Viktor landed hard on the concrete, his knees buckling under the sudden weight of reality. The deafening roar of Moscow's Luzhniki Stadium was gone, replaced by the distant hum of Bournemouth's port. The glowing orb hovered beside him, pulsing faintly under the flickering streetlights. It was midnight, July 30, 2025, and the air was thick with salt, diesel, and desperation.
"Where are we?" Viktor asked, steadying himself against a rusted lamppost. The street was a gritty stretch of Bournemouth's docks, lined with weathered warehouses, their walls scarred with graffiti—tags of "Cherries 4 Life" and faded gang signs. A group of kids, maybe 18 or 19, were kicking a battered football under a dying light. Their laughter was raw, defiant, cutting through the night's gloom.
"Your universe, AX-0089X," the system said, its mechanical voice echoing in his mind. "Bournemouth docks. You must choose a host for Ronaldo's talent orb before dawn. The Premier League squad list is due by August 9. Time is critical."
Viktor's eyes narrowed, scanning the kids. "These are street rats. You're telling me one of them can carry Ronaldo's talent?"
"The spark," the system said. "Find the one who burns."
Viktor straightened his wrinkled suit and approached the group, his polished shoes clicking on the cracked pavement.
The kids froze, eyeing him like a trespasser. One of them, a lanky boy with a shaved head and a faded AFC Bournemouth hoodie, clutched the ball tightly. His eyes were sharp, hardened by a life of scraping by, yet alive with something fierce.
"Who're you?" the boy asked, his voice rough with a thick Dorset accent. "Lost your way to London?"
Viktor forced a grin, his real estate hustle kicking in. "Viktor Randall, owner of AFC Bournemouth. You play football?"
The kids burst into mocking laughter, but the lanky boy stayed silent, his gaze unwavering. "Cherries? That bankrupt club? Heard you're done for."
"Working on a comeback," Viktor said, unfazed. "What's your name?"
"Jake Turner," the boy said, tossing the ball between his hands. "Why do you care?"
Viktor studied him. Jake was tall, about 6'1", with a wiry frame and restless energy. His movements were quick, instinctive, like a predator stalking prey. His boots were worn, the laces frayed, but his posture screamed defiance. The spark? Maybe.
"You ever dream of playing pro?" Viktor asked, leaning closer.
Jake snorted, kicking the ball against a warehouse wall with a thud. "Dreams don't buy food. Pros don't scout docks."
"They do tonight," Viktor said. He glanced at the orb, invisible to the kids. "System, is he the one?"
"Scan complete," the system said in his head. "Jake Turner, 19. Amateur striker, no formal training. High potential: agility 85%, determination 90%, raw talent 80%. Compatible with Ronaldo's talent orb."
Viktor's pulse quickened. Jake wasn't a pro, just a kid from the docks, raised on fish and chips and broken promises. But those eyes—hungry, fearless—mirrored the intensity Viktor had seen in Ronaldo at the 2008 Champions League final in Universe AX-0072X. This kid could be the start of something massive.
"Jake," Viktor said, voice low, "how'd you like to play for AFC Bournemouth? Premier League, big stage, real shot at glory."
The kids laughed again, louder, but Jake stepped forward, ball under his arm. "You serious? I'm nobody. Never even tried out for a Sunday league."
"Doesn't matter," Viktor said. "I've got something better than a tryout. But first, we need to talk business. Come with me."
Jake hesitated, glancing at his mates, who were still snickering. "Where?"
"Vitality Stadium. My office. We'll make it official."
Jake shrugged, skeptical but intrigued. "Fine. But this better not be a scam."
The drive to Vitality Stadium was silent, the orb floating invisibly in the backseat of Viktor's battered Range Rover. Bournemouth's streets were dark, the sea breeze carrying the faint tang of salt. Jake sat shotgun, clutching his football, staring out at the empty town. Viktor's mind raced—£500,000 left, a 25-man squad to build, and a Premier League Board breathing down his neck. He needed Jake, but he wasn't about to hand over Ronaldo's talent without a contract. If the kid bolted to a rival like Tottenham, Viktor's dreams—and the Cherries—would be finished.
Inside the stadium, the office was a mess: papers strewn across the desk, a court order pinned to the wall, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey in the drawer. Clara, Viktor's assistant, was waiting, her sharp eyes narrowing at Jake's scruffy appearance.
"Who's this?" she asked, arms crossed.
"Jake Turner," Viktor said. "Our new number 7. Get the contract ready."
Clara raised an eyebrow but pulled out a laptop. "You're betting on a dock kid?"
"I'm betting on a miracle," Viktor shot back.
Jake sat, still clutching his ball, looking out of place in the dim office. "What's the deal, man? You said glory. I ain't signing my life away."
Viktor leaned forward, his tycoon instincts sharp. "Here's the offer: five-year contract with AFC Bournemouth. Base salary, £3,000 a month—Premier League minimum. First payment of £1,000 cash tonight. You report to training August 2, 8 a.m. sharp. After two years, we review your performance. Play like a star, you'll earn like one. Slack off, you're stuck at minimum. Fair?"
Jake's eyes widened at the £1,000, but his jaw tightened. "Three grand a month? That's nothing. Pros make millions."
"Pros don't start on the docks," Viktor said. "You want millions? Earn it on the pitch. This club's got £500,000 left and a 12-point deficit. I'm not here to hand out fortunes—I'm here to build one."
Jake stared, then nodded slowly. "Fine. Where do I sign?"
Clara slid a contract across the desk, printed and ready. It was standard Premier League fare: five years, £36,000 annual salary, performance review after two seasons, clauses for bonuses based on goals and appearances, and a strict no-transfer clause for the first year to keep Jake locked in. Viktor handed him a pen and £1,000 in cash from his wallet.
Jake signed, his hand steady but his eyes flickering with doubt. "This better be worth it."
Viktor smiled faintly. "It will be."
Clara stood, adjusted her blazer, and left the office, heels clicking on the tiled floor. The door shut with a soft thud.
Viktor exhaled, then looked to the corner of the room. The orb shimmered into view, glowing electric blue.
Jake's eyes widened. "What the hell is that?"
Viktor stood and stepped toward the orb. "Your ticket to greatness," he said. "But not just that." He turned to Jake, eyes sharp. "The truth is, I already have the magic. You're just receiving a portion of it—what I choose to give."
Viktor raised a hand. "System, proceed."
"The talent orb contains Cristiano Ronaldo's 2007-08 abilities," the system said. "42 goals, 8 assists, 90% shot accuracy, 36 km/h sprint speed. Jake Turner is a viable host. Initiating transfer."
The orb shot forward, enveloping Jake in a burst of blue light. He staggered, clutching the desk, then straightened, his eyes blazing with new fire. His posture shifted—sharper, stronger, like a coiled spring. The room felt smaller, as if his presence had grown.
Jake gasped, flexing his hands. "What… what did you do to me?"
"I gave you power," Viktor said calmly. "You're the new number 7. Welcome to AFC Bournemouth."
Jake took a step, his movements fluid, predatory. "I feel… like I could outrun the wind."
"You probably can," Viktor said. "Report to training in two days. We've got a squad to build."
"System," Viktor said, turning to the orb, "one down, 10 to go. What's next?"
"Select the next position," the system said. "You have ten days to submit your squad list. The Premier League will not wait."