By 7:20 AM, Mahmoud was back home—freshly showered, dressed, and sitting silently at the breakfast table with a plate of dry toast in front of him.
The house was as quiet as always. His mother moved around the kitchen without a word, scraping leftovers into plastic containers. His father had already left for work, a ghost in his own home.
"Eat before it gets cold," his mother said, without turning.
He nodded and took a bite. It tasted like cardboard, but he was starving after the early training session. His muscles still burned. His ankle ached. But he felt… different.
Lighter.
Like something had shifted in the night and left him not quite new, but not quite the same either.
"Heart rate steady. Recovery stable. Minor inflammation in left ankle—within acceptable range," VALYS reported silently in his mind.
"Hydration level: low. Recommend two full glasses of water."
Mahmoud reached for the cup beside his plate and drained it. Then stood, grabbed his bag, and said quietly, "I'm going."
His mother looked up from the stove for the first time. "To school?"
"Yes."
She gave him a skeptical look. "And after that? Another match with the imaginary scouts?"
He paused.
"No. Just school."
She turned back to the pan. "That would be wise."
The door closed behind him without another word.
Outside, the street buzzed with morning noise. Children raced down alleyways, vendors were already shouting prices, and the sun baked yesterday's puddles into steam.
Mahmoud moved with purpose. His legs were sore, but steady. Every step reminded him that something had begun. A mission. A system. A secret only he could feel.
And then, almost as if to challenge that feeling, he turned the corner and heard it—
"Oi! There's the legend!"
He stopped.
Tariq stood by the school gate with three other boys. Same smirks. Same cruelty in their laughter.
"Surprised he made it to school on time," Ahmed added. "Thought he'd be too busy crying into his shin guards."
The others laughed.
Mahmoud didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He walked past them, calm.
Inside, he told himself.
Don't react. Don't stop. Don't waste your breath.
"Emotional provocation: detected. Heart rate spike: 9%. Advice: disengage. Training is not just physical—it is mental."
He pushed through the main door of the school building.
But as he walked toward his first class, a strange thought tugged at him.
What would happen if one day, those same boys were forced to watch him on a stadium screen, holding a trophy they'd never touch?
He smiled.
And kept walking.
Mahmoud sat in the second-to-last row of his class, notebook open, pen in hand—but his mind was elsewhere.
Mr. Khader droned at the front about algebraic expressions, chalk screeching across the board in a staccato rhythm that made everyone twitch. Around Mahmoud, students tapped their feet, scrolled through phones under desks, or just zoned out completely. The air smelled of dust and boredom.
"Neural drift detected," VALYS whispered in his head.
"Cognitive focus falling. Recommend 20-second breath sync."
He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a long, slow breath.
Hold.
Release.
Again.
He opened his eyes. Still algebra. Still the same gray walls and peeling posters about hard work and discipline. But inside, something felt steadier.
"Focus restored: 92%. Mental clarity boosted by regulated breath. Logged as minor victory."
Minor victory.
He liked the sound of that. Not every win had to be a stadium cheer.
Suddenly, a paper ball hit him in the side of the head. He turned slightly—Tariq, again. He raised an eyebrow, acting like nothing happened. Ahmed giggled under his breath.
Mahmoud didn't react.
He picked up the paper ball, uncrumpled it quietly, and looked.
In smudged pencil: "Too fat to run. Try chess."
He folded the note into a perfect square and tucked it into his pocket.
"Resisting negative stimuli builds mental armor. Confidence buffer: +1%."
He would keep the note. Not as shame. As fuel.
The bell rang fifteen minutes later. As Mahmoud gathered his things, a few students brushed past him, muttering.
"Waste of space."
"He's not even trying to lose weight."
"Still limping."
Each one felt like a pinprick. Small, but cumulative.
But then he heard a different voice—Mr. Khader's.
"Hassan," the teacher called. "Come here."
Mahmoud approached the desk slowly.
"You've missed four assignments this month," Mr. Khader said, not unkindly. "And you've been late more times than not. You were a good student once. What's going on?"
Mahmoud hesitated. "I've been… working on something."
Mr. Khader raised an eyebrow. "What kind of something?"
He wanted to say it. Wanted to say: I'm training. I'm waking up at dawn. I have a system guiding me. I'm going to play in the World Cup.
But instead, he said, "Just trying to get better."
The teacher studied him for a second. Then nodded slowly.
"Then try harder. I want a full rewrite of last week's assignment on my desk by Sunday."
Mahmoud nodded. "Yes, sir."
As he left the room, VALYS spoke again:
"External perception: unchanged. Internal development: undetectable to others. Expect dissonance."
"Advice: Trust progress only you can measure."
Mahmoud didn't need the reminder.
He already knew the world hadn't changed.
But he had.
And that was enough—for now.
The school's football field wasn't much of a field. It was more dirt than grass, full of potholes and broken patches where weeds grew wild. The goalposts leaned sideways, the nets torn like spiderwebs after a storm.
But to Mahmoud, it still felt sacred.
Until today, it had also felt like a place of humiliation.
"Alright!" Coach Samir bellowed. "Divide into four teams. We're doing five-a-side. Quick games. No subs. Hustle!"
The boys scrambled into groups. Mahmoud hung back, as always, the last name called—again.
"Put him with Team Three," someone muttered.
Tariq looked over and smirked. "We'll just stick him in goal. Better to block the net with his belly than his hands."
Laughter.
Mahmoud ignored it.
He wasn't here to fight them.
He was here to fight himself.
Coach tossed the ball. "Team Two vs Team Three first. Ten minutes. Let's see something real."
Mahmoud was pushed toward the goal. "Just don't move too much," one of his teammates said. "You might hurt yourself… again."
He stood silently between the posts, inhaling slow through his nose.
"Heart rate: steady. No limp. Body fatigue at 44%. Mind focus: stable," VALYS whispered.
"New Objective: Do not let any ball past unless physically unavoidable. Success threshold: 80%."
Mahmoud didn't even blink.
The match started with the usual chaos. Dust. Shouts. Shoes scraping against sand.
The first shot came fast—Tariq curved it wide. Mahmoud didn't move, but he could tell: last week, that would've gone in. He wouldn't have even seen it coming.
Second shot—a deflection. The ball skidded low.
Mahmoud stepped left sharply and blocked it with his foot.
"Woah!" someone shouted.
"Was that luck?"
Mahmoud didn't react. Just reset his position.
Third shot—a lob from midfield.
He jumped—not high, but just enough to tap it over the makeshift crossbar.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was a save.
"Two out of three saved. Reflex calculation improving. Agility recorded: +2%. Short-term reward: Dopamine surge."
He was sweating heavily now. Legs trembling slightly. But he wasn't breaking.
By the end of the match, his team had lost 2–1—but Mahmoud had blocked five of seven attempts.
More than he had ever managed before.
When the game ended, no one congratulated him. No one patted him on the back.
But they didn't mock him either.
That silence was its own kind of respect.
"Not bad, Hassan," Coach said as he scribbled notes. "Keep it up."
Mahmoud stepped off the field, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping from his forehead. But his eyes were burning—not from exhaustion, but from something else.
Maybe, for the first time, they were watching.
Not laughing.
Just… watching.
Mahmoud sat alone behind the locker room after school, his backpack beside him and an empty water bottle in his lap. The sky above was shifting from gold to a tired orange, and the sounds of students walking home had already begun to fade.
He replayed the match in his mind—every dive, every block, every shout from the sidelines. He hadn't been brilliant. But he hadn't been broken, either.
That was enough.
"Micro-victory: logged," VALYS's voice chimed in.
"Muscular performance: +3%. Joint stress on left ankle: within range. Confidence increased. Psychological resistance to peer hostility: improving."
Mahmoud chuckled softly. "So... I passed?"
"You did not pass. You progressed. This is more important."
He leaned back, looking at the old concrete wall of the locker building. Faint names had been carved into it years ago—players from graduating classes long gone, most of them probably working factory jobs now, or forgotten by the world entirely.
"Who will remember me?" the thought crept in uninvited.
He wasn't famous. Not admired. Not chosen.
Not yet.
But he was moving.
He was training.
And every morning he woke up to pain was another step forward.
"Next scheduled training: 18:00. Low-intensity cardio and dynamic balance drills. Duration: 45 minutes."
"Warning: fatigue levels approaching threshold. Do you wish to postpone?"
Mahmoud shook his head. "No. No more skipping."
He looked down at his ankle. Still wrapped. Still stiff. Still his weakness.
But also his reminder.
He thought about what his mother had said. About how his weight, his body, and his broken ankle made him unfit for football.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe he would never be great.
But maybe—just maybe—he didn't need to be great right away.
Maybe he just needed to be better than yesterday.
"Input accepted."
"Commitment reinforced. System syncing to mindset shift."
Mahmoud stood slowly, wincing slightly as his legs adjusted. He picked up his bag and started walking—not fast, not heroic—but steady.
He didn't look like a hero.
He didn't feel like one.
But the sun was warm on his back, and something inside him pulsed with quiet strength.
He would return home, train again, and sleep. Then do it all over tomorrow.
The world hadn't noticed him yet.
But someday—it would.
And when it did, they wouldn't say he came out of nowhere.
They'd say: He came from far behind.
They'd say: He was the underdog who never stopped.
They'd say:
"He earned it."
End of Chapter 3