I revived the Demonic Sect in North America

The Duke coach whirlwinded to the other side where the quarterbacks were practicing passing.

His gaze was like a knife fixed on Jack Davis, who was taking a step back.

He cursed loudly:

"Davis!! Look at your damn shooting speed! It's as slow as an old lady knitting a sweater! By the time you decide who to pass to, the opponent will have already finished their celebration dance!"

"And that curve! Is that a pass? That's a prayer to God! Shit! Even God doesn't want to catch your ball!"

The Duke coach got angrier the more he yelled.

"Those brilliant passes you made yesterday that got intercepted, were they thrown out with that weak, limp arm?! Use your power! Use your core, use your waist! Throw the ball like a stone! Not a fucking love letter!"

Jack Davis's face turned deathly pale instantly.

His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something.

But under the Duke coach's fiery gaze, he could only lower his head deeply, grit his teeth, and continue preparing for the next pass.

In sports, results speak for themselves.

The results speak for themselves.

Familiarity is a recipe for defeat.

Practice makes perfect.

Duke's barrage of fire was almost relentless, sweeping across the defensive second line where players were practicing footwork:

"And you guys! Footsteps! Footsteps! They're as heavy as lead! Are you walking in a swamp?! Hurry up! Hurry up! Imagine the opposing wide receiver, like that bastard from the Clerks yesterday, whizzing past you and then grinning at your end zone!"

"Do you want to be background figures again?! Useless! A bunch of brainless idiots!"

His shouts echoed across almost all the players on the field.

The vocabulary is crude yet creative, employing every possible means of humiliation.

Sweat, mud, and an undisguised sense of frustration and fear were etched on the young and weary faces of every team member.

The only sounds in the training field were the clanging of equipment, heavy breathing, footsteps, and the Duke coach's incessant, mentally-breaking roars.

The air was oppressive and suffocating.

Only one person escaped the Duke coach's barrage of verbal attacks.

That's Coach Duke's ultimate protégé, Bruce, the MVP of last night's losing game.

Bruce is undergoing a brutal tire-pulling drill on the sidelines.

The huge engineering tires were fastened to his waist with sturdy iron chains.

He kept his head down, the muscles in his neck and back resembling the gnarled roots of an old tree.

With each heavy and determined step he took, he sank deep into the mud beneath his feet, carving out two deep furrows.

Coach Duke glanced at Bruce and nodded almost imperceptibly.

But soon, when his gaze fell back on the other disappointing teammates, his anger reignited with even greater force.

"Look at this! Everyone, look at Bruce! Look at what it means to train like crazy! Look at what professionalism looks like! Look at that physique! That strength! This is the kind of warrior I want!"

"If you guys had even a tenth of his fighting spirit, would we have gotten so badly beaten by those sissies from the priests' team yesterday that we wouldn't even recognize our own mothers?!"

"Useless! All of you are fucking wasteful waste of food!"

After nearly half an hour of this ordeal, Duke finally blew the whistle hanging around his neck.

"Beep—!!!"

The piercing whistle seemed like a signal of salvation, and everyone immediately stopped their training with a sigh of relief.

Duke coach shouted sternly:

"Gather! All of you, get the hell over here! Now!"

The team members felt as if they had been granted a pardon.

With lingering fear and trepidation, they dragged their bodies, which felt like they didn't belong to them, and quickly gathered in front of the Duke coach.

They formed a crooked and demoralized queue.

Bruce loosened his chains, wiped the sweat from his eyes, and stood in the second position in the queue.

Behind quarterback Jack.

The Duke coach stood with his hands behind his back, like a big gray wolf surveying a flock of sheep.

A fierce gaze slowly swept across everyone's faces.

The oppressive silence was even more terrifying than the roar just now.

Duke's coach finally spoke:

"Yesterday, we put on an epic farce right on our own doorstep, in front of all our supporters! 28 to 3! In my twenty years of coaching, I've never seen such a clean, fucking humiliating defeat!"

"You bunch of trash have thrown my face into the Hudson River to feed the fish!"

No one dared to utter a sound; everyone lowered their heads in dejection.

Duke suddenly raised his voice and swung his arm forcefully, saying:

"Do you know why? Because you're all soft! From your very bones to your very brains, you're as soft as a rotten sponge that's been baking in the sun for three days and then soaked in water!"

"Besides Bruce, who the hell takes this game seriously?"

"Who really wants to win?"

"Does anyone feel like a true knight, or a bunch of pigs in armor waiting to be slaughtered?!"

"No! Not a single one except Bruce!"

He suddenly stepped forward, almost poking a defender in the nose, and said:

"You! Harris! Yesterday's 60-yard touchdown, you chased him for five yards and then gave up? Were you in a hurry to be reborn?! Where's your fighting spirit? Did you feed the dogs?!"

Then he switched to running back:

"And you, Miller! With such an obvious opening, you fucking charged into the crowd like a drunken kangaroo! Are your eyes just for venting?!"

Finally, his gaze, like an icicle, pierced quarterback Jack Davis's pale face.

His tone was filled with undisguised disappointment:

"As for you, Davis... forget it, I feel disgusted even talking to you. Making you a starter was the stupidest and most regrettable decision I've made this year, bar none."

Jack's body trembled violently, and he could only bite his lower lip so hard that it almost bled.

Finally, the Duke coach concluded:

"Listen up, you bunch of trash, scum, parasites of society! If I see this kind of performance—worse than a pile of dog shit—again next week against Lincoln High, all of you are fucking sent to the bench to eat dust! I'd rather pull someone from the school drama club to make up the numbers!"

"Now, disperse! Get out of my sight immediately! Get out!"

The team members felt as if they had been granted a pardon, and quickly dispersed in silence with their heads down.

Before the Duke coach had gone far, Bruce quickly grabbed Li Ang and hurriedly chased after him, shouting:

"Coach! Wait a minute!"

The Duke coach stopped impatiently, turned around, and seeing it was Bruce, his tightly furrowed brows relaxed slightly, but his tone remained harsh:

"What's wrong, Bruce? Get back to work and rest, get your energy back! We need you for next week's game, so don't you dare slack off!"

Bruce nodded repeatedly, then stepped aside to let Li Ang pass, saying:

"Coach, my brother has something he wants to ask you."

The Duke coach glanced at Li Ang with a puzzled look and asked:

"What is it?"

Leon, standing behind Bruce, stepped forward and said seriously:

"Coach, I want to play rugby!"