Sunlight streamed through the thin blinds, catching dust particles dancing lazily in the air. Qin Ming sat on the edge of his bed, still trying to process what had happened. The Ronaldinho template had fully merged into his body, and every fiber of his being seemed alive with energy he had never felt before. Muscles he didn't even know existed had strengthened. Reflexes had sharpened. Vision had widened. Even the faintest movements of the curtains in the breeze registered in his peripheral vision. He flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling the electricity of potential coursing through them.
The system interface blinked quietly before him:
[Host: Qin Ming][Template: Ronaldinho "Football Elf" – Fusion 65%][Skills: Skill Training, Skill Copy, Dribble Mastery]
It was simple, almost minimalistic—but the meaning behind those numbers was anything but. Sixty-five percent fusion meant he hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of this template's capabilities. And yet, the difference was already monumental. Even sitting on the edge of his bed, he could feel the difference in strength, balance, and timing compared to other seventeen-year-olds at Bayern II.
The dormitory door swung open quietly, and Højbjerg stepped in, a tray of food in his hands. "You're not going to eat in the dining hall, so I brought lunch," he said, voice casual but eyes curious. Qin Ming smiled faintly, grateful for the quiet loyalty of his teammate. "Thanks," he replied simply, not wanting to draw attention or make promises he couldn't keep. He'd learned quickly: patience and observation mattered more than words.
As he ate the bland, overly cooked chicken and unseasoned vegetables, he mentally replayed the events of the past week. Only a few days ago, he had been watching the U20 Asian Cup, drunk from disappointment and a bottle of beer, when he had been thrust into this strange new world. Now, he was in one of Europe's most prestigious clubs, with the raw tools to become something extraordinary. And yet, Ten Hag had already tried to force his hand, pushing him toward a transfer to the Chinese Super League. Qin Ming knew he couldn't go back—not if he wanted to dominate Europe, not if he wanted to maximize the system's potential.
After finishing his meal, he walked toward the small gym in the dormitory, flexing and testing his new body. Muscle memory surged; his body seemed to anticipate every movement before his mind consciously decided it. He dribbled an imaginary ball, spun, feinted left, cut right, and landed perfectly balanced every time. Every movement was sharper, faster, more precise. The system pulsed faintly in his vision, offering mini-goals: perfect a three-defender dribble, maintain balance while performing five consecutive feints, or accelerate to sprint speed while maintaining ball control. Each task completed would increase fusion, further amplifying his abilities.
By the time the sun began to tilt toward afternoon, the dormitory had emptied of other players, and he found himself alone in the training pitch. Bayern II's first-team scouts were rumored to be watching, and he didn't want to risk giving away his full potential prematurely. So he focused quietly, practicing subtle footwork, perfecting his acceleration, and running intricate patterns. Every movement was calculated, a dance between instinct and observation. He could feel his fusion rising with every perfect touch, every flawless pivot, every feint that left a phantom defender trailing behind him in his imagination.
Then came the knock on the door. It was Ten Hag. Qin Ming didn't look up. The coach entered, hands behind his back, face impassive. "You're improving," he said. "But improvement alone isn't enough. Discipline, teamwork, mentality—these are what matter in Bayern." Qin Ming nodded slowly, keeping his tone neutral. "I understand, coach," he said. Ten Hag's eyes lingered, sharp and calculating. "The first team will be watching you tomorrow. Don't embarrass yourself—or me." With that, he left, leaving a faint scent of authority in the room.
That night, Qin Ming lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The system interface glowed faintly before his eyes. [Fusion: 70%] blinked. He exhaled slowly. The next day would bring scouts, competition, and real matches. It wasn't just a test of skill; it was a test of his ability to strategize, adapt, and dominate under observation. He could already predict how defenders would approach him, how their habits would reveal weaknesses, and how he could exploit them without appearing cocky. The system didn't just enhance his body—it enhanced his mind, teaching him anticipation and pattern recognition at speeds far beyond his contemporaries.
The next morning, the training ground buzzed with the sounds of early drills. Young players sprinted, passed, and tackled, unaware that one of their own carried the potential of a football legend. Qin Ming joined the warm-up, moving fluidly, feet barely touching the grass, body perfectly balanced. Whispers followed him—something about his aura, his presence. He didn't care. He focused on scanning the first-team defenders. Every subtle twitch, every shift in weight, every glance toward him would be noted, stored, and analyzed. Tomorrow, he would step onto the field in front of scouts. He would demonstrate—not just skill, but mastery.
Hours later, Ten Hag assembled the team. Scouts from various European clubs were present, quietly observing from the sidelines. "Today," Ten Hag began, "you play a friendly match against our local rivals. Show control, discipline, and strategy. And remember: talent is nothing without application." Qin Ming nodded, suppressing excitement. This was his chance. Every dribble, every pass, every feint would be a lesson, a showcase. And yet, he knew the key wasn't just to impress—it was to gather experience, adapt to human unpredictability, and integrate the system's full potential into real-world play. Fusion wasn't just power—it was learning.
As the match began, chaos erupted. Defenders rushed, attempting to intimidate, but Qin Ming's body moved with unnatural fluidity. He weaved through the first line, feinted past the second, and executed a perfect chip over a third defender. The ball rolled gracefully into the path of a waiting teammate. Whispers grew into murmurs, murmurs into awe. Ten Hag's face tightened into an unreadable mask, scouts scribbling furiously on their notes. Højbjerg clapped silently from the sideline, a mix of pride and concern in his eyes. Qin Ming's smirk was subtle but present. The first-team shadows were looming—and he was ready.
By halftime, the scoreboard was irrelevant. It wasn't about goals. It was about observation, adaptation, and domination. Each movement, each feint, each acceleration fed back into the system, increasing fusion. [Fusion: 75%] blinked. And Qin Ming realized, with a quiet thrill, that the European leagues were no longer distant dreams—they were a playing field waiting to be conquered. And he, a transmigrator with history's cheats, would write his name across it.