「MISSION ACTIVATED」
The system panel appeared in Demien's peripheral vision, translucent and glowing faintly.
「MISSION: Speed Demon」
Objective: Achieve the fastest sprint time across all three attempts.
Reward: 15 TP
Demien blinked, the panel fading to the edge of his vision where only he could see it. The first groups ran, and Coach Bianchi called out times as players crossed the line.
"Five point eight."
"Six point one."
"Five point six."
"Five point nine."
Demien watched the pattern, noting that most players were running between 5.6 and 6.2 seconds, with a few faster ones hitting 5.4 or 5.5. That was the baseline here—academy rejects with decent speed but nothing special.
"Next group," Bianchi called.
Demien lined up with Luca and Matteo. His heart rate stayed steady, his legs felt light.
The whistle blew.
Demien exploded forward. His first three steps came fast, his body low and driving. The acceleration felt sharp and controlled. By ten meters, he was ahead. By twenty, the gap widened. He crossed the line and slowed.
Coach Bianchi stared at his stopwatch, looked at it again, then at Demien.
"Five point two seconds."
The players near the line went quiet. Luca came in second at 5.5, Matteo finished at 5.7. Near the fence, one of the scouts stopped writing mid-sentence, looking up at Demien, then back at his notebook.
Paolo turned to Federico. "Did you hear that time?"
Federico nodded slowly. "That's fast for this level."
The groups continued, but no one came close to Demien's time; the next best was 5.3 from a winger named Di Luca.
Coach Bianchi blew his whistle. "Second attempt. Same order."
Demien lined up again, his breathing even, his mind focused on one thing: faster.
The whistle blew.
This time, Demien drove harder off the line. His acceleration was explosive. Three strides, four, five. He felt the burn in his quads but ignored it. The finish line rushed toward him.
"Five point zero seconds."
Coach Bianchi didn't hide his reaction; his eyebrows lifted as he wrote the time down slowly, then looked over at Coach Mancini. Mancini walked closer, checked the stopwatch himself, and nodded.
The scouts along the fence were all watching now. The older one with the navy jacket leaned over to the younger scout beside him. "What academy did he come from?"
The younger scout checked his notes. "Says here Fiorentina."
"Fiorentina let him go?"
"That's what it says."
The older scout tapped his pen against his notebook. "Five seconds flat is professional level. What's he doing here?"
Matteo shook his head as he walked past Demien. "That's not normal speed for this level."
Luca clapped Demien on the shoulder but didn't say anything. His face showed the same question everyone was thinking.
"Final attempt," Coach Bianchi called. "Push yourselves."
Demien lined up a third time. The system mission pulsed faintly at the edge of his vision. He ignored everything else.
The whistle blew.
He exploded—pure acceleration, no holding back. His legs burned, his lungs screamed, but he pushed through it. The line came, and he crossed it.
"Four point eight seconds."
The pitch went silent for a beat. Coach Bianchi held up the stopwatch so Coach Mancini could see it. Mancini's expression didn't change, but he wrote something down with more pressure than before.
The scout in the navy jacket stood up from where he'd been leaning against the fence. He pulled out his phone and stepped away, speaking quickly into it. Another scout, the one with the Sampdoria jacket, walked closer to the pitch edge, not writing anything, just staring at Demien with narrow eyes, as if trying to figure out a puzzle.
The younger scout leaned over to his colleague again. "Four point eight is what you see at good Serie B clubs. Maybe lower Serie A. Not at a reject trial."
"Check his background again."
"I already did. He's a reject."
"Rejects don't run four point eight."
The system chimed softly in Demien's head.
「MISSION COMPLETE」
Reward: 15 TP
Current Balance: 15 TP | 0 SP
Demien slowed to a walk, his chest heaving, but a small smile crept across his face. Paolo was talking rapidly to Federico near the sideline. "Did you see his acceleration? That first three meters? He left everyone."
Federico watched Demien with a different look now—not friendly, not hostile, just calculating. "He's not competing with us. He's competing with players three levels above us."
The fourth drill was rondos—possession circles with seven players on the outside and two defenders in the middle. Coach Ricci explained the rules. "Keep the ball moving. One-touch or two-touch maximum. If the defenders win it, you swap positions."
The groups formed quickly. Demien ended up on the outside with Luca, Paolo, and four others he didn't know. Two defenders stepped into the middle.
The whistle blew.
The ball moved fast—short passes, quick movement. Demien received it from Luca and flicked it one-touch to Paolo. Paolo sent it across to the far side. The rhythm built.
One of the defenders closed in on Demien. He received the ball with his back to pressure, sensing the defender's presence and the angle. He rolled the ball with his right foot and turned left in one motion, escaping the press. He passed it cleanly to the open man.
"Good," Coach Ricci called. "Keep that composure under pressure."
The drill continued for five minutes, and Demien's group kept possession without losing it once. The defenders grew frustrated; every time they closed in, the ball had already moved.
When the whistle blew, Coach Ricci walked over. "Your group: thirty-two passes without losing possession. Best of the session."
Luca grinned. "We didn't even have to work that hard."
Paolo looked at Demien. "You made that turn look easy. The defender was right on you."
Demien shrugged. "Just kept my head up."
The fifth drill involved technical stations—four zones set up across the pitch, each testing a different skill. Coach Bianchi explained. "Five minutes per station. Dribbling through cones, ball control with both feet, first-touch accuracy, and juggling for consistency. We're watching your technique, not your speed."
Demien started at the dribbling station, navigating a zigzag pattern of cones. He took the ball through cleanly, using both feet and keeping it close. His touches were light and controlled. He finished the course and reset.
A coach with a clipboard watched from the side, writing something down without commenting.
The second station tested ball control. A coach threw balls at different heights and angles, and players had to control them with one touch and return the pass—chest, thigh, foot, head. Demien adjusted to each delivery, his first touches clean as he brought the ball down softly.
The third station focused on passing accuracy, with targets marked on a wall at different heights. Five passes to each target. Demien's passes hit cleanly, and the coach nodded before moving to watch the next player.
The fourth station was juggling—keeping the ball up for as long as possible using any part of the body except hands. Demien started simply, alternating feet, then added thighs, chest, and back to feet. The ball stayed up—fifty touches, sixty, seventy.
Coach Ricci blew the whistle. "Time. Next station."
Paolo was at the next station over and glanced at Demien. "How many did you get?"
"Seventy-something."
Paolo shook his head. "I got thirty-two before it hit the ground."
The drills ended two hours after they started. Coach Mancini gathered everyone near the center circle. The scouts along the fence moved closer, notebooks still open.
"Good work today," Mancini said. "You've shown us your technical ability and physical conditioning. Now we need to see how you play."
He gestured to the pitch. "We will play six-versus-six matches—two matches, forty minutes each. This is where you prove yourselves. The scouts want to see how you think, how you move, how you compete in real game situations."
The players shifted, some stretching their legs while others glanced at the scouts.
Mancini pulled out a sheet of paper. "First match. Team A: Walter, Di Luca, Esposito, Rinaldi, and Sergio. Team B: Gianluca, Matteo, Romano, Costa, and Bellini."
Demien's chest tightened slightly. No Luca. No familiar teammates—just him and four players he barely knew.
"Second match," Mancini continued. "Team C: Luca, Moretti, Ferrari, Gallo, and Bianchi. Team D: Paolo, Federico, Martinelli, Vitale, and Conte."
Luca caught Demien's eye from across the group, nodding once—a silent acknowledgment that they were both being tested separately.
"Goalkeepers rotate every twenty minutes," Mancini added. "First match starts in ten minutes. Get water. Stretch. Be ready."
He dismissed them with a wave.
The players scattered—some headed to the water station, others stayed on the pitch, jogging lightly to stay warm.
Demien walked to the sideline, grabbed a water bottle, and drank slowly. His mind ran through what he knew about his teammates. Di Luca was the fast winger from the sprints, Esposito and Rinaldi had decent pace, and Sergio was in his passing group earlier.
Gianluca and Matteo were on the other team—both central midfielders like him, both competitive, both having seen what he could do in the drills.
This wasn't a friendly scrimmage; this was the real test.
One of the scouts, the older one with the navy jacket, stood near the corner flag now, watching Demien—not writing, just observing.
Demien set the water bottle down, walked back onto the pitch, and started stretching his hamstrings.
Ten minutes.
Then forty minutes to show them everything.
Coach Mancini blew his whistle. "Team A, Team B, take your positions."
Demien jogged to the center of the pitch. Di Luca moved to the left side, Sergio took the right, Esposito dropped deeper as the holding player, and Rinaldi positioned himself between defense and midfield.
On the other side, Gianluca stood in the center, arms crossed, eyes locked on Demien, while Matteo positioned himself just behind Gianluca as the deepest midfielder. Romano and Costa took the wide positions, and Bellini stayed back as the last defender.
The scouts spread along both sidelines, notebooks ready, phones out, some recording video.
Coach Mancini placed the ball at the center spot, looking at both teams.
"Forty minutes. No stoppages unless injury. Play smart. Play hard. Show us who you are."
He stepped back.
The whistle blew.
Demien touched the ball forward to Di Luca, and the match began.
The sun hung lower in the sky when Coach Mancini's final whistle cut through the evening air. Both matches had finished, and players walked off the pitch—some with their heads down, others talking quietly about moments from the games.
Mancini gathered everyone near the center circle one last time. His face was unreadable.
"You've given us a lot to think about today. The scouts have seen what they needed to see. Tomorrow, we play the main trial match—eleven versus eleven, full field. That match will determine who receives offers and who goes home."
He paused, letting the weight settle over them.
"Rest tonight. Eat well. Be ready at eight in the morning for tactical briefings. Dismissed."
The players scattered—some headed straight to the dormitory, others lingered on the pitch, stretching or talking in small groups.
Demien walked slowly toward the dorm. His legs felt the work from the drills and the match, but his mind stayed clear. The 6v6 had gone well; he had controlled his game, made smart decisions, and contributed without drawing too much attention. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow would be the real test.
Luca caught up to him near the entrance. "You played well out there."
"Thanks. So did you."
"I heard your match finished seven to nothing." Luca's tone was neutral, not jealous—just observant. "That's a statement."
Demien shrugged. "We had a good team."
"You had two goals and two assists. That's more than good."
Demien glanced at him. "How'd you hear that?"
"Paolo was watching from the sideline between matches. He doesn't shut up." Luca smiled slightly. "Tomorrow's the one that matters though. Today was just the warm-up."
"Yeah. Tomorrow's different."
They reached the dormitory, and Luca turned toward his room. "Get some rest. You'll need it."
Demien continued to room seven. Inside, he dropped onto his bed, the mattress creaking under him. His muscles ached in that good way that comes from real work.
He pulled out his phone—three missed calls, two from Marco, one from his mother.
He called her first. The line rang twice before she answered. "Demien?"
"Hi, Mum."
"How did it go? Are you okay?"
Her voice was tight with worry, and Demien closed his eyes.
"It went well. The drills were hard, but I did okay."
"Just okay?"
"Better than okay," he admitted. "The coaches noticed me. So did the scouts."
She gasped softly. "Really? What did they say?"
"They didn't say much, but they were watching—writing things down. That's a good sign."
"That's wonderful, Demien. I knew you could do this."
Her voice cracked slightly, and Demien's throat tightened.
"Thanks, Mum."
"Are you eating? Sleeping?"
"Yeah. I'm fine. The food here is decent. The bed's not great, but I'll manage."
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is the big match—eleven versus eleven, full field. That's when they really decide who gets offers."
She was quiet for a moment, and he could hear her breathing on the other end.
"You'll do great. I know you will."
"I hope so."
"I believe in you, Demien. Always have. Always will."
He swallowed hard. "I love you, Mum."
"I love you too. Call me after the match tomorrow. I don't care what time it is."
"I will. Promise."
"Goodnight, love."
"Goodnight."
He hung up, the phone resting on his chest as he stared at the ceiling. The cracks up there looked like rivers on a map, branching and splitting into smaller paths.
Tomorrow. Everything depended on tomorrow.
His eyes felt heavy as the day's work caught up to him all at once. He should change into something more comfortable, but moving felt like too much effort.
He closed his eyes.
The system panel flickered into view.
「MISSION ALERT」
NEW MISSION AVAILABLE
Objective: ???
Details: ???
Demien's eyes snapped open, curiosity igniting within him as he wondered what lay ahead.