Chương 230: The speedster and the Hero (230)
The roar of the crowd was a distant hum in Chigiri's ears, muffled by the walls of the locker room. While excitement crackled around him, Chigiri felt a cold knot of frustration clench his stomach.
The first half had been a whirlwind of Nakada's explosive brilliance and Nagi's chilling intensity, leaving him feeling invisible, a forgotten footnote in the unfolding drama.
His blistering speed, once his defining feature, seemed ordinary compared to their calculated precision and raw aura. Each of their touches resonated with the thunder of their evolution, pushing the very boundaries of the game.
He had glimpses of himself, his blue blur tearing through defenses, but those moments were fleeting, overshadowed by the spectacle of the prodigies.
A wave of self-doubt crashed over him. Was this it? Had his fleeting moment in the spotlight already passed? Was he destined to be relegated to the sidelines, just another player in the shadows of these monsters?
No. The fire of defiance flickered within him, refusing to be extinguished. He belonged on this field, not relegated to the role of a spectator. He craved to join the dance, to carve his own mark on the canvas of the game, to prove that he, too, was worthy of being called a "best player."
But how? How could he bridge the seemingly insurmountable gap separating him from these prodigies? He wouldn't try to mimic their styles, their calculated dominance or chilling aura. He would play to his strengths, pushing his speed beyond its perceived limits, becoming a blur of motion that defied physics itself.
He envisioned himself not as a blazing sun, but as a silent storm, leaving defenders gasping in his wake, his runs becoming whispers of raw, untamed potential. He wouldn't be the center of attention, but rather a comet streaking across the sky, leaving a trail of awe and confusion in its wake.
Chigiri's gaze dropped, not downcast, but fixated on his legs. They weren't just limbs; they were weapons, instruments honed for a singular purpose – speed. The frustration gnawing at him wasn't a surrender, but a challenge.
In the whirlwind of Nakada's calculated brilliance and Nagi's chilling intensity, Chigiri felt invisible, his speed, once his defining feature, reduced to a mere footnote.
But even amidst the shadow of these monsters, a quiet fire burned within him. Neither Nakada nor Nagi possessed the weapon he held: raw, untamed speed. Nakada, for all his explosiveness, wasn't built for sustained dashes.
He could match Chigiri's initial burst, maybe even keep up momentarily, and even Nagi's chilling aura wouldn't save him from a blurring blue comet leaving dust in its wake.
A steely resolve settled in Chigiri's eyes. He wouldn't mimic their styles; he would redefine his own. This wasn't about cheap thrills or fleeting moments of glory. This was about pushing his limits, transcending perceived boundaries, becoming more than just "fast."
He envisioned himself not just as a blur, but as a force of nature, a sonic boom shattering the sound barrier itself.
The locker room hummed with the pre-game energy, but Chigiri was in his own world.
He visualized each stride, each muscle fiber screaming in protest, yet propelling him forward. He wouldn't just reach his full speed; he would surpass it, carving a new definition of "fast" into the very fabric of the game.
His fingers flexed, anticipation coursing through him. This wasn't about proving himself to the crowd; it was about asserting his dominance, etching his name on the canvas of the game not with flashy moves, but with the raw, indomitable spirit of speed.
Nakada and Nagi might be monsters, but they had never faced a storm like the one brewing within Chigiri's legs.
A knot of frustration tightened in Kunigami's chest, mirroring the vice grip Nakada seemed to have on the game. Every clash became a humiliating display of disparity.
Muscles that once felt invincible now strained against Nakada's effortless power, his lightning-fast reflexes rendering Kunigami's brute force obsolete. It was like trying to wrestle a bear with bare hands; futility gnawed at him with each futile attempt.
He wasn't just losing battles; he was being dismantled, exposed as a mere child playing with toys too big for him. Nakada's casual flicks dispossessed him of the ball with disconcerting ease, his movements a blur of calculated precision that left Kunigami feeling clumsy and slow. The prodigy's gaze, devoid of malice but brimming with unwavering superiority, only amplified the sting of defeat.
Rage simmered beneath Kunigami's stoic facade. He hated this feeling, this impotence. His entire identity, his worth, had always been anchored in his physical prowess.
To be outmuscled, outmaneuvered, reduced to a bumbling obstacle by this… prodigy? It was an insult, a fundamental challenge to everything he was.
Kunigami's jaw clenched so tight his teeth sang a silent hymn of fury. Each passing second on the field felt like an eternity of humiliation, a brutal exposé of his inadequacies. He wasn't just losing to Nakada; he was being toyed with, dismantled piece by piece like a child's construction set.
Nakada's casual dominance was the ultimate insult. Every effortlessly deflected challenge, every intercepted pass, was a mocking smirk etched in the air. Kunigami's pride, once an impenetrable shield, now lay cracked and bleeding. He saw the glint of amusement in Nakada's eyes, the unspoken label of "inferior" plastered across his back.
He hated it. Hated every agonizing second. Hatred, a molten tide, threatened to consume him, but within its churning depths, a different fire ignited – defiance. He wouldn't let Nakada turn him into a footnote in his glorious narrative.
He wouldn't be another victim of the prodigy's calculated cruelty.
If Nakada wanted to be the villain, then so be it. Kunigami would become the hero, the relentless thorn in his side, the scrappy underdog who refused to back down.
He wouldn't win with Nakada's brand of calculated brilliance, but with raw, unyielding spirit. He would fight dirty, exploit weaknesses, become the embodiment of chaos that Nakada's pristine world couldn't control.
He envisioned himself not as a lion facing a dragon, but as a swarm of angry bees, buzzing around Nakada, stinging him with relentless attacks. He would use his agility, his unpredictability, his sheer tenacity to wear Nakada down. Every tackle would be a declaration of war, every interception a stolen victory. He wouldn't be elegant, he wouldn't be graceful, but he would be effective.
The whistle blew, the sound a mere formality before the storm. Kunigami didn't need a grand entrance; his eyes, burning with righteous fury, spoke volumes. As he took the field, a single, chilling vow echoed in his mind: "You want a villain, Nakada? I'll give you one. And this hero won't rest until you taste the dirt."
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