It started with a whisper at 3:00 a.m.
"Initiating Level 1 Performance Trial."
"Location: Al-Rawda Public Pitch. Objective: Simulated Match — Solo Drill Execution Under Game Conditions."
"Penalty for failure: Regression of current momentum. Optional: Abort mission."
Mahmoud didn't even blink.
He pulled the sheets off his sore body, dressed in silence, and crept out of the apartment with his boots in hand.
The streets were shadows at that hour, empty but alive in a strange way. The wind carried cold and dust. Mahmoud's footsteps echoed through alleyways like someone chasing him from behind.
But no one was chasing him.
He was chasing himself.
By the time he reached the field, the moon was high, painting the dusty pitch in silver. The metal goalposts were still crooked. The lines on the ground had long faded. But for Mahmoud, it may as well have been Wembley.
"Begin warm-up. Five minutes. Then Simulation Protocol: One-On-Eleven."
"One on eleven?" he whispered.
"Visual-only opponents. Audio distraction enabled. Fatigue modifier applied."
"You will be the only real player on this field. But your mind must treat them as real."
Mahmoud breathed deep and nodded.
Then VALYS spoke again, this time with a tone he hadn't heard before:
"This is not physical training. This is a mental test. You will break. Your job is to decide what happens after that."
The moment he took his first step onto the field, everything changed.
Lines lit up across the pitch in pale blue. Virtual players formed — translucent silhouettes moving, pressing, challenging. He couldn't touch them, but they moved like real opponents.
He had to dribble past five, shoot between two defenders, reposition, and repeat — again and again. VALYS kept score, tracked accuracy, even shouted fake crowd noise in his ears to simulate pressure.
At first, Mahmoud moved like a storm. Fast, sharp, determined. Every step filled with focus. Every touch precise.
"Score: 3 successful attacks. 2 incomplete. Energy drain: 34%."
But by the fourth sequence, his chest burned. Sweat blurred his eyes. His ankle screamed.
Then, he missed.
And again.
And again.
The fake crowd booed.
"Failure rate increasing. Posture collapsing. Do you wish to abort?"
He didn't answer.
He just gritted his teeth… and ran again.
Mahmoud collapsed to his knees at the edge of the pitch, hands pressed against the dirt, lungs burning like fire. The fake defenders faded for a moment, but their pressure remained in his chest. His shirt clung to his skin, soaked through with sweat and effort.
"Fatigue level: 82%. Motor function delay: increasing. Psychological resistance: compromised."
"I can't…" he gasped, head down. "I can't do more."
There was silence.
Even VALYS didn't respond.
The field around him was quiet—unnaturally so. No birds, no cars, no wind. Just the sound of his own breath, ragged and uneven. The fake lights above flickered slightly, casting long, crooked shadows across the broken ground.
He felt like a ghost.
Not quite alive.
Not quite enough.
"I'm not built for this," he whispered. "They were right. My parents. Everyone. I'm not a footballer."
His mind drifted to memories he had buried.
His mother shaking her head the day he asked for real cleats.
"We don't have money for something you'll grow out of in two weeks," she said.
His father's laugh when Mahmoud tried to explain formations and tactics at dinner.
"You can barely run without panting. Focus on school. Football is for other people."
And then… the ankle.
The pop, the weeks in bed, the way no one visited. How the coach stopped calling. How the team just moved on.
Mahmoud clenched his fists.
He wasn't crying.
He was just… cracking.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he said aloud, looking into the empty night. "What's the point of training if I'll never be chosen? If I'll never be good enough?"
Still, no answer.
The silence stretched. Unforgiving. Cold.
And then—
"I am not here to comfort you."
Mahmoud froze.
"I am here to test you. You have failed before. You will fail again. But failure is not the enemy."
He stared into the air like he could see VALYS's voice.
"The enemy is the voice that tells you to quit after failing. That voice is not mine."
Mahmoud blinked, chest still heaving.
"It is yours."
Slowly, Mahmoud sat up. His arms trembled as he pushed himself off the ground. His legs wobbled like wire, but they held.
He looked around the silent field, still pulsing faintly with digital ghosts.
He wasn't in a match.
He wasn't in a stadium.
But he was in a battle.
Against himself.
And he wasn't done yet.
"Restart the drill," he whispered.
"Warning: Physical condition near exhaustion."
"I said restart it."
A pause.
"Simulation reinitializing. Opponents reloading. Phase two—begin."
And once again, Mahmoud ran.
Mahmoud darted forward, dragging his tired legs across the gravel-lined pitch. The shadows of the virtual defenders came alive again, pressing him from both sides. His breath was short. His balance was off. But his eyes… his eyes were sharper than ever.
He faked left, shifted his weight, and slid between two ghostlike midfielders. They didn't exist, but in his mind, they might as well have been world-class. His foot touched the ball just enough to carry it forward.
Behind him, a roar erupted. Simulated. Designed to replicate 70,000 voices in a stadium. But it worked. It pushed adrenaline into his blood like lightning.
"Stamina drop slowed. Recovery system holding. Performance level stabilizing. Continue."
He charged toward the net. The goal flickered into full resolution. A digital keeper stood waiting—programmed to react with elite precision.
Mahmoud hesitated for a fraction of a second.
And shot.
The ball curved, low and wide.
It clipped the inside of the post—then bounced out.
No goal.
He froze.
Another miss.
The simulated crowd groaned in disappointment.
"Shot deviation: 17 centimeters. Timing off by 0.6 seconds. Analysis: hesitation due to self-doubt. Corrective drills advised."
Mahmoud's jaw clenched.
"I knew I had it. Why didn't I just trust myself?"
"Because you still believe that failing once means failing forever."
He dropped to a knee, sweat pouring down his face.
But something in him had shifted. Something beyond physical strain or exhaustion. A voice deeper than fear.
He stood.
"Again."
The simulation reset.
This time, he didn't pause. He didn't think. He just moved.
One touch. Two. Step-over. Pass the first defender. Fake. Turn.
He struck the ball with instinct.
Top corner.
Clean.
Perfect.
The simulation froze the moment the ball hit the net. Everything around him dimmed.
"Target achieved. Confidence spike: recorded. Heart rate leveling. Core alignment: improved."
Mahmoud didn't cheer.
Didn't collapse.
He just stood there, breathing.
He wasn't proud yet. But he wasn't ashamed either.
This wasn't glory.
It was correction.
It was the slow turning of his internal compass, away from fear and toward something harder.
Discipline.
He walked back to midfield, nodding silently to himself.
Not because he won.
But because he kept going after failing.
The difference between boys who quit and boys who win wasn't talent.
It was silence.
The silence after a miss.
The silence you had to fight through with no one watching.
He was starting to understand that now.
The lights around the pitch flickered once, then dimmed to nothing. The simulation ended. The field returned to what it really was: cracked dirt, rusted goalposts, and the faint orange glow of the early morning sky peeking over the rooftops.
Mahmoud stood in the center circle, alone again. No noise. No crowd. No opponent. Just him and the taste of blood and dust in his mouth.
"Trial complete. Logging data… 71% accuracy. Recovery rate: exceeded projections. Mental resilience: upgraded. Self-awareness: increased."
"Final result: Pass."
He didn't smile. He didn't celebrate.
He simply walked to the edge of the field, dropped onto the bench, and closed his eyes.
He hadn't passed because of talent.
He hadn't passed because of luck.
He passed because when it hurt the most—when his body screamed and his mind crumbled—he stayed.
Not for the crowd.
Not for his parents.
Not for revenge.
Just to prove that the version of him from six months ago, the one who quit on everything, was gone.
"Would you like to review full trial data?"
Mahmoud shook his head. "No. I don't need to know the numbers. I felt it."
"Understood."
He looked up at the morning light creeping into the sky. Soon the world would start. School. Noise. Doubt. Laughter he didn't belong to.
But now, it all felt distant.
He had walked through fire alone.
And survived.
And now he knew something most people would never learn:
Victory didn't begin with applause.
It began in silence.
In pain.
In shadows.
He picked up his bag, legs aching with every step, and started walking home—no music, no voice, no system whispering this time.
Just breath.
And the steady beat of footsteps that finally sounded like progress.
End of Chapter 5.