The day after his stunning debut in the friendly match, Hoffenheim's training base was significantly livelier than usual. Several cameras had appeared outside the field, and local Hoffenheim journalists were secretly setting up telephoto lenses, trying to capture news about yesterday's 17-year-old rising star. To be precise, they were looking for embarrassing news. They naturally assumed that a 17-year-old who became MVP in his first match would surely make a fool of himself during training the next day, and such news material would definitely sell like hotcakes.
However, when they actually saw Oliver, they were somewhat dazed. The young man who had been freely toying with opponents on the field yesterday was now sitting alone by the sidelines, looking down at a tablet, his fingers pausing, replaying, and taking notes on the screen from time to time, while also holding paper and pen, constantly writing and drawing. The journalists didn't get the news they wanted and were eventually chased out by the security guard.
Nagelsmann stood at his office window, hands in his pockets, watching the scene from afar. He had originally thought that today Oliver would, like most young players, walk onto the training ground with a bit of elated excitement, perhaps even being teased by his teammates with phrases like "the new star has arrived."
But the reality was quite the opposite; Oliver even arrived earlier than usual, and immediately pulled up yesterday's match footage to analyse his positioning and decisions frame by frame.
"This kid…" Nagelsmann murmured to himself, a smile unconsciously forming on his lips. The assistant coach pushed the door open and handed him a cup of coffee: "I heard Oliver arrived at 6:30 today? The security guard said it wasn't fully light when he came in."
"He definitely didn't get much sleep last night," Nagelsmann took the coffee, his gaze still fixed on the window.
"The post-match interview ended past nine, and he can still be so energetic," the assistant coach next to him whispered. "Coach, what's even more outrageous is that he just asked me for the tactical analysis reports of Bologna's three matches, saying he wanted to study their center-backs' defensive habits for the next friendly match."
Nagelsmann raised an eyebrow and finally couldn't help but laugh: "How is this like a rookie who just finished his debut? He's more like a thirty-year-old veteran."
After training officially began, Oliver's performance was even more surprising. After the regular warm-up, instead of rushing to show off his individual skills like other young players, he proactively approached Captain Vogt and asked if his positioning during defensive counterattacks was reasonable. Vogt was stunned for a moment, then smiled and patted his shoulder: "My goodness, if I remember correctly, you had two goals and one assist yesterday. Now you're asking me about defensive issues?"
Oliver said seriously. "Captain, I actually know very well that the second goal had a lot of luck involved, and if my positioning for that counterattack had been a bit earlier, I might have created a fourth crucial opportunity, but unfortunately, I didn't."
These words were overheard by Gnabry, who was passing by. The Bayern loanee's eyes widened, and he turned to Amiri beside him, muttering: "Has this kid been possessed by some professional player's soul? When I was 17 and played a match like that, my mind would be full of 'I'm so awesome,' but he's acting like nothing happened."
Amiri shrugged: "That's nothing, Oliver just did an extra half-hour of long-pass training, and now he's going to practice off-ball movement. Look at his stable training schedule, it's like a robot."
And so, the nickname "Robot" spread within the team. During lunchtime, Oliver sat in a corner with his tray, watching highlights of Bundesliga matches on his phone while eating. Nagelsmann deliberately brought his coffee and sat opposite him, asking casually: "So, Oliver, how do you feel after your debut?"
Oliver looked up, his eyes as calm as a child's: "Coach, the pace of a top League professional team is indeed much faster than in training, especially the decision-making time during offensive and defensive transitions. I still need to adapt. Oh, by the way, Coach, I just wanted to ask you…"
He put down his knife and fork, quickly pulled up a video on his phone. He had originally planned to ask this question in the afternoon, but since the coach was there, he asked it directly. "It's this segment. You see, during this counterattack, if I had chosen to pass wide instead of a through ball, would it have been more reasonable?"
Nagelsmann almost choked on his coffee. He stared at the frozen moment on the screen, which was precisely Oliver's brilliant pass. Most players would revel in joy when reviewing spectacular moments, but this young man was calmly dissecting his "surgical pass" like a surgeon.
"Theoretically, passing wide would indeed be safer," Nagelsmann put down his coffee cup, his tone unconsciously becoming like a teacher lecturing a student.
"But at that moment, you captured the opponent's defensive midfielder's shift in balance. This kind of intuition is rare. Sometimes, the difference between a genius and an ordinary player lies in whether they dare to gamble on that 0.1-second opportunity."
Oliver nodded thoughtfully, then suddenly pulled out a notebook from his backpack and jotted down a few notes. Nagelsmann glimpsed the dense tactical diagrams and time annotations in the notebook and finally couldn't help but ask: "Oliver, how much time do you spend studying these every day?"
"Hmm… probably four hours. Because my game reading ability is still far too lacking. Improving this isn't easy at all; it's much harder than improving my ball skills. Oliver looked up to answer the coach, then continued to write notes, his pen still scratching on the paper.
Four hours. This sentence made Nagelsmann's pupils' contract slightly. He remembered his days at 21, when he first became a coach for Munich 1860's youth team, and the media called him a "data fanatic." But compared to this young man, his past self didn't seem much better. Could it be that this kid also wants to be a coach?
In the afternoon's tactical drills, the terror of "Robot" Oliver was fully revealed. When Nagelsmann finished setting up a complex wing-center combination tactic, most players were still trying to digest the movement routes. Oliver found a new problem and asked: "Coach, if the opponent's right-back adopts man-marking, should I proactively pull wide to draw away the defender, creating space for Gnabry to cut inside? When practicing with Gnabry and cooperating on the field, I sometimes feel this would be more efficient."
The locker room suddenly fell silent. Everyone turned to look at the youngest face, even Captain Vogt had a ghost-like expression. This wasn't a low-level, common question; it definitely wasn't the kind of question a show-off in class would ask just to look cool. This level of tactical understanding is usually only possessed by professional players who have been competing in the Bundesliga for many years.
Nagelsmann's mouth twitched. He suddenly realized that he might have found the rarest species in the football world: A monster with both top-tier talent and top-tier professional attitude.
After training, Oliver, as usual, stayed the latest. By the time he finished his last set of core training in the gym, the setting sun had already dyed the floor-to-ceiling windows orange-red. Gnabry, at some point, leaned against the doorframe, tossing a football: "Hey, Robot, want to grab a drink? To celebrate your perfect debut, and also our first on-field chemistry as a team?"
Oliver wiped his sweat, revealing his first age-appropriate smile of the day: "Okay, but can you wait until I finish watching this last video, just ten minutes."
"Oh, damn it!" Gnabry exaggeratedly clutched his chest, "Ollie, you're not really a robot, are you? Seriously, do you ever laugh? Do you play games? Do you have any human hobbies?"
Oliver blinked, then suddenly lowered his voice: "Serge, actually, I have a secret."
"What secret?"
Gnabry immediately leaned closer, only to hear the young man say earnestly: "The secret is, I have to use a Type-C cable when I charge."
Gnabry froze for two seconds, then burst out laughing. He vigorously ruffled Oliver's hair: "Hahahahaha… Alright, you kid is too funny, but…" He suddenly became serious,
"Seriously, everyone really admires you, not because you play so well, but because… of your attitude. Anyway, everyone really likes you."
Oliver spread his hands, smiling as he accepted Gnabry's praise. Only he knew that behind this almost obsessive focus was the system time accumulation floating in the corner of his vision: [Today's Focus Time: 9 hours 50 minutes].
To redeem those expensive items in the system store, he had to precisely allocate every minute like a true Robot. But then again, "Robot" was just a nickname. In his daily interactions, Oliver gained the goodwill of almost everyone around him. For example, when he noticed goalkeeper Baumann always tidying up equipment alone after extra training, he would "happen" to pass by and help;
When young players were joked with by older teammates, he could always use a witty remark to defuse the awkwardness; even during a team dinner after a certain training session, he specifically remembered Gnabry's aversion to spicy food and quietly asked the waiter to change the sauce.
Oliver had already become "one of their own" at Hoffenheim. Several times, Nagelsmann couldn't help but say to his assistant coach: "Do you know what I admire most about this kid?"
"What is it?"
"He can make everyone on the team feel valued. The most formidable thing about this kid isn't that he runs faster or farther than others, but that he knows when to slow down and wait for his teammates to catch up after surpassing them."
"Coach, do you mean this kid has the potential to become a captain in the future?"
"Yes, absolutely. In any club, captain-level players need such potential. Many players are as disciplined as him, but not all of them are as well-liked as him."
...
Late at night, after the gathering, Oliver returned and lay on his apartment bed, the muscle soreness not yet completely subsided. He closed his eyes, feeling every subtle feedback from his body after training. His right knee felt a bit tight, his left shoulder slightly heavy, but all within a controllable range.
Suddenly, a crisp "ding" sounded in his mind, the familiar system notification. Immediately after, a translucent light screen unfolded in his consciousness, with several lines of flashing text: [System updates complete, new injury warning function added].
Oliver suddenly opened his eyes, all sleepiness gone. He focused his mind and brought up the system interface. Sure enough, next to the original data panel, a red health status icon appeared. Clicking on it revealed detailed records of his body's various loads:
Right patellar tendon slight fatigue (risk level: low, recoverable),
Left deltoid slight strain (risk level: low, recoverable),
Left anterior cruciate ligament (healthy)…
Overall status assessed as "good."
"This system is too comprehensive…" Oliver murmured softly.
He continued to browse and found that the system store also had new items: [Injury Probability Reduction Card], but the price was a bit steep, selling for 2000 points per card, more expensive than some general player skills. The description text showed: After use, it can reduce the probability of injury by 50% in the next single official match, and the effect is not stackable.
Oliver raised an eyebrow. This price was indeed not cheap, equivalent to the points he could accumulate by maintaining ten hours of focused training for a full ten days. But considering that injuries are what professional players fear most, this item was definitely worth its value. He checked his points balance: 3560 points, enough to buy one card. But he was still far from his ultimate goal, the [Steel Body] skill, valued at 100,000 points.
The effect of that skill was simple and brutal: permanent 90% immunity to injuries on the field, and recovery speed doubled. This was what he truly craved.
"I'll have to be more frugal from now on…" Oliver mused.
He decided not to rush to buy the [Injury Probability Reduction Card] for now, but to first observe whether the system's warning function was accurate enough. After all, if he could avoid risks by adjusting his training volume before getting injured, that would be the ideal state. Thinking of this, he clicked on his training log and carefully compared it with the system's injury warning data. The intensity of training over the past two weeks had indeed been high, but thanks to scientific recovery training and strict physical management, his body had always remained within safe thresholds.
"Looks like I can't slack off on recovery training…" Oliver silently noted this down.
He rolled over and stared blankly at the ceiling. He was all too familiar with the cruelty of professional football. How many geniuses had fallen due to injuries—Ronaldo, Van Basten, Deisler, Kaka, Gerd Muller, and so on—these stars should have had even more brilliant careers. How many dreams were shattered by an unexpected collision. And now, he had the ability to avoid risks in advance, which was a huge advantage.
In a future important match, perhaps a UEFA Champions League knockout game, or a cup match challenging a major club, using the [Injury Probability Reduction Card] before the match could at least significantly reduce his probability of injury. And normally, he would rely on the system's warning function to adjust his training load and avoid over-exertion. As for the ultimate goal, [Steel Body], Oliver estimated that at the current rate of point acquisition, it would still take a very long time to accumulate enough. But it didn't matter, what he had most was patience.
"I need to be down-to-earth…" He closed his eyes, and the system's light screen gradually faded.