"Demien."
He woke with a gasp. The name hung in the air. Sweat cooled on his neck.
Where am I?
The ceiling was wrong—too low, with a crack running from corner to corner.
This wasn't his apartment. This wasn't his bed.
"Demien!" A woman called from somewhere beyond the walls. A pan hissed. A kettle clicked off.
Who the hell was that?
He sat up. The mattress dipped beneath him. The walls pressed close like a box. Pale, weak light filtered through thin curtains.
A mirror leaned against a scuffed desk by the bed. A pair of boots waited under the chair. A folded note sat beside the lamp.
None of it belonged to him.
He lifted his hands. They looked wrong—too smooth, too small.
He stood. The floorboards creaked. Something was off about his balance, about the way his body moved. He reached the mirror with both hands shaking.
A young face stared back.
Eyes wider than he remembered. Jaw untested. Skin smooth—no lines around the eyes, no stubble from yesterday.
"What the fuck," he whispered.
He touched his face. His shoulders looked narrow in the mirror. Like a teenager's.
"This isn't me." His voice cracked high. "This isn't my voice."
He stepped back. His legs felt wrong—too light, like someone had deflated him.
"What the hell is happening to me?"
His hands looked like a kid's hands. His reflection belonged to someone else entirely. Some teenager he'd never seen before.
Pain split behind his eyes.
Memories that weren't his crashed through his head like a broken dam.
Fiorentina. The academy. Coach Baldini sitting behind his desk like a judge, not even looking up from the papers.
"You're not good enough for Fiorentina. We wish you well in your future endeavors."
The rejection had crushed him. Months of depression followed. Drinking. His mum trying to keep hope alive while he rotted in bed. Last night, when he couldn't take it anymore, he'd swallowed a handful of pills with a bottle of wine.
The pain eased. The light steadied. He blinked until the room stopped spinning.
He turned to the desk. Saw the folded paper. His name written on top in neat handwriting.
He opened it. The writing slanted. The words seemed to drag across the page.
Mum, I'm sorry. Life feels unfair. I can't carry it anymore. The club said I'm not enough. I don't know how to look you in the eye. I don't know what to do now.
He read the last lines twice. The ache landed hard—this voice on the page was trying to hold an entire world together.
I wanted to become one of the best. I wanted to make you proud. I wanted to be rich so I could take you out of this place.
He closed the note. Pressed his palm against it. Looked into the mirror until he met those eyes again.
"Demien," he said to the glass.
The name sat heavy. But it sat right. Because the choice had already formed.
"I will do everything I can," he said. His voice steadied. The promise held—because promises matter even when no one hears them.
Footsteps crossed the hall. A soft knock.
"Demien, are you alright?" His mum's voice came through the door, worry threading through it. The pan sizzled behind her words.
"I'm fine," he answered, forcing calm into his voice. He touched his ankle—a small motion to make the lie sound convincing. "I hit my foot on the bed. It startled me. I'm okay."
He breathed out. The door didn't open.
"Alright." Her footsteps turned away. Cutlery clinked. The kettle clicked on again.
"Breakfast in thirty minutes," she added.
The hallway settled. The house drew a breath.
A tone rang in the air.
Light gathered above the desk. A screen formed where no screen should be.
[Ding! The Gacha System has activated.]
His breath hitched. His chest felt light. His gaze locked on the floating panel.
Sharp white letters glowed against the wood. Another name appeared inside the lines.
「Welcome, David Drinkwater. Your mission is to rise from the bottom and become the greatest footballer in football history.」
「Analyzing Current Team: No team.」
「Synchronization completed.」
"What is going on?" He lifted his hands. The panel ignored the room around it.
The door handle turned. Another soft knock.
"You're sure you're alright?" his mum asked through the door. It stayed shut. Breakfast continued in the kitchen.
"Yes, Mum, I'm good." He kept his eyes on the text. Nodded even though she couldn't see him. "I'm coming."
Her steps moved away. The hall went quiet.
The panel brightened. A new line typed itself out. A gentle chime sounded.
「Reward granted for successful reincarnation.」
"Ehn," he said. The sound slipped out before he could stop it—but somehow it felt like it belonged here.
「1,000 TP and 80 SP have been granted.」
"What are you?" His shoulders rose. His fingers spread. The mirror caught the tremor in his hands.
「I am the Gacha System,」 the text wrote. The letters pulsed once, then steadied.
「Your host identity is Demien Walter. Your retained consciousness is David Drinkwater. I have granted access to his memories so you can understand this life.」
"So you're inside me." He felt foolish saying it. But the words needed air.
「I am bound to your progress and will help you improve through training and matches. The choices you make are entirely your own,」 the system replied. The chime softened.
"How do you work?" He leaned closer. His breath fogged the edge of the mirror.
He reached out to touch the floating screen. His hand passed straight through. The panel didn't waver.
"Are you real? Am I going mental?"
「I am real, though I exist only for you. No one else can see or hear me. You are not losing your mind.」
He looked around the room again. "This is insane. I'm talking to a floating screen that only I can see."
"What are TP and SP? You said you gave me some as rewards."
「TP means Training Points. You spend them to open packs that contain random improvements to your abilities,」 the system wrote. A neat subpanel opened beside it.
「SP means Special Points. You use them to open premium packs with better rewards. You earn SP through major achievements like goals, assists, and match performances.」
"Wait, wait." He stepped back from the mirror. "So you're telling me this is some kind of game? Like FIFA?"
He laughed—but it came out shaky. "I've lost my mind. I'm in a coma somewhere. This is all a dream."
「This is not a dream, David. You have been given a second chance in Demien's body. The system will help you improve if you choose to use it.」
"And if I don't?"
「Then you live Demien's life as it was meant to be lived—without the system's help.」
He looked at the suicide note on the desk. Then back at the floating screen.
"So I can get better if I put the work in. You'll track it. Help me spend the points where it matters." He said it slowly, testing each word.
「Correct.」
"Then show me where I am now." His stomach dipped. His jaw set. Truth works better than hope.
The subpanel widened. Numbers filled the space. The room seemed to lean toward them.
Name: Demien Walter
Age: 18
Height: 5'9" (175 cm)
Weight: 165 lbs (75 kg)
Nationality: English/Italian (youth)
Preferred Foot: Right
Position: CAM/CM (AM/RW capable)
Club: None (No Team)
STATUS
Overall Rating: 48
Condition: Fit
Form: Neutral
Morale: Anxious
Currency: 1,000 TP, 80 SP
PACE
Acceleration: 58
Sprint Speed: 54
SHOOTING
Positioning: 50
Finishing: 46
Shot Power: 48
Long Shots: 45
Volleys: 44
Penalties: 42
PASSING
Vision: 52
Crossing: 48
Free Kick Acc.: 44
Short Passing: 55
Long Passing: 50
Curve: 47
DRIBBLING
Agility: 54
Balance: 50
Reactions: 52
Ball Control: 55
Dribbling: 49
Composure: 46
DEFENDING
Interceptions: 46
Heading Accuracy: 44
Def. Awareness: 48
Standing Tackle: 45
Sliding Tackle: 42
PHYSICAL
Jumping: 48
Stamina: 52
Strength: 51
Aggression: 46
GOALKEEPING
Goalkeeping: 7
LEGENDARY TECHNIQUES (Unlocked)
None
TECHNIQUES (Unlocked)
None
TRAITS
None
TRAITS (Shards Collected)
None
"Oh my God." His eyes moved down the list. His face fell. A short breath escaped because the numbers had teeth.
"I'm wack," he said. The word took some of the sting out by naming it. His shoulders eased—honesty helps.
「This is a starting point, not a sentence. Progress will come if you act,」 the system wrote. The panel held still.
"Fine." He straightened the note on the desk. Slid it under the mirror so it wouldn't move.
"How do we go about it?" The boots under the chair caught his eye. His fingers reached for the laces.
「Say the phrase to open the Packs Menu. I will show you the available packs and their ranges under the categories you qualify for,」 the system wrote. A small arrow pulsed where the menu would appear.
"What phrase?" He checked the door. The house stayed quiet—breakfast working without him.
「Just say, 'UG, I'm ready,' and the menu will open. You can review the packs before you choose.」
He looked at the mirror. At the stats. At the boots. The choice needed legs.
"UG, I'm—"
His phone buzzed on the desk.
The screen lit up with a name that cut across two lives.
Marco Benetti.