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The sun hovered low over Lombardia, bathing the stadium in a warm orange hue as the late afternoon crowd began to pour in. The stands weren't packed like a Serie A match, but for a Serie D fixture, the atmosphere was electric. Banners with Virtus Lombardia fluttered above the railings, and the hum of anticipation buzzed in the air.
In the locker room, Jaeven sat quietly in front of his locker, head lowered, hands clasped together. The number 11 jersey lay neatly folded beside him. It was his first professional jersey — and for a long moment, he just stared at it. His name, J. M. Han, stitched above the number, felt unreal.
A part of him still couldn't believe this was happening. Only a few months ago, he'd been an invisible trialist, running drills under the harsh gaze of Coach Rossi. Now, he was minutes away from stepping onto the pitch for Virtus Lombardia's first match of the second half of the season — a debut that could change everything.
But excitement came with nerves. His heart pounded against his ribs, his palms felt clammy, and despite trying to stay calm, the thought kept circling in his mind — they're watching.
His family. His mother had called the night before, her voice trembling with pride. "We'll be watching from home, Jaeven. No matter what happens, we're proud of you."
That single sentence had hit deeper than he expected. The memory of his mother working late nights, his younger sister saving every coin just to buy him training gear — it all flooded back. He clenched his fists, whispering under his breath, "I won't disappoint you."
"Oi, rookie."
Jaeven looked up. Captain Marco Santini stood in front of him, grinning. The veteran forward tossed a small wristband toward him. "Lucky charm. Been wearing it since I scored my first hat trick here. Figured you might need it more than me today."
Jaeven blinked, caught off guard. "Are you sure?"
"Just don't make me regret it," Marco said, patting his shoulder before walking off with a laugh.
Coach Leonardo Rossi, the "Midfield King" himself, entered the locker room with his usual calm authority. His voice carried effortlessly, silencing the chatter. "Alright, listen up, everyone."
The players turned. Rossi's sharp gaze swept through the room, pausing briefly on Jaeven before continuing.
"This is our first game of the second half. We're sitting 16th out of 18 — a disgrace for a club with our potential. That ends today. We've been rebuilding, reorganizing, and working harder than ever. Today is where we begin the climb."
He pointed toward the tactics board, tapping the formation. "We're playing 4–2–3–1. Jaeven, you'll come in as a substitute left winger in the second half. Use your energy, your awareness, your technique. Don't force things — flow with the game."
Jaeven nodded firmly, his throat tight.
Rossi's tone softened slightly. "You've earned this, kid. Remember — it's not about playing perfect. It's about playing true."
Those words stuck with him. Not perfect… true.
As the team rose to their feet, the low rumble of the crowd outside grew louder. Cleats clattered against the tunnel floor, the smell of fresh-cut grass hit him like a wave, and when they finally stepped onto the pitch, Jaeven's breath caught.
The stands glimmered under the lights. Fans waved flags, chanting "Virtus! Virtus!" in rhythm. He scanned the crowd instinctively, knowing his family couldn't be there in person but imagining their faces nonetheless — his mother wiping a tear, his sister cheering at the screen. It was enough to steady him.
The whistle blew, and the game began.
From the bench, Jaeven watched intensely. The flow of play was rough — Lombardia's midfield struggled to retain possession, and the opposing team, Siena Calcio, pressed high. Their physicality was overwhelming at times. Passes went astray, tackles flew in hard.
Jaeven's eyes tracked every movement, studying the rhythm of the game. His Spectral Awareness ability flickered subconsciously — faint, but present. He could sense open spaces forming before they actually appeared. He didn't need to move; he was observing, calculating, absorbing.
Coach Rossi paced along the sideline, arms crossed. He muttered something to the assistant before glancing toward the bench. Jaeven caught his gaze. The signal came almost immediately — a subtle nod.
"Han, warm up."
Jaeven stood, heart hammering. The assistant coach handed him his vest. He jogged to the touchline, stretching his legs, his mind already in motion. His nerves simmered, but beneath them was something else — focus.
I've trained for this. I'm ready.
At the 64th minute, the substitution board lit up. Number 11 on. Number 17 off.
The roar from the home fans was immediate, surprised but curious. The commentators buzzed through the mic:
> "And it looks like Virtus are bringing on the young debutant, Jaeven Han! The 16-year-old winger has been making waves in training, and Coach Rossi's giving him his first taste of senior football."
As he stepped onto the field, the world around him seemed to fade. The noise, the crowd, even the ball — all distant. His focus tunneled on the pitch, the opponents, the open lanes.
His first touch came almost immediately — a diagonal pass from the midfielder. The ball zipped toward him, and in one smooth motion, his control ability activated. The ball settled perfectly under his feet, no bounce, no stutter.
The defender pressed in aggressively. Jaeven feinted right, then flicked the ball with his left, bursting past him with a quick burst of acceleration. The crowd gasped.
"Nice move, kid!" Marco shouted from across the field.
Jaeven didn't hear him — his body was already flowing with instinct. Pass, reposition, open lane, sprint again. Everything felt connected. The flow state he'd been practicing in the Mental Arena kicked in, subtle but powerful.
Minutes passed like seconds.
In the 78th minute, Virtus earned a counterattack. Marco received the ball at the halfway line and immediately played a through pass toward the left. Jaeven sprinted forward, cutting inside before the fullback could react. His timing was perfect.
He slipped past the defender, took one touch, and fired low toward the far post with his left foot. The ball skimmed past the keeper's glove — into the net.
The stadium erupted.
Jaeven froze for a heartbeat, staring as the ball rippled the net. Then his teammates rushed in, mobbing him. Marco grabbed his head, laughing. "You crazy kid! On your debut?!"
Coach Rossi clapped once from the sideline, expression unreadable but eyes gleaming with pride.
Jaeven barely heard the noise. His mind was blank — only one image flashed in his head: his family's faces, cheering through the screen. His throat tightened again, but this time it was from joy.
As the match drew toward its end, Virtus found one last chance. In stoppage time, the team broke forward again — Jaeven anticipated the play before it even developed. A rebound bounced out of the box, and he was already there, reacting first.
One touch. One half-volley.
Goal.
His second.
The final whistle blew seconds later. Virtus Lombardia 3 – 1 Siena Calcio.
The crowd chanted his name. The cameras swiveled toward him. His teammates lifted him briefly, laughing and shouting, and for the first time since he arrived in this world, Jaeven felt it — not just belonging, but recognition.
In the locker room afterward, Coach Rossi approached quietly as the celebrations echoed. He placed a hand on Jaeven's shoulder.
"Good work today. But remember — this is only the beginning."
Jaeven nodded, still breathing heavily. "Yes, coach."
As he sat later that night, replaying the match in his mind, the excitement began to fade into quiet determination. The Mental Arena had helped him stay calm, his abilities had flowed naturally — but this was just one match. The season was long, and his journey was just starting.
He looked down at the wristband Marco had given him, now stained slightly with sweat and grass. He smiled faintly.
I did it.
But deep down, he knew what Coach Rossi meant — the debut was just the opening chapter of something far bigger. The climb had only begun.
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