Four days had passed since the fierce battle between Phantom Force and Crusher Eleven. The echoes of that brutal clash still lingered—not just in bruises and aches, but deep inside their hearts. The storm had settled… but the fire was far from out.
Jim sat alone on a worn bench outside the academy dorms, his recovery gear a reminder of the wounds he wore like badges. The wind teased at his sleeves, whispering promises and challenges. He was still standing. Still fighting.
Across from him, Alex leaned casually against a pillar, eyes scanning the distant horizon with a quiet intensity.
"Hey, Alex," Jim broke the silence, voice low but steady. "Isn't the second semifinal today? I heard Minato's team is playing."
Alex's lips curled into a faint smile. "Yeah. Yellow Storm versus Dark Howlers. It kicks off soon."
Jim's brow furrowed. "How is that even possible? Only one team from each group qualifies, right? How did Minato's team make it here?"
Alex pushed off the pillar, his stance firm. "Wild Card Entry. It's like a second chance thrown at those who nearly made it. If a team believes they can topple the top seed from another group, they can challenge them. Win, and you snatch their spot. Lose, and you're out for good."
Jim blinked, absorbing the weight of that. "So Minato's team? They went all-in, beat a top dog, and earned their place?"
"Exactly," Alex nodded. "They fought their way back."
Jim's eyes sparked with determination. "We have to watch that match. We need to know exactly who we might face in the final."
Alex's gaze locked with Jim's. "Only you and me, though."
Jim raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Why not the whole team? They fought just as hard as us."
Alex groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Because if we invite everyone, Zenkoku and Volt will tag along. And spending time with Volt? It's like…eating your own brain with a fork. Painful and confusing."
Before Jim could respond, a familiar, cocky voice rang out from behind them.
"Did someone say the name of this handsome thunderbolt?"
Alex rolled his eyes, the exhaustion obvious. "Oh no. Here comes trouble."
He nudged Jim. "Run."
"What? Where—?"
"I'm already a kilometer ahead," Alex called as he dashed off.
Volt grinned wildly. "Hey! Wait up! I'm not letting you win this race—I always finish first, even before it starts!"
Jim laughed despite himself. "You two are impossible."
Eventually, the trio reached the stadium. Volt slowed down, stopping to sign autographs and flash his trademark grin to the crowd. The roar of the packed stands hit them like a tidal wave as they stepped through the gates.
"The whistle blows! The first half ends, tied at 1-1!"
Jim groaned. "No way… We missed the whole first half?"
Volt swaggered in after them, totally unfazed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Everyone's been waiting for me to show up. I'm the real star, obviously."
He struck a dramatic pose. "Hello, ladies! The thunder has arrived—"
Then he froze.
No one was looking.
Not a single soul turned his way. The stadium's eyes were glued to the pitch—hearts pounding, breaths held—captivated by the fierce battle unfolding on the field.
Volt's confident smile faltered. "Wait… what? Nobody's paying attention to me?"
Jim smirked, shaking his head. "Looks like they came for the storm—not the thunderbolt."
Volt let out a melodramatic sigh. "Betrayed… by my own fans. This hurts worse than a red card."
They settled into their seats, the scoreboard glowing above: Yellow Storm 1, Dark Howlers 1. The air buzzed with raw energy. Each tackle, sprint, and pass sent sparks flying. The players fought like lions circling for dominance.
Alex's eyes sharpened. "Watch closely. This isn't just any semifinal. This is a war. The winner today is the final boss we'll have to beat."
Jim leaned forward, pulse quickening. "Let's see what kind of storm we're really walking into."
And as the whistle blew for the second half, somewhere amid the fierce chaos, their destiny edged closer—one electric moment at a time.