The alarm screamed at 4:30 AM like a demon from the depths of hell.
Takeshi's body felt like concrete. Every muscle ached from yesterday's journey, and the unfamiliar Dutch bed hadn't helped. But something deeper was already awake, his adult mind, sharp and alert.
Day one. The real test begins.
He rolled out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor. Outside, Amsterdam was still dark, streetlights cutting through morning fog. The Ajax facility looked different in the darkness, bigger, more ominous.
Time to see what I'm really made of.
The training ground was already lit up like a stadium. And there, standing in the center with that predatory smile, was Erik van der Berg.
Why is the scout running training? Where are the actual coaches?
Other figures were emerging from the dormitory, the five competitors he'd come to defeat. Or be crushed by.
"Welcome to hell, children," Erik called out as they gathered in a semi-circle. "Let's get acquainted properly, shall we?"
His smile was razor-sharp.
"First, our baby boy from Japan. Takeshi Yamamoto, eight years old." Erik's tone dripped with mock concern. "Take good care of him, he's just a child."
Bastard.
The other players looked at him with mixed expressions curiosity, dismissal, even pity. Takeshi kept his face neutral.
"Our ice queen from Norway. Elsa Haugen, eleven. Don't let her calm demeanor foolur
Elsa gave a small nod, her eyes finding Takeshi's for just a moment. Steady. Supportive.
"Nigeria's gift to football, Kwame Okafor, ten years old."
The tall, athletic boy flashed a cocky grin, his muscles already visible despite his age. He looked at Takeshi like prey.
"Germany's precision machine, Marcus Weber, ten."
The German boy was built like a tank, silent and intense. His cold blue eyes swept over each competitor, calculating.
"Brazil's little magician, Isabella Santos, nine years old."
The girl was casually juggling a ball while Erik spoke, each touch perfect and effortless. She didn't even look up during her introduction.
"And England's secret weapon, Oliver Hayes, nine."
The English boy seemed the most normal of the group average height, brown hair, quiet confidence. But there was something in his eyes that reminded Takeshi of seasoned professionals.
Six players. One selection. This is going to be a bloodbath.
"Now," Erik's smile grew predatory, "let's see what you're made of."
"First rule," Erik announced. "You earn your food. No breakfast until you prove you deserve it."
What the hell?
Takeshi's stomach was already growling, but the other players looked equally shocked.
"Thirty miles. Through Amsterdam. Keep up or pack up."
Thirty miles? That's insane even for professional training.
But as Erik set off at a brutal pace, Takeshi felt a surge of confidence.
I've been doing twenty-mile runs every day for a month. This is exactly what I trained for.
The group spread out quickly. Kwame immediately pushed to the front, trying to establish dominance. Marcus maintained a steady, powerful rhythm. Isabella ran with Brazilian flair, making it look effortless.
But by mile five, Takeshi realised something incredible that he wasn't struggling.
The system training worked. My endurance is off the charts.
Amsterdam blurred past, canals, bridges, and morning commuters staring at the strange sight of children running through their city. Erik maintained his relentless pace, occasionally glancing back with that sinister smile.
Mile ten. Kwame was starting to breathe harder.
Mile fifteen. Marcus's face was red with effort.
Mile twenty. Isabella had stopped showing off.
Only Elsa seemed as composed as Takeshi, her breathing controlled and steady.
She's incredible.
By mile twenty-five, even Kwame was struggling. But Takeshi felt like he could run another ten miles.
This is what happens when you train with life-or-death determination.
They finished back at Ajax, every player except Takeshi and Elsa completely drained. Erik's eyes lingered on them both, calculating.
"Interesting," he murmured.
"Partner stretches," Erik commanded. "Five minutes."
Elsa immediately moved toward Takeshi, and he felt a surge of gratitude. Behind them, Kwame looked annoyed at being passed over.
"You did well," she whispered as they stretched. "Better than expected."
"You too. How are you so calm?"
"Practice. And knowing that today is just the beginning."
Just the beginning. Christ.
Around them, the other partnerships formed naturally, Kwame with Marcus, Isabella with Oliver. The competitive dynamics were already clear.
Next came ball control drills. Rapid-fire passing, first touches, technical precision under pressure.
Takeshi's Japanese training showed immediately, his technique was polished, consistent. But so was everyone else's.
Isabella's ball control was poetry in motion. Marcus hit every pass with German precision. Oliver's touch was deceptively simple but incredibly effective.
Everyone here is world-class. Everyone.
"Fifty push-ups," Erik barked. "Perfect form. Start over if I see sloppy technique."
Takeshi's arms were already shaking by push-up twenty. His eight-year-old body was hitting its limits, but his adult mind pushed through the burn.
Mind over matter. I've been through worse.
Some players had to restart. Erik watched with cruel satisfaction as children struggled and suffered.
This psychopath is enjoying every second.
By 8 AM, they were finally allowed into the cafeteria. The players scattered like vultures toward the food, starving after three hours of hell.
Takeshi collapsed into a chair next to Elsa, his hands still shaking slightly.
"Brutal," he muttered.
"That was just the warm-up," Elsa said quietly. "Look at Erik."
The scout was sitting alone, watching them eat while taking notes in a small notebook. His expression was calculating, predatory.
He's evaluating everything. Every bite, every conversation, every sign of weakness.
Around them, the other conversations were tense:
"can't believe we had to run thirty bloody miles..." Oliver was complaining.
"—weak mindset will get you eliminated—" Marcus replied coldly.
"This is nothing," Kwame boasted loudly. "In Lagos, we train twice as hard."
Isabella said nothing, just ate mechanically while spinning a ball on her finger.
Everyone's on edge. Everyone's scared.
Thirty minutes later, Erik stood up.
"Time for a game."
Back on the pitch, Erik's smile was at its most sinister.
"3v3 match. Full-sized goals, half-pitch. Special rules, you cannot pass back to the goalkeeper."
Two massive men jogged onto the field, clearly professional keepers, both over 6'2" and intimidating as hell compared to the kids.
"Meet your goalkeepers," Erik announced. "Ajax's second and third choice. Both Dutch national team candidates."
Professional keepers? Against kids?
One of them, a blonde giant, crouched down mockingly. "Try to score on me, little ones. I'll go easy on you."
The condescension was infuriating.
"Team assignments," Erik continued with sadistic glee.
"Team A—Takeshi, Elsa, and Oliver."
The smallest, the girl, and the quiet one. Great.
"Team B—Kwame, Marcus, and Isabella."
The athlete, the tank, and the technical genius. We're fucked.
Takeshi looked at his teammates. Oliver seemed nervous. Even Elsa looked concerned.
"This is rigged," Takeshi muttered.
"Of course it is," Elsa replied. "But we can still do this."
Can we? Against those monsters?
The match started like a hurricane.
Team B immediately pressed forward with overwhelming aggression. Kwame's speed was terrifying, Marcus's power undeniable. Isabella's close control made the ball stick to her feet like glue.
Within thirty seconds, Takeshi realized they were in trouble.
We can't even get the ball.
Minute three. Marcus received a pass at the edge of the box, took one touch, and unleashed absolute thunder.
The ball EXPLODED off his foot like a cannonball.
The professional goalkeeper's eyes went wide, he'd never seen power like that from a ten-year-old. The ball rocketed into the top corner with such force that the net nearly ripped.
What the fuck was that?
"GOOOAL!" Kwame screamed, chest-bumping Marcus.
Score: 0-1.
This kid shoots like a grown man.
Team A struggled to even string passes together. The exhaustion from morning training was showing. Kwame dominated every physical duel. Marcus won every header despite being the same age.
We're being dismantled.
Minute eight. Isabella's silky dribbling created space. She slipped a pass to Marcus, who didn't even need to look up.
BOOM.
Another thunderbolt, this time to the bottom corner. The keeper didn't even move. just stared in shock as the ball bulged the net.
"How is a kid shooting like a professional?!" the keeper shouted.
Score: 0-2.
We're getting embarrassed.
Oliver looked defeated. Even Elsa was struggling to influence the game. Erik's sinister smile grew wider with each passing minute.
He set us up to fail. This was always the plan.
That's when the system window blazed to life in Takeshi's vision.
[URGENT QUEST ALERT]
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
⚠️ CRISIS SITUATION ⚠️
QUEST: COMEBACK VICTORY
Score a HAT-TRICK (3 goals)
Win the match 3-2
Prove your worth to Erik
REWARD: Major Stat Boost + Hidden Skill Unlock
PENALTY FOR FAILURE: -50% All Stats for 1 Week
⚠️ WARNING: FAILURE = ELIMINATION ⚠️
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
TIME REMAINING: 22 MINUTES
CURRENT SCORE: 0-2
A hat-trick? Against these monsters? While we're two goals down?
"Having fun, baby boy?" Erik called out mockingly.
Elsa looked at him with concern. "Takeshi? You look pale."
The system is demanding the impossible.
But as Takeshi stared at the quest window, something deeper ignited. The same fire that had driven him through thirty days of twenty-mile runs. The same determination that had brought him back from the dead.
I didn't survive my past life's hell to lose here.
His fists clenched. His jaw set.
The boy who'd died at thirty-four was gone. The eight-year-old standing on this pitch was something else entirely.
"Elsa," he said quietly, his voice carrying adult conviction.
"Trust me."
TO BE CONTINUED...