The plane touched down at Linate just after ten in the morning, and Demien collected his bag from the overhead compartment, filing through the narrow aisle with the other passengers before stepping into the terminal. The air smelled like coffee and jet fuel.
He followed the signs to the taxi rank outside, where a line of white cabs waited at the curb. Climbing into the first one, he showed the driver the address Marco had sent him. The driver nodded and pulled into traffic without a word.
Twenty minutes later, the taxi stopped outside a chain-link fence. Beyond it sat three training pitches, a low concrete building, and a row of dormitories that looked older than the clubs Demien used to watch on television. He paid the driver with cash his mother had pressed into his hand at the airport, the coins feeling warm in his palm.
The gate hung open, a sign bolted to the fence reading SELEZIONE MILANO - STAGE DI 2 GIORNI in faded letters. Behind it, two dozen players moved across the nearest pitch in small groups, stretching and jogging.
Demien picked up his bag, the weight feeling solid on his shoulder. This was it.
He walked through the gate, gravel crunching under his boots, the sound seeming louder than it should be. A man in a tracksuit stood near the entrance with a clipboard, checking names as players approached.
"Nome?" The man looked up.
"Demien Walter."
The man scanned his list, made a mark, and pointed toward the dormitory on the left. "Room seven. Drop your bag, then report to the main pitch in fifteen minutes."
Demien nodded and crossed the courtyard. The dormitory door swung open with a squeak.
The hallway inside smelled like old paint and disinfectant, his footsteps echoing on the linoleum floor as he counted doors: four, five, six, seven.
He pushed the door open.
The room was small, with two beds against opposite walls, thin mattresses and grey blankets folded at the foot of each. A narrow window looked out at the training pitch, and a metal locker stood between the beds.
Someone had already claimed the left bed; a black duffel bag rested on the floor beside it, a pair of boots sitting underneath.
Demien set his bag on the right bed, unzipping it slowly to check his kit one more time. Everything was there. He closed it and sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking under him.
He pulled out his phone, noticing two missed calls from his mother and one text from Marco.
"Call when you arrive. Let me know you're safe."
He typed back quickly, "I'm here. Room seven. About to start."
The reply came fast, "Good. Show them what you can do."
Demien stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over his mother's contact before he slid the phone back into his pocket. Later. After the drills. After he had something real to tell her.
He stood, checked his laces, and walked back into the hall.
The common area sat at the end of the corridor, where six players clustered around a table near the window, speaking in rapid Italian. They looked up when Demien entered.
One of them smiled, tall with dark hair pulled back in a small ponytail. "New guy?"
"Yeah." Demien stopped near the table. "Demien."
"Luca." The tall one gestured to the others. "This is Matteo, Gianluca, Paolo, Federico, and Marco Leone in the back."
Matteo nodded without smiling, broad shoulders and a square jaw that looked carved from stone. Gianluca sat beside him, leaner and faster-looking, with sharp eyes studying Demien like he was deciding something important.
Paolo leaned forward with a grin. "Where are you from? Your Italian is good, but your accent is strange."
"Florence. My mother is English."
"Ah." Paolo glanced at Federico, who shrugged. "That explains it."
Marco Leone sat in the corner with his arms crossed, shorter than the others, gloves sticking out of his bag. "Goalkeeper," he said when he saw Demien looking. "So I don't have to worry about you taking my spot."
A few of them laughed.
Gianluca tapped the table. "What position?"
"Midfielder. Central."
"Same as me." Gianluca's smile didn't reach his eyes. "And Luca. And Matteo. Crowded position."
"What club cut you?" Paolo asked.
"Fiorentina."
Matteo grunted. "Inter cut me. Said I wasn't fast enough." He looked around the table. "We all got cut somewhere. That's why we're here."
Luca's tone was lighter. "Six clubs sent scouts. Enough space for everyone if you're good enough."
"You think the scouts care about everyone?" Matteo's voice was flat. "They're here for one or two players. Maybe three if we're lucky."
The room went quiet. Every player here carried rejection; every one of them knew what it felt like to be told they weren't good enough.
Matteo stood, picking up his water bottle. "Tomorrow's match decides everything. Second chances only matter if you take them."
He walked out, the door swinging shut behind him.
Gianluca watched him go. "He's not wrong. The coaches said it themselves. Tomorrow is the real test."
"Then today is warm-up," Paolo said, grinning at Demien. "Try not to embarrass yourself in front of the scouts."
"Same to you," Demien replied.
Paolo laughed, and Federico joined him, the tension easing slightly.
Luca stood. "We should head to the pitch. Coach Mancini doesn't like late arrivals."
They filed out one by one, Demien following at the back, his hands loose at his sides, his mind already running through what came next.
The main pitch stretched out under the late morning sun, white lines marking the training zones and cones sitting in neat rows along the sideline. Twenty-four players gathered near the center circle while three coaches stood in front of them with clipboards and whistles.
Demien joined the group, finding a spot near the edge. Luca stood a few meters away with Matteo beside him.
One of the coaches stepped forward, older with grey hair and a whistle hanging from his neck. "I am Coach Mancini. This is Coach Ricci and Coach Bianchi. We will run drills today to assess your technical ability, speed, and decision-making. Tomorrow, you will play an eleven-versus-eleven match. The scouts are here to watch. Perform well, and you will have opportunities. Perform poorly, and you will go home."
A few players shifted their weight, someone clearing their throat. Demien glanced sideways and saw Matteo staring straight ahead, jaw tight.
Mancini gestured toward the sideline, where five men stood in dark jackets with notebooks in their hands. "Those scouts represent Atalanta Under 23, Parma, and several Serie B and Serie C clubs. They are here because their clubs need young players with potential. Show them you are worth their attention."
Demien glanced at the scouts, one of them meeting his eyes and nodding slightly before jotting down Demien's number on his notepad.
"First drill," Mancini called. "Passing accuracy. Groups of four. You have three minutes to complete as many clean passes as possible within the marked zone. Coaches will track your totals. Begin."
The players split into groups, Demien ending up with Luca, Gianluca, and a winger named Sergio. Six groups formed across different zones on the pitch.
Luca took the ball first, passing it cleanly to Sergio, who returned it to Gianluca. Gianluca sent it to Demien, and the rhythm built quickly—one touch, two touches, sharp passes that stayed inside the lines.
Demien felt his body settle into the drill, his feet moving without thinking. The ball came to him and left again in smooth arcs. Luca's passes were precise; Gianluca's were faster, testing reaction time.
After three minutes, Coach Ricci blew his whistle. "Totals."
From the other zones, groups called out their numbers.
"Thirty-two."
"Twenty-nine."
"Thirty-five."
"Thirty-one."
Luca counted quickly. "Thirty-eight."
Mancini wrote it down. "Good. Highest total. Next drill."
Luca looked over at Demien. "Not bad," he said quietly.
The second drill started. "One-touch passing under pressure. Defender in the middle. Two minutes. Go."
This one was harder, the defender closing fast, cutting angles and forcing mistakes. Demien's first pass went wide. Gianluca retrieved it and sent it back without comment.
Demien adjusted, watching the defender's hips instead of his feet. He found the gaps before they closed, the ball moving faster now. One touch, sharp angles, no hesitation.
Luca shouted encouragement from the next group over. "Keep it moving."
Demien did. His legs burned slightly, but his lungs held steady. The ball came to him again. He flicked it past the defender to Sergio, who returned it immediately. Demien sent it back to Gianluca.
The whistle blew.
"Totals."
"Twenty-two."
"Nineteen."
"Twenty-six."
Demien's group finished with twenty-eight—the highest total.
Coach Mancini wrote it down without comment and moved to the next drill.
Near the fence, one of the scouts pulled out a small notebook, older, maybe fifty, with grey streaks in his dark hair and a navy jacket. He wrote something down, leaning over to whisper to the scout beside him.
The third drill was sprints—forty meters, straight line, timed.
Coach Bianchi explained the rules. "Three attempts each. We take your best time. Line up by group."
A soft tone chimed in Demien's head, and he froze for half a second.
「MISSION ACTIVATED」
The system panel appeared in his peripheral vision, translucent and glowing faintly.
「MISSION: Speed Demon」
Objective: Achieve the fastest sprint time across all three attempts.
Reward: 15 TP