The village of Grüenwald lay nestled in a quiet valley framed by the Bernese Alps, a postcard of pristine rooftops, cobbled paths, and smoke curling from chimneys. A place where everyone knew everyone, and news traveled faster than the post. Life here ran on rhythms older than memory: the chime of the church bell at dawn, the scent of bread from Frau Lutz's bakery, and the laughter of children chasing footballs down the street. In the corner of the village square stood a modest shop with a faded red awning that read: "Holdener's General." Inside, Jean Holdener was stacking tins of preserved peaches, humming under his breath. He was 28, his brown curls now flecked with silver far too early, and his lean frame seemed sculpted by years of physical effort that no longer had a clear purpose.
"Jean," called an elderly voice from the doorway. It was Herr Baumgartner, the retired schoolteacher, tapping his cane on the wooden floor. "Still putting the peaches on the top shelf? What about us short folk?" Jean offered a soft smile. "Keeps you reaching for greatness, Herr Baumgartner." The old man chuckled. "You've always had a silver tongue." As he handed the man his weekly order--a bag of sugar, a jar of marmalade, and two bars of chocolate--Jean couldn't help but glance at the framed photograph near the till. It showed a younger version of himself, clad in a crisp white jersey, arms raised mid-goal. Behind him, the logo of FC Grüenwald, the pride of the valley. When Baumgartner left, the bell above the door jingling in farewell, Jean returned to his thoughts. The shop was quiet now, except for the ticking of the clock and the whisper of wind against the glass. He leaned back against the counter.
He remembered the first time he kicked a ball. He was five. It had rolled to him on the church lawn, and he struck it barefoot. It flew further than he imagined, and everyone clapped. That was the first time he felt seen. By twelve, scouts whispered his name like a prophecy. By fifteen, he was the captain of Grüenwald's junior team. By seventeen, he was packing for Madrid. And by eighteen… he was back. Released. No injury, no scandal. Just not good enough.
A soft knock on the counter startled him. "Jean? You alright?" It was Leni, 16 years old and full of the kind of fire he once had. She worked weekends at the shop and played right wing for the village's U18 team. "Just tired," he muttered, straightening up. "What brings you here?" She handed him a flyer. "We're organizing a charity match for the flood victims in Aargau. Could you referee? Everyone says you're the fairest man in the valley." Jean smiled. "Sure. I'll bring the cones and vests too." "You should play," she said suddenly. "You still got it. I saw you juggling apples last week." He laughed, shaking his head. "Maybe in another life."
That night, the village pub buzzed with life. Jean sat quietly at the edge, nursing a Radler and listening to old men discuss the local team's prospects. "You know," said Luca, his childhood teammate, "we could really use a new coach. The lads respect you. They need someone who's been there." "I'm just a shopkeeper," Jean replied. "You're more than a shopkeeper, Jean." He didn't answer. The truth hung heavy in his chest.
The next morning was crisp and clear. Jean opened the shop early. As he reached to restock a shelf of bottled water, a sharp pain lanced through his chest. He staggered back, clutching the counter. The world spun, sounds became distant. "Jean?" a voice called--Leni again, arriving early for her shift. He tried to speak but collapsed, vision dimming. His last thought before the blackness took him: he had never said goodbye to the pitch.
The world blinked back into focus, but it wasn't the sterile white of a hospital ceiling. It was sunlight,soft, Mediterranean sunlight,streaming through the half-open shutters of a dorm room. Jean blinked again. Posters of Cristiano Ronaldo and Mesut Özil were pinned to the walls. A Castilla kit lay folded on the chair.
He sat up sharply. Pain-free. No monitors. No cables. His body-lighter, younger. Jean scrambled to the mirror across the room.
Seventeen. No silver in his hair. Skin firm. Shoulders less broad but full of promise.
He stumbled backward. "What the hell…?"
On the desk, a notebook lay open, but instead of paper, it shimmered like glass. Across it, clean white letters emerged one by one:
Welcome, Jean Holdener.
SYSTEM ACTIVATED.
Mission: Achieve Football Immortality. Become the GOAT.
His breath caught in his throat. "Is this a dream?"
There was no reply. The room remained silent, as if it hadn't just declared war on the laws of time and physics.
Then:
Player Profile: Jean Holdener
Position: Right Wing (Preferred foot: Left)
Rating: 54 (Amateur Level)
Attributes:
Shooting: 49
Dribbling: 51
Ball Control: 53
Passing: 52
Vision: 56
Speed: 55
Stamina: 54
Football IQ: 78
Jean stared.
"Football IQ… 78?"
The system continued:
Scouting Reason (2013): Exceptional football intelligence and positional sense. Candidate showed rare anticipation and decision-making under pressure.
He chuckled bitterly. "So that's why they brought me in. Brain over body."
He let the words sink in. For years, he'd thought he failed because he lacked desire or was cursed with bad luck. But the truth was simpler: he hadn't been good enough. Not technically. Not physically. Just clever.
He stepped outside into the sun-drenched corridor of the Castilla dormitory. Laughter and music echoed down the hall. Posters of Real Madrid's 2014 Champions League triumph adorned the common room. A TV was replaying the final. Sergio Ramos' equalizer. Bale's header. Cristiano's penalty.
And just weeks ago, in this reality, Zinedine Zidane had been announced as Castilla's new coach.
Jean's chest swelled with something he hadn't felt in years-opportunity.
A knock at his door snapped him back.
"Jean, vamos! Coach Zidane is starting with fitness drills this morning. He doesn't wait."
It was Diego Llorente, tall and lean, lacing his boots outside.
Jean nodded slowly. "Coming."
As he dressed, he opened the system again.
Skill Tree Available. Progress through play and training. No shortcuts.
That was a relief. No magical jump in stats. No interference. It was just a ledger. A mirror. Nothing more. The rest was up to him.
He walked through the halls, absorbing the scent of liniment, sweat, and ambition. He passed Cristian Benavente joking in Spanish with Lucas Vázquez. Raúl de Tomás was shadow-kicking near the bench press.
This was no dream. It was 2014. Castilla. The cusp of greatness. The main team had just won the its 10th Champions league after 13 years.
Outside, the pitch shimmered. Zidane stood at midfield, arms folded, surveying his young team like a general.Jean laced up his boots. The sun felt warmer. The grass softer.
He looked up to the heavens.
"I don't know how or why this happened," he whispered. "But I won't waste it."
His hands curled into fists. He took a deep breath.
"I will become the greatest."