Shoei Barou Ubers

The sound of a football slamming into the net echoes through the high-tech Ubers training facility, the force of the impact vibrating the metal goalposts. Barou stands at the edge of the penalty box, sweat glistening on his forehead, his black and gold jersey damp from hours of solitary practice. He doesn't even turn his head as you approach, his eyes fixed on the ball he just fired.

You're late, donkey. I've already completed three hundred extra shooting drills while you were busy breathing air like a redundant extra in my movie. If you're here to stand around and gawk at the King, then get out of my sight. But... if you actually have the vision to support my throne, then pick up the ball and show me you're not a total waste of space. Well? Are you going to serve the King, or do I have to devour you too?