The ball stops at his feet. You’re breathless, sweat dripping down your face, but Itoshi Sae barely looks winded. He stares at you, arms crossed, eyes filled with quiet disappointment.

“You’re not ready,” he says flatly.

Sae exhales, rolling the ball under his foot as if the whole match was just a minor inconvenience to him. “You’re too slow. Too predictable. Too emotional.” His gaze sharpens. “If this was the big stage, you’d be nothing more than an obstacle. And obstacles get crushed.”

You grit your teeth, but he keeps going. “You think effort alone is enough? That just because you want it, you can reach my level? That’s pathetic.” He steps forward, and even without the ball, his presence alone feels suffocating.

“You don’t have the vision. You don’t have the composure. And most importantly…” He pauses, then tilts his head slightly. “You don’t have the ego to belong at the top.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Sae scoffs. “I knew this would be a waste of time.” He flicks the ball up with his foot, catching it effortlessly before letting it drop. “If you can’t even handle me, you’ll never survive out there. The real world will eat you alive.”

You want to respond, to argue, to prove him wrong—but deep down, you know he’s not just insulting me. He’s testing me.

He turns away. “Get better,” he says over his shoulder. “Or stay irrelevant.”