Special Training

Aslett told the others to pack up their gear and wrapped up the day's session. Du An and Griffiths, however, were left to run their five penalty laps. Watching the two on the track still locked in competition, neither willing to yield as they surged forward, Heighway chuckled and turned to Ben Hughes. "You said Du An was quiet and kept to himself. In truth, only the not talking part is real—he's not quiet in the least. The lad looks docile enough, but back at school he got into his fair share of scraps. He's vicious." Ben Hughes was taken aback. "Eh? Really? Doesn't look the type." "Kenny told me himself." Heighway watched with keen interest as the pair circled the pitch. Du An's stamina was clearly superior, while Griffiths was gritting his teeth just to keep pace. "He even had a word with the headmaster at Bishop John Catholic School on the boy's behalf. If he hadn't, the kid would've been expelled for fighting long ago." "The fiercest time, when Du An was eleven, he took on four boys by himself. By the end, all five were covered in blood. The other four collapsed on the ground, completely spent, but he was still pinning the ringleader down, beating him half to death." "Word is he didn't just flail around blindly, either. He picked one target and battered him mercilessly. The lad who started that brawl ended up with over a dozen stitches in his face and a massive scar." Ben Hughes's eyes went wide. After a long pause, he burst out laughing and nodded repeatedly. "Blimey, I never would've guessed. Still, that's not a bad thing. That kind of edge is exactly what you need in football." He gazed toward the misty sky in the distance, then back at the sea of red training kits across the pitch. As Liverpudlians, they had their own pride. What kind of city was Liverpool? Rain fell every day, and the suffocating fog weighed down until you could hardly breathe, yet the people here were never broken. The harder they were knocked down, the tougher they stood back up. A red soul was forged through fighting, never coddled into being! Across the track, Griffiths seethed with fury, charging forward with his head down. He was hell-bent on outrunning Du An to salvage the pride he had lost earlier. Yet after barely a lap and a half, Griffiths's pace visibly plummeted. He gasped for breath, his boots feeling heavier with every stride. In standard youth team fitness drills, he was middle-of-the-pack at best. How could he sustain an all-out sprint from the gun? Before long, his body gave out. Du An had completely broken him! He had no choice but to drop his pace to a brisk walk. Du An, however, hadn't even lost his breathing rhythm, maintaining his steady, unrelenting stride. Before long, he completed his second lap, and during his third, he caught up to Griffiths, who was still trudging through his second. As they brushed past each other, Du An didn't turn his head, but his voice came through crystal clear. "Useless." Leaving the word behind, he kept going without missing a beat. Griffiths heard it loud and clear. His face flushed red, then drained pale. He wanted to shout back, but could only watch helplessly as Du An's figure pulled further and further ahead. Fury flared up in Griffiths again. Gritting his teeth, he forced another burst of speed. Yet before he had even covered two hundred meters, his lungs felt like they were on fire, and his pace dragged down once more. Stamina was never his strong suit to begin with, and burning through his reserves right at the start had emptied his tank completely. Once again, as Du An rounded the bend and swept past Griffiths, he tossed out another calm word: "Useless." By now, Griffiths had slowed from a brisk walk to a heavy trudge. His chest heaved violently, lacking even the strength to lift his head and glare. Fourth lap, fifth lap—every time they crossed paths, Du An uttered that same word with cold composure. His voice wasn't loud, yet each syllable landed like a slap across Griffiths's face. Shaking with rage, Griffiths wanted to fire back, wanted to charge him down, but his legs felt like lead. He couldn't catch him. By the time Du An steadily finished his fifth lap and walked toward the touchline, Griffiths hadn't even finished his third. Bent over with his hands braced on his knees, he panted in ragged gasps, his face flushed crimson. He glared at Du An's back from afar, teeth grinding in bitter hatred, yet completely powerless. Their stamina wasn't even in the same league. He didn't even have the standing to compete. Connor was waiting by the pitch. Seeing Du An walk over, his eyes went wide, and he clapped him on the arm. "You're an absolute monster! Five laps and you're not even winded or red in the face. That stamina is ridiculous. If they let you play the full ninety minutes, I reckon you could sprint from start to finish without stopping for a breather." "I've always run a lot, so I'm used to it," Du An said with a smile, wiping the sweat from his brow. He knew Connor had stayed behind instead of leaving with the rest of the group as a quiet show of solidarity. Du An made a mental note of the support. As they walked toward the dressing room, Connor offered some candid advice. "Don't let him get to you. That's just the youth academy—it's competition everywhere you look." "You and Griffiths both play in midfield. There are only so many spots in the squad. With you here, his chances of getting squeezed out just went up. He was already clinging to the tail end of the U16s, and it's touch-and-go whether he'll even keep his place next season. It'd be stranger if he didn't try to cause you grief." Du An nodded. He had grasped that truth long ago: survival of the fittest, everywhere and always. It had been true at school, and it was even truer in the academy. When they entered the dressing room, the atmosphere was noticeably different from the morning. The teammates who had kept an aloof distance earlier were speaking to him with genuine warmth. Someone smiled and waved; another came over to praise his brilliant through-ball from the scrimmage; and someone else casually tossed out an invitation: "Got plans tonight? Come watch a film in our dorm. Just got hold of a new flick." Du An agreed with a smile. Though he knew that 'flick' might not strictly be an ordinary movie, he understood that football was never an individual sport. Settling into the team and staying on good terms with the lads would only help him. There was no sense in making enemies of the people he had to play alongside. Once he had showered and changed into clean clothes, Aslett appeared at the door and gestured to him. "Du An, come with me for a minute." Stepping out into the hallway, Aslett smiled. "Heighway wants to see you. Head up to his office." Puzzled, Du An nodded and made his way over. Arriving at the office, he pushed the door open and offered a polite greeting. Seeing him come in, Heighway smiled and waved him over. "Good shift on the pitch today. Your passing and tactical discipline were well beyond what I anticipated." Heighway offered the praise first before shifting his tone. "However, the issues are just as obvious. Your on-ball progression, defensive positioning, variety of technique—those weaknesses are glaring. If you want to catch up to the squad faster, daily team sessions alone won't cut it. You need extra training." He slid a schedule across the desk. "Starting tomorrow, on top of regular team sessions, you'll have extra work every day after school. The duration will depend on your physical condition. This is a tailored training plan I drew up specifically for you." "Don't worry, there's no heavy lifting involved, so it won't overload your body. Right now, what you need is to shore up those gaps one by one." "How quickly you get your chance in competitive matches will come down to whether you can keep up with this program."