Day 3 of the New Regime. 04:00 AM.
The sky over Jakarta was still pitch black. The air was thick with humidity, creating a suffocating blanket over the National Training Center. But the dominant smell wasn't the fresh morning dew.
It was the metallic tang of vomit and the sour scent of regret.
"Get up!"
The scream didn't come from Coach Guntur. It came from the scrawny figure standing on top of a cooler box, holding a megaphone like a preacher of doom.
Adrian Vance.
"Player 99! Your heart rate dropped below 160! Are you resting? Did I say you could rest?" Adrian barked, his voice amplified across the field, cutting through the silence of the dawn.
Bambang—wearing a humiliatingly oversized jersey with the number 99 hastily taped onto the back—was on his hands and knees. He was heaving, his lungs burning as if he had swallowed broken glass.
"I... I can't..." Bambang gasped, saliva dripping onto the grass. "It's... too much..."
"You can't?" Adrian adjusted his glasses, checking the tablet in his other hand. "According to my data, your glycogen stores are at 40%. You aren't dying; your brain is just soft. The pain you feel is just weakness leaving the body. Get up and sprint, or you miss breakfast!"
Bambang groaned, forcing his trembling legs to straighten. He looked ahead.
Rio Valdes was running at the front of the pack. Rio wasn't screaming. He wasn't threatening. He was simply running. Lap after lap. The rhythm of his breathing was mechanical, perfectly synced with his stride.
[SYSTEM STATUS][Title Effect: THE TYRANT (Active)][Aura Range: 50 Meters][Effect: Ally Pain Tolerance +20%, Stamina Recovery +10%][Cost: User Stamina drains 2x faster]
Rio checked his internal HUD. The "Tyrant" title was working. Under normal circumstances, half the team would have collapsed and quit by now. But Rio's presence was acting like a dark fuel, forcing their bodies to push beyond their natural safety limits.
They hate me, Rio thought, listening to the labored breathing and cursed whispers behind him. Good. Hate is a powerful fuel.
By the time the sun actually rose, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, the U-20 squad looked like survivors of a shipwreck. They lay scattered across the pitch, groaning, nursing cramps, eyes hollow.
But there was no rest.
"Tactical Session starts in ten minutes," Rio announced, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel. "If you're late, Adrian adds another 5k run to the evening session."
The players scrambled up like zombies. Fear, it seemed, was the best alarm clock.
The Tactical Room.
The atmosphere was grim. Coach Guntur stood at the back, arms crossed, watching silently. He had effectively handed the reins to the "Trinity," curious to see where this madness would lead.
Adrian stood in front of the whiteboard. He didn't draw standard formations like 4-4-2 or 4-3-3. Instead, he drew a series of chaotic, overlapping lines that looked more like a war map than a football strategy.
"We are weak," Adrian started bluntly.
"Thanks for the confidence boost," a winger muttered sarcastically.
"It's a fact," Adrian shot back, slapping the board. "Compared to France's physicality and Japan's technique, we are insects. If we play 'normal' football—trying to keep possession, building from the back—we lose 10 times out of 10."
Adrian uncapped a red marker. He circled the defensive zone aggressively.
"So, we don't play normal. We play Asymmetrical Warfare."
He pointed to Ole Romeny, who was sitting in the corner, blending into the shadows.
"The strategy is simple: The Ghost and The Anvil."
Adrian drew a box around the midfield. "The rest of you? You are the Anvil. Your job is to be annoying. Foul them tactically. Drag them out of position. Clog the passing lanes. Make them hate playing against you. You don't need to score. You just need to survive and suffer."
He then drew a single arrow shooting from the backline to the enemy goal.
"When they get frustrated and overcommit... Rio launches the surgical pass. Ole finishes it. One pass. One goal. That is the only way we win."
Bambang raised his hand. His ego was bruised, but his football brain was still active. "So we're just... meat shields? While the new guys get the glory?"
"You're not meat shields," Rio interrupted from the side of the room. His red eyes bored into Bambang. "You are the walls of the trap. Without the wall, the trap doesn't work."
Rio walked to the front, standing directly before the fallen captain.
"Bambang. You used to be the star. You wanted the ball at your feet every second. You wanted to be the hero."
Bambang looked down at his hands. "Yeah."
"Forget that player," Rio commanded. "That player died yesterday. I don't need a star. I need a Dog."
Rio leaned in.
"I need a mad dog that chases their defenders until they panic. I need someone who runs until his lungs bleed to create space for Ole. Can you do that? Or is your pride too heavy to carry?"
The room went silent. All eyes were on the fallen captain. Bambang clenched his fists under the table. He remembered the humiliation of the 3-0 loss. He remembered the laughter of the crowd. He realized that if he didn't adapt, he would be watching the World Cup from the sofa.
"I'll do it," Bambang whispered. Then louder, lifting his head. "I'll do it. I'll chase them until my legs fall off."
Rio nodded. [Target: Bambang | Obedience: 65% | Determination: Rising]
"Good," Rio said. "Now get out. The defensive drills start now. And Ole is 'IT'."
Training Pitch B.
The defensive drill was deceptively simple: "The Cage."
The Objective: Ole Romeny holds the ball inside a 20x20 meter box. Three defenders (including Bambang) must dispossess him.
It sounded easy. 3 vs 1 is usually a slaughter in football. The lone player shouldn't last more than ten seconds.
But ten minutes had passed, and Ole still had the ball.
"Where did he go?!" "He was just behind me!"
The defenders were spinning in circles, crashing into each other. Ole didn't sprint like a cheetah. He moved like smoke. He utilized Blind Spots.
Every time Bambang lunged for a tackle, Ole would take a half-step into Bambang's peripheral vision shadow. By the time Bambang turned his head, Ole was already gone, the ball glued to his foot.
[PASSIVE: VANISHING POINT][Effect: Presence reduced by 80% when not in direct line of sight.]
"Stop relying on your eyes!" Rio shouted from the sideline, arms crossed. "Use your spatial awareness! Cut the angles, don't chase the man!"
For twenty minutes, the "stars" of the team were humiliated by one pale boy who hadn't said a single word.
But slowly... very slowly... they began to adapt. The frustration turned into focus.
"On your left!" Bambang screamed at a defender, pointing to a gap.
The defender didn't look; he trusted the call and threw a leg out blindly to close the space.
Thud.
The defender's boot connected with the ball. It rolled out of the box.
Beep!
Adrian blew the whistle. "Finally! It took you idiots twenty-five minutes to dispossess him once!"
The defenders collapsed, panting, soaked in sweat. But for the first time in days, there were no complaints. There were exhausted smiles. High fives.
"Did you see that?" Bambang wheezed, lying on his back. "We got him."
Coach Guntur watched from the balcony, a cigarette unlit in his mouth. "They're changing," Guntur muttered to his assistant. "Rio didn't just break them. He's forging them."
On the field, Rio watched his squad. The "Tyrant" interface flickered in his vision.
[QUEST PROGRESS: WORLD CUP PREPARATION][Team Synergy: 12% -> 18%][Tactical Familiarity: Low -> Moderate]
It was working. But it was slow. Too slow.
Rio felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. A reminder. Thump... thump-thump.
The bionic heart was holding up, but the strain of maintaining the "Tyrant" buff was draining his own energy reserves. He was essentially feeding his own vitality to the team.
"Rio?"
He turned. Ole Romeny was standing there. The ghost had approached without making a sound.
"You're bleeding," Ole whispered, pointing to Rio's nose.
Rio touched his face. His fingers came away red. A nosebleed. The System was warning him: Overheating.
"It's nothing," Rio said, wiping the blood onto his sleeve casually. "Just the dry air."
"You pushed the buff too hard today," Ole said, his voice barely audible. He noticed things others didn't. "You're dying faster so they can get stronger."
Rio stared at him for a second, his expression hardening. "It's a necessary trade. Get back in line. We're doing set-pieces."
Ole lingered for a moment, his hollow eyes searching Rio's face. Then he nodded. "You're crazier than me," Ole murmured, before vanishing back into the crowd of players.
Rio looked up at the scorching Jakarta sun. He felt the drip of blood in the back of his throat.
Two months, he thought. I just need to keep this heart beating for two more months.
"AGAIN!" Rio roared, clapping his hands, ignoring the metallic taste in his mouth. "Set-piece formation! Move!"