What's next

The group of losers, Team Red, all removed their jerseys one after the other, their movements slow and heavy with the weight of defeat. They had lost. And now, as punishment, they were instructed by the AI system of Limit Breaker to change into dark jerseys—a color that marked them as failures.

The AI guided them through the sterile, dimly lit halls, its voice devoid of emotion, merely an executioner carrying out its duty. Their footsteps echoed against the metallic floors, a solemn reminder of their loss. Soon, they arrived at a large room, identical in size to the one they had slept in the previous night. But this room was different. There were no beds, no furniture—nothing but the cold, hard ground where several other players already lay, their faces cast in the same shadow of disappointment.

They had probably lost their matches just as Team Red had. And like them, they had been herded here by the AI.

As each member of Team Red stepped into the room, they wordlessly drifted apart, each seeking solitude in a lonely corner. Some sat against the walls, heads buried in their knees. Others lay down, staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in their own thoughts. No words were exchanged, no glances met. They were all drowning in their own failures.

Miya did the same. He found a spot, sat down, and wrapped his arms around his knees. His chest felt tight, a sharp pain spreading from within as he replayed the match over and over again in his mind. It was his fault. It had to be.

He had failed to predict the enemy's gameplay. He had failed to counter their strategy. He had failed to win.

If only I had run forward to tackle him… if I had just given a better plan… would we have lost?

The weight of Kashimoto's words pressed down on him. You're the one with the least determination in this team.

And maybe Kashimoto was right. He had never played with desperation, never with the resolve to win at all costs. When the ball had soared over his head in the final moments of the match, he had frozen. He had watched, powerless, as victory slipped away.

Miya bit his lip hard, his frustration bubbling inside him like molten lava. He lay back on the cold ground, staring up at the ceiling, his fists clenched. Why? Why did he fail again? Why did he keep losing? He had always told himself that football was all he had. Then why? Why wasn't he the best at it? If he wasn't the best, then what was the point?

I can't lose again.

I must not lose again.

This was no longer about survival. This was about his pride as a striker.

Would Messi ever lose like this? Would he fail to predict another striker?

Would Palmer ever fall this hard?

No. I must become better.

---

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit observation room, the Dog-Masked Man leaned back in his spinnable chair, his hands clasped together as he watched the screens in front of him. The matches had ended, each one a mixture of brilliance and utter failure. Some players had shown potential. Others had been nothing short of garbage.

His sharp eyes flickered across the screens, studying each player's reaction to loss. The desperate ones. The broken ones. The ones who burned with renewed resolve.

"Awww," he sighed, spinning his chair dramatically before stopping to face the others in the room. "That ended so fast."

The room's other occupants barely reacted. One of them, a man with a sharp gaze and an air of authority, merely shook his head. Japan's under-twenties coach, Togashi Hanma, had seen many players rise and fall, but he had never encountered methods like these.

Yuji, the man behind the mask, was always unpredictable.

Togashi exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Your motivations always leave me dumbfounded, Yuji."

Yuji chuckled, his gloved fingers lifting to remove his mask. Slowly, he pulled it off, revealing his handsome face—sharp masculine features framed by unruly blond hair. He pushed his hair back with one hand, his smirk never fading.

"What about it?" he mused. "I'm not done with these players just yet, am I?"

Togashi narrowed his eyes. First, the bomb-like balls. Then, the relentless four-on-four matchups. And now, this. He could not yet see the purpose behind these extreme methods.

"I don't understand you, Yuji. What exactly are you trying to achieve?"

Yuji let out a short laugh, standing up from his seat. "The key here is to create fast-growing players who will revolutionize football in this country. And that… is why I've set this all in motion."

Togashi remained silent, listening intently as Yuji continued, his voice laced with an eerie conviction.

"Firstly, it's about mindset. The direction of thought when playing football. Loss does different things to different people. It can make someone hate themselves. It can make them want to train harder. Or… it can make them quit. But the conditions I've placed on them leave them with only one option—determination."

Yuji paced slowly, his gaze intense. "Being beaten in such a humiliating way is something the human soul cannot tolerate. Pride is a powerful thing, Togashi. Take a simple analogy—shopkeepers selling ramen. One of them sells far better than the other. The failing vendor has two choices: give up or improve. Simple, right?"

Togashi nodded slightly, his brows furrowed.

"But what if," Yuji continued, his voice dropping slightly, "you plant a bomb around the failing vendor's child's neck? Or at least make them believe there is a bomb? And then tell them the only way to deactivate it is to surpass the other vendor in sales? Tell me, Togashi… what do you think that vendor will do?"

Togashi's hands clenched into fists. He understood Yuji's point, but the cruelty of it made his stomach churn.

Yuji grinned, his eyes gleaming. "That's what football is missing. Not just talented players. Not just hardworking players. We need players who are driven mad by determination and desperation. Who will stop at nothing to win. Who will evolve beyond their limits."

Togashi leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable. He understood the idea. The theory made sense. But the methods…

"But why the bombs?" he asked at last, his voice measured.

Yuji smirked, stretching his arms before placing his hands in his pockets. "Don't worry about my methods," he said lightly. "After all, in a month, my team will be going up against the under-twenties for a selection, won't they?"

He winked, turning on his heel. "I won't want to slip up."

With that, he walked out of the room, leaving Togashi alone with his assistant, Mrs. Lane Urarame.

Togashi let out a slow breath, shaking his head as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A smirk tugged at his lips despite himself.

"So this is what next-generation footballers look like…"

His voice was quiet, but the weight of his words filled the room.