Chapter 5: The Observer
The "hills" of Amsterdam weren't mountains. They were man-made inclines in the polders, steep grassy ridges designed to keep the water at bay. To a fifteen-year-old with a 100-rated touch and 60-rated lungs, they were a nightmare.
Luuk stood at the base of a long, muddy slope in the early morning fog. His breath came out in thick white plumes. He was wearing an old, oversized Utrecht training hoodie—the one he'd meant to throw away after the rejection.
[Morning Protocol: High-Intensity Interval Sprints]
[Target: Increase Acceleration (59 -> 60)]
[Status: Muscles at 92% Readiness]
Luuk tightened his laces. He felt a sharp pang in his chest, not from the cold, but from a memory. Last year, he'd come here with his dad. Hendrik had brought a stopwatch and a bag of oranges, cheering from the bottom of the hill. Back then, they'd both believed the academy was a sure thing.
Now, he was alone.
"Just one more point," Luuk whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He wasn't talking to the Screen; he was talking to himself.
He exploded into a sprint.
The first ten meters felt powerful. His Balance kept his feet from sliding in the dew-slicked grass. But by twenty meters, the "Stiff" label the scouts gave him felt like it was becoming a reality again. His hamstrings burned. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He reached the top, doubled over, gasping for air. The Screen flickered.
[Acceleration: 59.1]
"That's it?" Luuk groaned, his hands on his knees. "All that for a point-one?"
He looked back down the hill. He felt a sudden, hot flash of anger. Not at the Screen, but at his own body. He was fifteen, he was supposed to be in his prime growth years, yet every inch of progress felt like he was pulling teeth.
He thought of his father's face last night. The fear in Hendrik's eyes. Luuk hadn't meant to be so harsh, but how could he explain that if he stopped for even a second, the "Lag" would catch up to him? That he was terrified of being "just another big kid" again?
He turned and ran down the hill, his legs moving with that liquid "Nagi" grace, even as his lungs screamed.
At the bottom, he saw a small group of younger kids—maybe twelve or thirteen—setting up cones for a local club practice. They were laughing, jostling each other,
One of them kicked a ball too hard. It soared toward the path where Luuk was catching his breath.
Without thinking, Luuk shifted. He didn't look at the ball until the last second. He jumped, twisting his body in mid-air, and caught the ball on the laces of his boot, cushioning it so perfectly that it didn't even thud. It just rolled softly to his feet.
The kids stopped. The coach, a guy in a faded tracksuit, paused his whistle.
"Whoa... hey, can we have that back?" one of the kids asked, sounding intimidated by the intensity in his eyes.
Luuk looked at the ball. He felt a sudden, brief urge to just stay there and play with them. No stats. No hyper-recovery. Just football.
"Here," Luuk said. He didn't just kick it back. He flicked the ball up with his heel, caught it on his shoulder, and then softly headed it into the kid's waiting arms.
A small, genuine smile flickered on his face for a split second. "Nice ball. Keep your eyes on the spin next time."
The kid beamed. "Thanks, man!"
Luuk turned back to the hill. The brief interaction had cleared the fog in his head. He wasn't a machine. He was a player. And players didn't complain about the incline—they conquered it.
[Neural Synchronization: 102% (Emotional Spike Detected)]
[Agility/Acceleration gain-rate increased for 30 minutes.]
Luuk's eyes sharpened. He didn't wait for the Screen to prompt him. He took off again,
The West-Park
Pitches were even more crowded on Tuesday night. Luuk didn't go for the ball this time. Instead, he found a spot on the weathered wooden bleachers, his hood pulled up against the drizzling rain.
He wasn't there to play; he was there to solve a problem.
Every time he played, the "God-Trap" worked, but he felt like he was reacting to the world rather than controlling it. He was a master of the ball, but a slave to the game's rhythm.
[Inherited Talent: 'Isagi Yoichi' — LOCKED]
[Requirement for Unlock: Spatial Synchronization (0/100)]
He stared at the match on Pitch 1. It was high-level—older guys, probably ex-pros from the lower Dutch leagues. The game was faster, the passes sharper.
Luuk stopped looking at the ball. He forced his eyes to widen, trying to take in the entire pitch at once. He watched the off-ball movements. He saw the Red winger drift two steps to the left, pulling the Blue defender out of position. He saw the gap open. He saw the pass coming three seconds before the midfielder even looked up.
There, Luuk thought.
In that moment, the blue interface in his vision didn't just show his stats. It began to overlay a grid on the concrete.
[Spatial Scan Initiated...]
[Analyzing Passing Lanes... Calculating Probability...]
The world started to feel... layered. It wasn't just players running; it was a series of moving pieces on a chessboard. He saw the "blind spots"—the areas behind the defenders where they couldn't see the ball and the runner at the same time.
"The smell of the goal," Luuk whispered. It was a phrase that had popped into his head, unbidden. It felt like a memory that didn't belong to him.
"You're back."
Luuk blinked, the grid vanishing as his focus broke. Bram was standing there, a kit bag over his shoulder. He looked at Luuk, then at the pitch. "Not playing tonight? Mo was asking for the 'Big Kid' who doesn't miss."
Luuk shook his head. "Just watching."
Bram sat down, the wood creaking. "Best way to learn. Most kids your age just want to dribble until their legs fall off. You're looking at the spaces, aren't you?"
Luuk looked at him, surprised. "How did you know?"
"The way your eyes move," Bram said, lighting a cigarette. "You aren't following the ball. You're following the ghost of the ball. You've got a high IQ, kid. Don't let that go to waste."
They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the rain on the metal roof and the shouts from the pitch. For a moment, Luuk wasn't a "reject" or a "project." He was just a student of the game, sitting with a veteran who recognized the hunger in him.