The only source of light in the room was the hundreds of monitors that cast flickering colours on Ego's pale face. Streams of sweat ran down from his forehead alongside his cheeks to his chin, where they collected and dripped down. One drop landed on his keyboard with a splash that shattered the silence. Ego Jinpachi ran the back of his trembing hand over his warm forehead, wiping away the wet, thick film. His hair was already sticking disgustingly to his skin. He shook his head, dropping more sweat, before leaning back in his chair with a sigh. He muffled a few hacking coughs with the crook of his arm as he stole a glance at one of the monitors. These teenage footballers played with such naive fervour that it was pathetic to watch, but satisifying at the same time. His temples throbbed, his head hurt and a wave of dizziness washed over him, so badly that his head along with his body tilted to one side. At the last moment, he caught himself with one hand on the tabletop before pulling himself up and continuing to type. There wasn't a moment's rest. If he wanted to train the best striker in Japan, he couldn't allow himself a second of rest, not even a tiny moment to close his eyes. No one could convince him to stop working just because he had a little fever, right?