The walk from the training pitch to the Academy dormitory block was only five hundred yards, but to Kwame, it felt like a marathon.
The "Skill Backlash" from the System was no joke. It felt like his muscles had been stripped from his bones and replaced with lead piping. He pushed open the heavy double doors of the "Scholar's Lodge", the red-brick building that housed the U18 players who lived on-site. The hallway smelled of Lynx body spray and damp towels.
"You see that assist?" someone shouted from the common room TV.
Kwame kept his head down, clutching his kit bag tight. He didn't have the energy to explain to anyone that he, the 'Invisible Man', had just been promoted to the First Team. He didn't have the energy to explain that he was having hallucinations of blue boxes and stats.
He reached Room 204 and swiped his key card.
The room was small, split down the middle by an invisible line. On the left was Callum "Cal" Sterling's side: posters of Neymar, a messy pile of designer clothes, and a pristine gaming setup. On the right was Kwame's side: a neatly made bed, a stack of tactical books, and zero clutter.
Thankfully, the room was empty. Cal was probably in the common room bragging about his goal in the scrimmage, or perhaps sulking about how Kwame had bullied him for the last ten minutes.
Kwame dropped his bag and collapsed onto his bed. The adrenaline of the day was fading, replaced by a bone-deep ache that radiated from his marrow.
I can't move, he thought. How am I supposed to train with the First Team tomorrow if I can't walk?
A soft blue light pulsed in his peripheral vision.
[INVENTORY]> RECOVERY GEL (x1)
Kwame sat up, wincing as his quads protested. He stared at the floating text.
"Inventory," he whispered, feeling foolish.
Immediately, a small, silver pouch materialized in his hand. It had weight. It was cold to the touch, like it had just come out of a fridge. There was no label, no ingredients list, just a sleek metallic tear-tab at the top.
Kwame turned it over in his hands, curiosity warring with skepticism. It looked like something from a sci-fi movie, or a high-end energy gel cyclists used.
"Is this... magic?" he muttered. "Or just sugar water?"
He looked at his trembling hands. He had nothing to lose.
He tore the tab with his teeth and squeezed the gel into his mouth.
It tasted like mint and electricity.
Kwame gagged, coughing as the thick liquid slid down his throat. But the moment it hit his stomach, the sensation changed violently. It wasn't a slow digestion; it was an explosion of cold fire.
A wave of numbing relief surged outwards from his core. He could physically feel it knitting his muscle fibers back together. The tightness in his hamstrings uncoiled like a snapped wire. The throbbing heat in his ankles vanished.
[SYSTEM NOTICE: RECOVERY COMPLETE.][PHYSIOLOGICAL STATUS: OPTIMAL.][STAMINA RESTORED TO MAX (76/100).][STRENGTH RESTORED TO MAX (70/100).]
Kwame scrambled off the bed. He hopped from one foot to the other. He did a squat. Nothing. No pain. No fatigue. He felt fresher than he had at 7:00 AM.
"Okay," he whispered, a wide grin spreading across his face as he looked at his hands. "That is definitely not sugar water."
08:45 AM. Reaseheath Training Complex.
The First Team parking lot was different.
In the academy lot, there were parents' SUVs and the occasional bicycle. Here, there were Audis, Mercedes, and matte-black Range Rovers. Kwame walked past them, clutching his boots, feeling like an imposter in his own club.
He pushed open the door to the Senior Building.
The locker room was twice the size of the U18s'. It smelled of Deep Heat and expensive cologne.
"New lad?"
The voice was deep. Kwame looked up.
Sitting at the far end was Mickey Demetriou. The club captain. The center-back was huge, broad-shouldered, bearded, and looking every bit the veteran who had played hundreds of league games.
"Y-yes. Kwame Aboagye."
Mickey nodded, pointing to an empty peg near the door. "That's you. Don't sit in Longy's spot, or he'll throw your boots in the shower. Get changed. Gaffer wants us out in ten."
Kwame moved quickly, keeping his head down. Other players drifted in. Conor Thomas, the midfield general. Shilow Tracey, the rapid winger. They barely glanced at him. To them, he was just another academy kid filling a gap. Temporary.
Kwame tied his laces. His heart was hammering against his ribs, but his body felt armored. The 70 Strength he had built over two months made him fill out the training kit better than before. He didn't look like a child anymore.
BZZT.
[QUEST STARTED: SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST][TIME REMAINING: 90:00]
09:15 AM. Pitch 1.
The warm-up was harder than any match Kwame had ever played in the U18s. The tempo was brutal. No standing around. Dynamic stretches, sprints, plyometrics.
By the time the balls came out, most academy kids would be gasping. But Kwame's upgraded 76 Stamina held up. He wasn't breathing heavy. He was ready.
"Rondos!" Lee Bell barked. "5 vs 2. Keep the ball moving. One touch!"
Kwame was thrown into a circle with Mickey Demetriou, Conor Thomas, and two other seniors. In the middle were two pressing defenders.
"Play!"
The ball moved like a pinball. Ping-ping-ping.
In the academy, you had a second to control the ball, look up, and pass.
Here, the ball was at your feet and gone before you could blink.
The pass came to Kwame. It was hit hard.
Kwame didn't lack strength anymore, but his 64 Passing and 55 Dribbling were exposed instantly. He panicked, taking a heavy touch to control it.
"One touch!" Mickey yelled.
Too late. The defender in the middle lunged. Kwame used his new strength to shield the ball, holding off the defender for a split second, but his feet were too slow. The senior pro poked the ball away.
"Kwame, in the middle!" Bell shouted. "Sharpen up! You're thinking too slow!"
Kwame's face burned. He stepped into the center of the circle. He spent the next five minutes chasing shadows. He wasn't tired, but he was dizzy from the speed of the ball.
[SYSTEM WARNING: PERFORMANCE RATING DROPPING.][CURRENT RATING: 4.5/10]
He wasn't physically drowning—he was technically drowning.
I can run all day, he realized, but my feet can't keep up with their brains.
"Hold it!" Bell blew the whistle. "Small sided game. Half pitch. 8 vs 8. Kwame, you're holding midfield for the Bibs. Protect the back four."
This was it. The real test.
Kwame pulled on the bib. He looked across the pitch. Lining up on the left wing for the non-bibs was Shilow Tracey.
Kwame swallowed hard. Tracey was one of the fastest players in the league.
[BONUS OBJECTIVE DETECTED: WIN A DUEL AGAINST 'SHILOW TRACEY'.][REWARD: 2 ATTRIBUTE POINTS.]
Are you joking? Kwame thought. He's going to roast me.
The game started.
Immediately, the non-bibs targeted Kwame. They knew he was the rookie.
"Ball to Shilow!" someone shouted.
The pass was played out wide. Shilow Tracey trapped it on the touchline. He looked up, saw Kwame standing between him and the goal, and smirked.
Tracey dropped his shoulder. He didn't need tricks. He just needed speed. He pushed the ball five yards past Kwame and ignited his thrusters.
He's too fast, Kwame's brain screamed. If I chase him, I won't make it.
[SKILL AVAILABLE: BASIC SCAN]
NOW.
"Scan!" Kwame mentally screamed.
The world went grey.
For two seconds, the data flooded in.
He saw Tracey's speed stat: 88. He saw his own speed stat: 61.
A race was suicide. Even with his gym work, you couldn't fake speed.
But the System showed something else. A Red Trajectory Line.
Tracey wasn't just running; he was setting up for a cut-back. The line showed him driving to the byline, then cutting the ball back to the penalty spot where the striker was waiting.
Kwame didn't run at Tracey. He turned and ran toward his own goal, ignoring the ball entirely.
"He's beaten him!" a player shouted.
Tracey flew past the spot where Kwame had been. He reached the byline, looked up, and wound up his leg to cross.
But Kwame was already there.
He had sprinted in a straight line to the exact spot the System had predicted. He slid in, his black boot hooking around just as Tracey made contact.
THUD.
The ball deflected off Kwame's shin and went out for a corner.
"Good recovery, son!" Mickey Demetriou roared from defense. "Way to track the run!"
Kwame lay on the grass for a second, chest heaving.
[BONUS OBJECTIVE COMPLETE: DUEL WON.][REWARD: +2 ATTRIBUTE POINTS.]
He scrambled to his feet, offering a hand to Shilow Tracey.
Tracey looked at him, confused. "How did you know I was cutting that back?"
Kwame wiped sweat from his eyes, trying to look casual despite his heart trying to escape his chest. "Lucky guess."
The play went on. Kwame used his strength to hold off midfielders and his stamina to plug gaps, but he kept his passing simple.
He had managed to survive the first forty-five minutes. And he had forty-five minutes to go.
[STAMINA: 35/76]
The hardest part was just beginning.