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Chapter 7: Stats Don't Lie
The morning light bled through the curtains at Arsenal's Hale End academy dorms. Jeremy sat up, still half caught between the madness of yesterday's trial and the quiet hum of the new day. He rubbed his face, still not over the fact that he was fifteen again, and not over the system's voice that had hijacked his brain.
DING!
> [Egoist System: New Feature Unlocked – Player Profile]
"Numbers reveal the truth. Look, Lynch. Face yourself. Crush yourself."
Jeremy blinked. "Player… profile?"
A holographic screen flickered across his vision like something out of a video game.
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[Egoist System: Player Profile — Jeremy Lynch]
Age: 15 (Reborn)
Position: Forward/Winger
Ego Rating: 106
Skills:
Dribbling: 58/100
Shooting: 54/100
Passing: 42/100
Speed: 63/100
Stamina: 49/100
Charisma: 57/100
Traits:
Self-Perception (Active) — You see yourself as the main character.
> "You are ordinary. A nobody. Look at these numbers. Does this look like the best striker in the world? Pathetic. But… they can rise. Through ego. Through domination."
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Jeremy's jaw dropped. "Nahhh man, this is mad. Dribbling fifty-eight? You takin' the piss? I should be ninety already, bruv!"
The system didn't laugh.
> "Whining is weakness. Numbers don't lie. Prove them wrong or stay average."
Jeremy stood, pacing the dorm. He was buzzing, half rattled, half fired up. "Alright then. If that's how it is, watch me. Next match, I'm cooking."
DING!
> [Mission Issued: Dominate today's training match. Score 2+ goals.]
Reward: Shooting +5, Ego Rating +10
Failure: Ego Rating -15
Jeremy grinned. "Safe. Two goals? Say less."
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The changing room later that morning was buzzing. Shirts clattered onto hangers, boots squeaked across the tiled floor, and the Arsenal U17 boys were hyped for the training scrimmage.
"Oi Lynch," called out Jay Simpson, one of the strikers, smirking from the bench. "Heard you were hoggin' the ball yesterday. You're one greedy little baller, mate."
The room chuckled.
Jeremy slipped his shirt over his head and shot him a grin. "Bruv, what do you mean? If you had tekkers like mine, you'd hog it too."
"Lynch thinks he's Ronaldinho now," someone else piped up.
Jeremy wagged his finger. "Nah, mate. Ronaldinho's smooth. I'm colder. Just wait till you see today—man's gonna have the keeper cryin'."
The banter kept rolling. The boys laughed, some shook their heads, some nudged him. But deep down, Jeremy felt the system's words vibrating in his skull.
> "Do not joke with them, Lynch. They are rivals. They are obstacles. Every smile hides a knife. You must cut first."
Jeremy smirked at no one in particular. "Watch me today, lads. I'm baggin' two. Minimum."
"Two?!" Karl, one of the French defenders, laughed. "Bro, you didn't even pass once yesterday. We might as well not be here."
Jeremy leaned back on the bench, cool as anything. "Mate, passing's for when I'm bored. And trust me, I'm not bored yet."
The room erupted with a mix of groans, chuckles, and head-shakes.
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On the pitch, the coach split them into two sides. Bibs on one half, no bibs on the other. Jeremy tugged at his shirt, his body itching to get started.
> "Remember the mission. Two goals or you lose. Your ego is on the line. Your future is on the line. Show no mercy."
Jeremy muttered under his breath, "Relax, bruv. I'm on this."
The whistle blew.
The game started scrappy, as training matches always did—heavy touches, quick tackles, lads trying to prove themselves. But Jeremy felt different now. Every step was sharper. Every time the ball came near, it was like a magnet.
He picked it up on the wing, dropped a shoulder, and blew past his marker. "Safe, mate!" he called as he cut inside, ignoring the option for a pass. He curled one toward the near post—saved.
Groans from his teammates.
"Lynch, pass the bloody ball!" one of the midfielders yelled.
Jeremy only smirked, jogging back. "Nah man, next one's in. Told you already."
W
DING!
> [Shot Attempt Logged. Shooting +1 Proficiency.]
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The ball came again ten minutes later. Jeremy didn't even think. He took a touch, flicked it through Karl's legs—"Oops, nutmeg!"—and drove toward the box. A defender lunged, but Jeremy shifted the ball and ripped it into the far corner.
The net bulged.
Jeremy froze for a half-second, then walked off calmly, pointing to his wrist like Cole Palmer's signature cold celebration.
The lads groaned louder. "Bruv thinks he's in the Prem already!"
Jeremy grinned. "I told you, mate. One more to go."
DING!
> [Goal Scored. Shooting +3. Ego Rating +5.]
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By the time halftime came, the coach gave them all a breather. Some lads sat with water bottles, others pulled socks back up. Jeremy leaned against the post, heart racing but eyes sharp.
The system's voice cut through the noise:
> "One more. One more goal and you prove your worth. Dominate. Do not hesitate."
Jeremy wiped sweat from his forehead, smirking. "Don't worry, Ego. Man's not leaving this pitch till I get my brace."
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And as the whistle blew for the second half, everyone could feel it—Jeremy Lynch wasn't just here to play. He was here to steal the whole spotlight.
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