The dorm was bustling with noise when Ichiro made his way to the dining hall that morning. The hall lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pale wash over the row of tables and polished floors. It was just after 7 a.m., which meant that everyone was having breakfast.
Ichiro stood in front of the buffet line for a moment, debating whether to grab the miso soup or not. In the end, he went simple: rice, natto, a fried egg, and a banana. Balanced enough to power him through what he had planned.
He sat at the far end of the hall, by the window. Sunlight was beginning to cut through the trees beyond the pitch, the light golden and soft.
Ichiro ate in silence, spooning rice into his mouth as the System hovered faintly in his mind – always there, like a ghost at the edge of vision. His muscles still ached from the System task, and his arms were stiff from plank holds and pushups, but it was a much better kind of sore now. A promising kind.
By 8 a.m., Ichiro was lacing up his boots beside the training pitch.
No coaches. No teammates.
Just the sound of wind brushing through the high netting and a few birds echoing. The grass was still damp from the early morning dew, and his cleats left faint marks as he jogged across it.
He started with simple ball control drills. Cones. Touch-touch-pass. Then movement. Sprints from the sideline to the edge of the box, ball at his feet, cutting in hard, then curling a shot toward the far post.
Some missed.
Some didn't.
By the time an hour had passed, his shirt clung to him with sweat and the front of his socks were green from grass stains. But he felt good. Sharp. Like the fog of rejection and doubt had burned off in the Osaka sun.
The kind of clarity that didn't come from rest – only from rhythm.
He wrapped up with his usual push-ups, sit-ups and plank. And after finishing, he took a long swig from his water bottle and looked around the empty pitch.
In that moment, it felt like all of it – the airport, the meeting, the dorms – had finally settled into place.
He wasn't just training.
He was building something.
After returning to the dorm and having showered, the cafeteria was mostly empty. Most of the players were at school and the few that weren't were sleeping.
He grabbed a tray, loaded it with food, and found himself a seat near a window.
Ichiro didn't really mind eating alone, he was used to it.
Besides, he had a first impression to make that evening – and every bit of quiet helped him prepare.
…
That afternoon, before training began, Ichiro was told to head down to the equipment building to collect his gear.
Inside, towering shelves loomed on either side, packed with black and blue sportswear. The place smelled of rubber and linoleum, cold and impersonal.
Back in England, the U-18s had fresh kits laid out each morning by the U-18's equipment manager. Ichiro had gotten used to that life – the comfort, the structure. Now he was back to the start.
"Mr. Lo Presti?" a voice called.
Ichiro turned to see a stocky man in his fifties, face weathered, eyes unreadable.
"That's me," Ichiro said. "I was told to pick up my gear for training."
The man grunted and walked over to a wall of numbered cubbies.
"You're number 26," he said, dragging out a heavy black duffel. "Boots are Umbro. Shorts, Umbro. Tops—Umbro. Everything's Umbro. Same as the rest."
Ichiro nodded silently.
The man shoved the bag toward him, then held it back just as Ichiro reached for it. Their eyes met.
"There are three training tops, three shorts, one pair of pants, a sweater, socks, and a rain jacket. Lose anything," he said, his voice flat, "and you run laps until I feel generous, understood?"
Ichiro gave a small smile. "Understood."
He took the bag, slung it over his shoulders, and walked towards the changing rooms.
His assigned space was easy to find: A closet door with the number 26 written on it, a bench underneath.
Ichiro sat down and glanced at the empty spot beside him, quietly wondering who he'd be sharing a bench with.
After a little while the door to the changing room creaked open.
Ichiro looked up from tying his boots as the first wave of players trickled in –bags slung over shoulders, school uniforms half-discarded, shirts untucked, collars hanging limp from the heat of the afternoon.
A few glanced at him and quickly looked away. Others slowed their steps, eyes lingering just a second longer before pretending to find something fascinating on the floor or their lockers.
Ichiro recognized the look.
Caution. Curiosity. A touch of fear.
He was the new variable in their routine. A foreign threat. A system-shaking presence dropped into the delicate balance of youth academy politics. He didn't blame them.
They had spent years earning their places here. He had not been here.
One boy with dyed tips whispered something to his neighbor. The other chuckled, but when Ichiro met his gaze, he dropped it instantly.
Only a few greeted him – Yuto, of course, flopped down next to him like he'd never left, peeling off his blazer and tie and tossing them carelessly into his locker.
Ichiro might not have wanted to admitted it, but he was a bit relieved it was Yuto that sat beside him.
"Man, I hate chemistry," Yuto muttered, kicking off his shoes. "I swear, the periodic table's a trap, what kind of element is even called Rutherfordium? Sounds like a Pokémon evolution."
Ichiro smiled faintly. "You gonna pass?"
"I'm gonna run past it and hope it doesn't notice me."
Across the room, Kai sauntered in, twirling his phone between his fingers. He gave Ichiro a nod and a cheeky grin.
"Yo, England boy," he said. "Hope you brought sunscreen."
Sho and Itsuki entered together, chatting quietly. Sho gave Ichiro a friendly thump on the shoulder as he passed. Itsuki nodded. The circle of familiar faces was growing, even if the rest still kept their distance.
Yuto leaned over, voice low. "Don't worry, they'll come around. Just gotta scare 'em a little first."
Ichiro arched an eyebrow. "Scare them?"
Yuto just smirked.