The sun bore down hard on the turf as Ichiro followed the other players out of the locker room, his boots clicking softly on the concrete path. But it wasn't the heat that made him pause.
It was the noise.
There was a crowd.
Not massive – but far too large for a routine academy training session.
Dozens of fans stood pressed against the training ground fence, phones in hand, eyes scanning. Blue and black jerseys dotted the sideline like brushstrokes on a mural. Some waved small Gamba Osaka flags, others held homemade signs.
One read:
"Ichiro = Gamba's Future."
Another:
"Ichiro Lo Presti – Make us dream."
But what caught Ichiro's eye were the jerseys – his father's old Gamba Osaka shirt, number 9, worn proudly by men, women, even a few kids. Some were vintage, their colors faded by time. Others looked new – reprints or rare finds dug out from the corners of resale shops.
Yuto appeared beside him, stretching as he walked.
"Damn," he muttered. "That's way more people than usual."
Ichiro glanced sideways. "They come for every training?"
Yuto scoffed. "Are you kidding? Half the time no one even knows we have training. This? This is a you thing."
Ichiro blinked. "Me?"
"Duh. You're the kid from England, the prodigy. The golden boy who's supposed to carry Gamba into the next generation. People are saying it all over social. 'The Future of Gamba Osaka is Home Again.'"
Ichiro stared out at the crowd. A little boy in the front row waved at him.
"I'm not the future," Ichiro said quietly. "Not yet."
Yuto smirked. "Well, good news – today's your chance to start proving it."
…
After warming up, the players gathered around coach Masuda and coach Shibata. Masuda scanned the group, his gaze lingering on each of them before he spoke:
"I hope everyone is warmed up."
"Yes coach!" all the players answered in harmony.
Masuda gave a small nod, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Good. That's what I like to hear."
He glanced down at the clipboard in his hands. "Now that we've wrapped up our qualifiers, Coach Shibata and I" – he gestured toward his assistant – "have decided it's time for a mid-season test. We will start with the 60-meter sprint, before moving on to the beep test."
A chorus of groans rippled through the squad.
Masuda shot them a quiet glare – quickly silencing the groans.
"After that," he continued, "we'll finish with a 5-on-5 tournament. We've got 26 players today, so one team will have a sub."
His eyes swept across the group again, settling on a fresh face.
"Speaking of which," he said, "I'm sure you've all noticed we have a new addition to the squad."
Everyone turned as Masuda paused, giving space for attention to shift.
"Ichiro – welcome to the team."
"Thank you, Coach."
DING!
The System chimed in Ichiro's mind, sharp and sudden – making him flinch slightly.
Yuto, standing beside him, shot him a curious look.
"You good, man?" He gave Ichiro a once-over, then smirked. "Don't tell me you're nervous."
Ichiro shook his head quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. No big deal."
Yuto held the smirk a moment longer, clearly unconvinced.
"Sure, man. Whatever you say," he said, voice laced with sarcasm.
Ichiro didn't respond. He waited for Yuto to turn away before shifting his gaze back to the glowing System screen.
TASKS
-FIRST IMPRESSION- (new)
OBJECTIVES:
*Place in the top three in both physical tests
*Score 4 goals (0/4)
*Get 3 assists (0/3)
REWARDS: (upon full completion)
*5 Attribute Points
*^Coach's acknowledgement^
*^Teammate's acknowledgement^
PENALTIES: (upon failure of completing objectives)
*System shut down
Ichiro's eyes scanned the new task, and a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
This was perfect. Exactly what he needed.
He was going to give it everything today, task or not – but now he had the added bonus of leveling up and proving himself. Two birds, one stone.
Recognition and Attribute Points?
He couldn't have asked for a better opportunity.
…
Sweat was already forming beneath Ichiro's collar as the players stood in a loose semi-circle, all eyes on the line of orange cones marking the start and finish of the 60-meter sprint.
"Each of you will run twice," Shibata announced. "We're timing both sprints and logging your best time. You know the drill – no false starts, no excuses and no showboating."
Yuto cracked his knuckles beside Ichiro. "You fast?"
Ichiro shrugged. "Fast enough."
Yuto grinned. "Guess we'll find out."
Coach Masuda called out names in pairs. One after the other, players stepped up and sprinted – studs pounding into the turf, gasps of effort in the heat, cheers and jeers from the watching crowd behind the fence.
Ichiro stayed quiet, breathing slow, conserving energy.
His name was called near the end.
"Lo Presti! Kai! You're up."
Kai cracked his neck with a smirk. "Better not embarrass yourself, England boy."
Ichiro walked to the starting line, shaking out his legs. His heart thumped – not with fear, but something close – anticipation. The air buzzing around him
Masuda raised a hand.
"On my signal."
Ichiro crouched into position. The world narrowed. His vision tunneled down the line of cones, and everything else faded.
"Ready… GO!"
He exploded forward.
The turf blurred beneath his feet. Kai was fast – surprisingly so – but Ichiro was faster. His first ten steps were flawless.
By twenty meters, Ichiro was pulling ahead.
By forty, he was flying.
At sixty, he hit the finish line – breath short but not desperate.
Kai crossed a full step behind, panting hard.
Shibata clicked his stopwatch and looked down, then up – brows lifting slightly.
Masuda whistled, low and impressed. "7.1 seconds. That's the fastest time we've had all season."
Ichiro let the praise pass over him like wind. He wasn't here to celebrate, he was here to dominate.
Around him, players shifted unconsciously as the number sank in.
They'd seen it now, the difference between Ichiro and them, the difference between Europe and Asia, the difference between the "golden boy" and them – the ordinary.
And it was only the start of it.