The locker room walls were cracked and sweating. Twelve players sat on rough benches—five starters, seven subs. The air was thick with spell-treated cloth, scuffed armor, and the tight, ragged breath of tension. Above them, the old Redhollow banner hung like a memory nobody had the courage to take down.
Rowan stood before them. His coat was buttoned high, the Redhollow badge stitched firm over his chest. He met each of their eyes, one by one. Some were nervous. Some were ready to run through a wall. And three of them—Cival, Tenri, and Dara—looked both. They were starting today.
The stars—Lain, Calyre, and Theren—sat on the bench. Confused. Silent. Watching.
Rowan took a breath. "Look at me. All of you." They did.
"The team we're facing today sits second in the Rift Conference. They're tied on points with the top of the table. They haven't lost a match in three months. They have better equipment, deeper mana pools, and twice the funding." A few heads dipped slightly.
Rowan's voice cut through the quiet. "Good. That means we get to hurt something beautiful."
A stunned pause.
"You think that gap in the table is something to fear? I see it as a goddamn invitation. We don't cower because they're tall. We plant our feet and hit harder. They expect us to roll over. Today, we show them what it means to bleed for the badge."
The locker room air shifted.
"You three," Rowan said, turning to the promoted youths. "You're not here because of pity. You're here because you earned it. Today, the city will question that. The press will spin their stories. But when that whistle blows, none of that matters. Because when you take the field, you aren't just wearing a kit. You're making a promise."
He took a step closer.
"Out there, they see stats. I see grit. They see teenagers. I see Knights. And when you cross that line today—when your boots touch the edge of our broken field—you're not just players. You're the fire."
Rowan's eyes burned. "Make them feel it."
The squad sheet was leaked before the warm-up. Three academy youths in the starting lineup. Three veterans benched.
Controversy erupted. — "Risky beyond logic." — "Tactical suicide." — "A headmaster playing fantasy."
The media spun tales before the opening whistle was even near. Screens lit across Shadestone with furious opinion. Reporters flooded the gates.
Rowan welcomed every word of it.
In the short hall behind the press box, he crossed paths with Auren Markel. They exchanged nothing. Just a glance. One cold, one unreadable. Then passed each other without a word.
The press conference was packed. Rowan stood behind the mic, hands clasped, eyebrows raised like he'd just stumbled into a comedy club.
The questions came fast.
"Why start three youth players against Deepvault?" "Are you admitting this is a throwaway match?" "Do you think Redhollow can even stay up this season?" "Is this a publicity stunt to distract from academy debt?" "Are your veterans being punished for speaking out?"
Rowan smiled, calm and sharp. He leaned forward.
"You ever see a forge burn something to shape it? Doesn't look clean. Looks messy. Wild."
A pause. A chuckle from the back.
"These kids aren't here to be ornaments. They're steel before the hammer. If you don't believe me—well, then that's perfect. Because belief is earned. And we're just getting started."
He let the silence stretch for half a beat.
"This isn't about throwing a match. It's about forging a new standard. If the price of building a real team is weathering doubt, then I'll wear it proudly."
Another voice piped up: "Do you regret sidelining your highest rated players for rookies?"
"No," Rowan said simply. "Not when the rookies have more heart. And not when those stars forgot what the badge meant."
Gasps from the front row. Pens flew across paper.
"We're not here to play safe. We're here to build something worth watching. Worth becoming."
A younger reporter raised a hand: "Then what's your goal this season, Coach Keir? Survival?"
Rowan smiled—something tight, ferocious.
"Survival's the floor. Identity's the ceiling. And today, we raise both."
Another voice jumped in: "What's your message to the fans who think this is reckless?"
Rowan paused.
"I'd tell them this: reckless is pretending what we had was enough. Reckless is pretending mediocrity can carry legacy. Redhollow's been living in the shadow of history long enough. It's time to carve something new."
"Are you implying past leadership failed?"
Rowan met the question squarely. "No. They survived. They endured. Now it's time to rise."
He waited for the next hand.
"What if this backfires?"
Rowan laughed. Not cruel. Just honest.
"Then at least it'll burn on my terms."
Another pause. Then applause—scattered, hesitant. But real.
When Rowan stepped down, even the skeptics followed him with their eyes.
The field at Redhollow was rough, worn, and half-cursed with memory. But under the floodlights, it looked ready.
The Redhollow Knights took to the pitch in battered silver and crimson. Deepvault followed, gleaming in coordinated enchanted kitwork—subtle enchantments embedded by rumor, never caught.
The stadium buzzed.
Rowan and Auren met at the center line. They shook hands like strangers forced to share air.
Then the whistle blew.
And Aetherstone began.
The first five minutes were chaos. Mana surged. Zone lines flared. Deepvault pressed high. Redhollow responded fast. Twice the ball—no, the stone—shifted sides in under thirty seconds. Players collided, spells flickered. One of Deepvault's strikers—famous for cold efficiency—was nearly trapped on his first touch by Dara's pressure angle.
By the tenth minute, Redhollow was growing bolder. By the fifteenth, the impossible happened.
The first structure fell. A glyph-cracked barricade deep in Zone B exploded under coordinated pressure—Tenri anchoring the defense, Cival baiting the transition, Juno executing the stagger-break call to perfection.
Then a second. Moments later, a resource stream was not only intercepted, but destroyed. Then another. And another.
Three resource lines—gone. Three resource lines—stolen. Two structures—toppled. Deepvault looked stunned.
In their press box, analysts scrambled. Coaches barked orders. Auren didn't speak. His jaw tightened.
Rowan stood on the sideline, hands behind his back. Smirking. Not celebrating. Just watching. As if he always knew.
Because deep down, he did.
This was where giants learned to fall. And Redhollow had just shown up to teach the class.