leg press machine.
Eshan sat deep in the seat, his jaw set in a line of cold steel. Stacked on the machine was a weight that would have snapped the knees of most high school athletes. He wasn't training for the "First Selection" anymore. To Eshan, the players in this building—Niko, Barou, even his own teammates—were merely temporary scenery. He was training for the version of himself that would eventually stand in a stadium filled with eighty thousand screaming fans.
He drove his heels into the metal plate. His quads, corded like high-tension cables after seven years of daily defiance against gravity, flared under the harsh fluorescent lights. He didn't explode upward with a shout; he moved with a slow, agonizing control, feeling every micro-fiber of muscle fiber tearing and rebuilding. This was his "Logic." He knew that Absolute Ball Feel was useless if the body carrying it couldn't sustain a ninety-minute assault from world-class defenders.
"Forty-nine," he exhaled, the sound a sharp puff of air. "Fifty."
He locked the rack. He didn't collapse or reach for a towel. He simply sat there for thirty seconds, watching his heart rate on his wrist monitor, waiting for it to drop back into his "optimal recovery" zone. He treated his body like a high-performance vehicle—every calorie, every rep, every hour of sleep was a calculated input.
The Friction of the Grass
By 06:00 AM, the first traces of artificial "morning" light began to glow in the training hall. Eshan moved to the pitch, which was still damp from the overnight misting system.
He didn't bring any teammates. He didn't want the noise of their panic or their "strategies." He brought a single bag of balls and placed them at the edge of the center circle.
He began his "Texture Calibration." He didn't sprint. He started at a walk, dribbling the ball through the long, wet grass of the midfield, then transitioning to the shorter, drier patches near the penalty box. His Absolute Ball Feel allowed him to sense the change in friction immediately. He could feel how the ball skidded an extra three inches on the damp turf, and how it "gripped" the dry blades.
Thud.
He fired a ball toward the corner flag, then sprinted to catch it before it went out. He didn't just stop the ball; he trapped it while mid-sprint, using the outside of his boot to kill the momentum instantly.
He did this for hours. Trap, turn, sprint. Trap, turn, sprint. To an observer, it looked repetitive, almost boring. But for Eshan, it was about achieving a state of Frictionless movement. He was memorizing the pitch. He was learning how much power to put into a pass if the grass was watered at halftime, and how much a curve would break in the stagnant air of the dome.
Around noon, Eshan headed back toward the locker rooms. He passed the tactical briefing room, where the door was slightly ajar. Inside, he could hear the frantic scratching of markers on a whiteboard and the stressed voices of his teammates.
"If Niko plays a long ball here, we have to collapse!" Kuon was shouting, his voice tight with anxiety.
"And what if he doesn't?" Raichi barked back. "What if they just sit back and let us rot? We can't break that wall!"
Eshan didn't stop. He didn't even look through the glass. To him, their fear was a waste of energy. They were trying to solve a puzzle with their brains that he had already solved with his feet. He walked to the cafeteria and waited for his meal.
He sat alone at the long table, a plate of grilled salmon and steamed greens before him. He wasn't being "antisocial"—he was simply in a different headspace. He was visualizing the "One-Counter" not as a tactical threat, but as a physical rhythm. Every defense has a heartbeat. If you can feel the pulse, you can find the moment it skips.
Bachira slid into the seat across from him, his hair a mess from his own erratic training. "You're all focused today, Eshan-kun," he chirped, stealing a piece of broccoli from Eshan's plate. "The 'Monster' inside you is getting loud, isn't it?"
Eshan looked up, his silver-gray eyes calm. "It's not loud, Bachira. It's just waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For the first person to think they've stopped me," Eshan said, his voice quiet. "I want to see the look on Niko's face when he realizes his 'simulations' don't account for reality."
The Final Count
The night before the match, the 72-hour window was closing. The rest of Team Z was in the common room, some staring at the ceiling, others obsessively checking their gear. The pressure of the 2-0 shutout record of Team Y hung over them like a guillotine.
Eshan was back in the gym. He wasn't lifting heavy anymore; he was doing mobility work. He moved through a series of deep, fluid lunges, stretching his hip flexors and ankles. He needed to be liquid. He needed to be able to turn in a space the size of a phone booth while three defenders tried to tear his jersey off.
He stood in front of the mirror, looking at his reflection. He didn't see a "high school striker." He saw a weapon that had been under construction for years.
He turned off the lights and walked out, his footsteps steady and heavy. He wasn't worried about the "Total Defense." He wasn't worried about Niko Ikki. He was simply ready to perform the function he had been built for.