The rain had stopped by the time Mahmoud reached his neighborhood, but everything else still felt heavy—his breath, his bag, his thoughts.
He walked slowly through the narrow alleyways of the old quarter. Cracked walls lined the path, covered with fading graffiti and political posters. Stray cats darted between garbage bins. His shoes squelched with each step, soaked through. The pain in his ankle had returned, dull and punishing, as if mocking the miracle he'd just experienced.
VALYS hadn't said a word since the sprint.
The silence made it feel like it had all been a dream.
He reached the rusted metal gate of his building and opened it slowly, the screech of the hinges louder than necessary. Three flights of broken stairs later, he stood outside the peeling wooden door of Apartment 3B. He hesitated, then pushed it open.
The smell of reheated lentils greeted him.
Inside, the apartment was dim and cramped. A flickering ceiling fan spun overhead. His mother stood by the stove, headscarf slightly frayed, stirring a pot with one hand and texting on an old phone with the other. His father sat in the corner on a plastic chair, reading a newspaper he had already read three times this week.
Neither looked up.
"You're late," his father muttered, eyes still on the paper.
"I missed the bus," Mahmoud said, hanging his soaked bag on the hook.
"And why? Let me guess. You were chasing a ball again?" the voice was sharp now—disappointed, tired.
Mahmoud didn't respond. He knew where this was going.
His mother sighed. "Ya Mahmoud… football won't feed you. You're not a player. You're not built for it. Look at your foot. Look at your health. You can't even walk without limping."
"I can now," Mahmoud said quietly.
"What?"
"I mean, I'm working on it."
His father folded the paper slowly, as if every movement was an effort of restraint. "You've been working on it for years. And what has it brought you? Embarrassment. A busted ankle. Extra weight. Missed school. No future."
Mahmoud clenched his jaw.
He didn't expect support—not anymore. But it still hurt, every time.
"Emotional trigger detected," VALYS's voice returned, calm as always, only audible to him.
"Recommendation: disengage and decompress. Target training cannot begin in hostile mental environments."
He excused himself and slipped into his tiny room. A single mattress. Cracked wall. A poster of Zidane peeling at the corners. His phone was old, cracked. His football, deflated in the corner, was still damp from last night's practice.
He collapsed onto the mattress and closed his eyes.
"Why me?" he whispered.
And in his mind, VALYS answered.
"Because you were not chosen by others. You chose yourself."
Mahmoud lay still, eyes open, staring at the cracked ceiling. Rainwater dripped somewhere beyond the walls. The entire apartment smelled of damp socks and stale cumin. He tried to ignore the weight in his chest—the words of his father, the worry in his mother's eyes. Words he'd heard a hundred times, in a hundred different ways, all saying the same thing:
You're not built for football.
He pulled his blanket over his chest, though it was more for comfort than warmth. Then, quietly, he whispered, "Are you still there?"
"Affirmative."
VALYS's voice returned, calm and perfectly level.
"Physiological readings show elevated cortisol. Emotional stress response at 63%. Would you like me to disengage?"
"No," Mahmoud said, sitting up slowly. "I don't want you to go."
There was a pause.
"Understood."
Mahmoud hesitated before asking, "Tell me the truth… Do I have a chance? Be honest. You've scanned me. You know my body better than I do. Am I just… wasting time?"
"Request acknowledged. Beginning subject profile review."
A soft pulse echoed in Mahmoud's ears. Then:
[Mahmoud Hassan – Physical Assessment]
Weight: 92.4 kg
Height: 165.2 cm
BMI: 33.9 (Obese – Class I)
Left Ankle Status: Chronic ligament damage. Scar tissue present. High risk of re-injury.
Endurance: 22% of target baseline
Agility: 19%
Reflex Time: 0.68 seconds
Mental Resilience: 44%
Genetic Potential: 73%
Adaptability Index: High
Mahmoud winced at the numbers. They felt like accusations, stacked side by side like court evidence.
"You are currently below the athletic threshold. Your weight, endurance, and injury risk are critical limiting factors."
He nodded slowly. He had expected that much.
"However," VALYS continued, "unlike others in your environment, you possess high neuroplasticity and a rare mental trait: sustained will under pressure. Your desire to change overrides your fear of pain. This is a high predictor of long-term growth."
Mahmoud blinked.
"I'm not… talented," he said, more to himself.
"No. You are not. You are something else."
"…What's that?"
"Trainable."
That word hit different.
Not gifted. Not special. But trainable. Shapeable. Capable—if he earned it.
For a boy who had been told all his life that his body was the reason he'd never make it, that one word tasted like fire in his blood.
"Okay then," he said under his breath. "Let's train."
"Acknowledged. Training begins at 04:45 tomorrow. Expect resistance. Prepare mentally. Sleep now. You will need it."
Mahmoud smiled faintly for the first time that day.
He pulled the blanket up to his chin, eyes fluttering closed.
And for once, sleep came easily.
The sound of static pulled him from sleep.
It wasn't the usual shriek of his cheap alarm clock. It was inside his head—soft, pulsing like a heartbeat made of electricity.
"Time: 04:45. Sleep cycle: 82% complete. Physical training protocol: initiating."
Mahmoud groaned.
The room was dark, and the city outside was even darker. Only the distant buzz of a streetlamp and the occasional bark of a stray dog broke the stillness.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His limbs were stiff. His ankle already ached.
"I thought you said I'd be ready," he mumbled.
"Discomfort is not failure. It is data. Log it. Then override it."
He pulled on his clothes—an oversized T-shirt and worn-out sweatpants. His sneakers were still wet from yesterday. He laced them anyway, biting down the pain.
Silently, he slipped out of the apartment and into the cold stairwell. Each step down echoed too loudly, but he didn't care. By the time he reached the alley behind his building, the sky had just begun to fade from black to deep indigo.
"Your current weight places additional strain on joints. Therefore, we begin with controlled motion. No running. Just walking drills."
Mahmoud raised an eyebrow. "Walking?"
"Correct. Controlled. Balanced. Precise. We will rebuild the base. From zero."
A strange, thin light blinked in front of his eyes. A transparent display appeared, hovering just above his field of vision. Virtual lines drew themselves on the alley floor, forming a digital track between the dumpster and the back gate.
[Training Mission: Phase I – Foundation Mode]
Objective: Walk 200 meters. Perfect posture.
Penalty for limping, dragging, or imbalance: Restart.
Mahmoud exhaled. "Okay. Let's go."
He stepped onto the virtual path and began to move.
The first few meters were easy—until his body started to remember who he really was. The stiffness in his hips, the tug in his calves, the sharp sting beneath his left ankle—the old enemies came back fast.
"Left shoulder dropped. Correct."
"Back straight. Spine alignment: 88%. Adjust."
"Don't look down. Trust your steps."
By the third round, sweat poured down his temples. His shirt clung to his back. His breath came shallow. This wasn't just walking—it was war. Every muscle screamed, every joint protested. His left ankle burned.
But he didn't stop.
Not when he tripped over a rock.
Not when his foot twisted on the uneven pavement.
Not even when his vision blurred and he nearly fell.
"Ninety percent complete. Ten meters remaining."
He clenched his fists.
"Come on, come on…"
He reached the end of the line, knees wobbling.
[Objective Complete.]
Posture Accuracy: 91%
Mental Endurance: +1%
Confidence: +2%
New Skill Unlocked: Core Balance I
Mahmoud dropped to the ground, panting, arms spread wide over the cold concrete.
It was still dark.
But somewhere deep inside him, the sun had already started to rise.
Mahmoud sat with his back against the brick wall, legs stretched out, chest still heaving. The alley was silent now, save for the gentle hum of VALYS, always present—somewhere between his ears and somewhere deeper.
His limbs ached, but it wasn't the kind of pain that made him feel weak.
It was the kind that whispered, "You showed up."
He looked up at the fading night sky. A soft violet hue began to spill over the rooftops as the sun prepared to rise. He had never been awake at this hour before—never on purpose. It felt… clean. Like a blank page.
"Training session complete. Body performance: 16% improvement over baseline. Sleep recommended."
Mahmoud shook his head. "No. Not yet."
"Caution: Prolonged activity without recovery may lead to—"
"Just one more question," he interrupted.
"Proceed."
He took a breath. "You said I'm trainable. That I'm not talented, but I have potential. But… do you really think I could play at the level I dream of? Not just better than I am now. I mean… actually make it? Pro? World Cup level?"
A pause. Not hesitation—calculation.
"Answer: If you continue at maximum discipline, with zero skipped days, full system integration, and optimal health recovery, the probability of playing professionally is 64.7%."
"The probability of leading a national team to a World Cup final: 18.2%."
"Winning it? 3.6%."
Mahmoud let out a dry laugh. "Three percent. Not even four."
"Affirmative."
He stared ahead, expression unreadable. Then he nodded slowly.
"Okay."
"Acknowledged. Shall I log this as commitment to long-term training?"
Mahmoud stood up, wobbling slightly. He walked toward the far wall of the alley, where a broken satellite dish leaned sideways. He climbed onto it carefully, pulled himself onto the rooftop, and stood there—on top of his world. From here, he could see the neighborhood stretching out like a puzzle of tin roofs and dusty windows. And far beyond that: the city, the stadium, the lights of a world that had never looked his way.
He clenched his fists.
"Log it," he said quietly. "Every second."
"Long-term protocol: engaged."
"Daily training sequence: initialized."
"Next mission will be issued at 18:00. Recovery window begins now."
Mahmoud turned and looked down at the alley where he had started walking just an hour ago. The place where his body reminded him of his limits.
And the moment where he took the first step anyway.
Somewhere behind him, the sun crested the horizon. Light spilled over the rooftops, warming the brick beneath his feet. And for just a moment, as he stood tall on that rooftop in a forgotten neighborhood, the boy with the broken ankle looked almost like a king.
End of Chapter 2.