The rain fell sideways, bouncing off the rusted dome that barely covered the tiny stadium.
Puddles pooled on the battered pitch, turning the touchlines to bog. Neon AR billboards stuttered through the downpour, projecting cheap synth-drink ads and local betting apps, the colors bleeding into the mist like bruises.
This was the Interzone Regional League One. The terraces behind the barriers were a patchwork of faded flags, local pub banners, and fists raised half in hope, half in fury.
The Anchors were born in this: warm beer, cheap pies, relentless rain, and the promise of heartbreak on muddy Saturday nights. They didn't worship their heroes; they buried them under curses when they failed.
Tonight was no different — except it was everything. One more slip, and the Anchors would drown.
A soft mechanical whine overhead — the LeagueNet drone hovered in close, lens locked on Adams. On the AR board, the split-screen showed the drenched stands and Adams beside the anchor crest.
He felt the drizzle run down his neck, soaking the collar of his frayed black raincoat. Thirty-two, gaunt and hollow-eyed, with olive skin turned ashen under the flickering dome lights.
His dark hair stuck to his forehead, deep brown eyes locked on the digital scoreboard like he might force the numbers to lie for him.
Primeport FC 2: 2 Iskander Town
89:07 — They had dragged themselves back from the brink twice tonight. One more minute. One more point. One more heartbeat of hope.
Beside him, Ernesto Blake, his assistant, hunched under a clear plastic poncho that clung to his skinny shoulders like a cheap joke. Ernesto was forty-one, fox-faced, with a stubbly jaw and restless blue eyes that flicked to the stands and back like a skittish bird. He had a tic — tap the corner of his tablet three times before speaking.
"Boss," Ernesto muttered, tap-tap-tap. "Should we park the bus and take the point?"
Adams didn't answer. His eyes narrowed through the rain.
Iskander Town made their final substitution. One player was up, bouncing on his toes like a leash couldn't hold him — Dupont. A wiry ghost with a predator's grin, all sly shoulders and long legs built to slip through cracks.
Adams had watched the midnight replays. Grainy, brutal, inevitable. Dupont didn't come to play, but he came to finish the match.
"Watch the break," Adams rasped, the words dissolving in the downpour. The wind slapped the club flags against the railings. The Anchors roared through their scarves, hoarse voices carried away by rain.
A wild clearance snapped the moment. The makeshift right back hoofed the ball into no man's land. It splashed off the turf straight to Elliot, Iskander's captain. One glance — one switch — left flank.
The commentary feed spat through static:
—gifted to Dupont! Fresh legs — look at him go!
Dupont blurred forward — boots flickering green and gold, mud exploding behind him. One step over. A faint. Their right back slipped, helpless as a dockhand on black ice. Lopatin lunged from centre-half, boots choking in the churned earth.
Adams sucked in air that tasted of rust. "CLOSE HIM! CLOSE HIM!"
Dupont's eyes flicked up, a flash of that grin — the grin Adams had seen on highlight reels, replayed in late-night feeds.
Dupont ghosted past Lopatin, boots flicking up mud. One touch. One heartbeat. His left boot kissed the ball like a whisper. Time didn't slow — it collapsed.
Adams lunged forward instinctively, like he could stop the moment with sheer will.
But the gap was already there — wide, wet, deadly.
Adams could see it — the System flickering blue in his mind like an executioner counting down.
A savage snap of his instep, the net bulged.
The away end exploded. Tin roof rattling like a coffin lid in a storm.
GOAL! Iskander Town at the death! Dupont delivers the dagger!
The System hit him like a punch in the gut:
> [Fixture: Primeport FC vs Iskander Town]
> [Match Outcome: Loss]
> [Total XP: -100 XP]
> [Penalty: Fan Support -2]
> [Penalty: Popularity -3]
> [Penalty: Squad Loyalty -3]
The Anchors spat fury, their chants turning sour.
"USELESS!"
"RELEGATION WANKERS!"
"WHERE IS YOUR TACTICS, HARDING?!"
The final whistle cracked like bone.
Adams stared up as the giant AR screen sneered: "THE FUTURE OF FOOTBALL: PLAY TO SURVIVE!"
And all Adams could do was remember how this nightmare began — the knockoff ChampionsXI on a dying rig, falling asleep mid-match, waking up trapped where the scoreboard could kill him.
---
The tunnel stank of wet concrete and broken dreams. The poster above the exit flickered under a dying bulb: "Anchors Never Sink."
Inside the locker room, the air was thick with liniment, stale kit bags, and that smell of boots dripping onto cracked tiles. A single flickering fixture buzzed overhead.
No one spoke.
He almost laughed, the sound caught in his throat like a fishbone. "Five matches left to survive, four now. Every game lost is fifty XP down the drain. One bad week away from the abyss."
The System flickered cold and blue:
> PLAYER PROFILE
Name: Adams Harding
Nationality: Cyrenna
Age: 32
Role: Head Coach, Interzone Regional League One
XP: 3600/3900 XP
Level: 26
Talent: Divine Eyes (Locked)
GC Balance: 2,200
Objectives:
✔ Youth Coach Certification
✔ Tactical Modules 1–3 Unlocked
✔ Morale Manager
☐ Avoid Relegation
PENALTY FOR FAILURE: Obliteration
That word again pulsed black like a loaded gun behind his eyes. The fine print still clawed at him: "Failure to achieve core objectives will result in immediate personality wipe and slot reset. No recovery possible."
No second chances.
No respawn.
No waking up with a controller in his hands, heartbeat hammering in relief. Just digital dust on a server shelf — all that was left of Adams Harding, the washed-up gamer who thought football was just another grind to min-max.
Wins, draws — XP gained. Losses — XP bled out. GC bought him training perks, tactical insights, and scouting boosts, and the System would sell to keep him alive in this world.
Lopatin leaned against a locker door, arms crossed, eyes dead to the floor. One of the kids kicked at a boot stud, the scrape echoing like a tooth against glass.
Adams sucked in damp air, boots squeaking as he stepped forward.
The System glowed again:
> [Daily Objective: Raise Squad Morale]
He thought of a famous quote from his old life. "Speak. Or lose them for good."
Ernesto hovered at the door, tapping his tablet three times. Tap, tap, tap. His superstition against the impossible.
Ernesto called out to the coach. "Boss—"
Adams turned to his assistant, laid his hands on his shoulder, then planted himself in the center of the room. "Listen up."
He raised his voice, raw and cracking. "Have you guys given up already?"
Lopatin was the first to raise his head. The rest of the team followed his lead.
"Tonight," Adams rasped, "they thought we would roll over. Twice, we fought for the equalizer."
He paced, boots squeaking. "We aren't stars. We're Primeport, boots caked in mud, shirts soaked through, fans ready to bury us or lift us. They don't want gods. They want anchors that hold."
He jabbed a finger at Lopatin. "Four matches and seven points to avoid relegation, now is the time to dig deeper and unleash our full potential."
"And if we go down," Adams growled, "some of us won't get another chance to stand in a locker room again. Not here. Not anywhere."
He turned to the crest above the lockers, the battered anchor stitched into a cloth. "Anchors don't sink. Anchors hold."
Something in the stale air shifted. Lopatin twitched his mouth, a ghost of a grin. One of the kids smacked his boot on the bench, a soft thud that said we hear you.
Ernesto gave a low whistle, tapping his tablet once.
The System flickered:
> [Reward: Squad Morale +5]
---
Adams shrugged on his soaked coat, heavy, but it felt like a shield.
Ernesto shuffled behind him, muttering. "Board wants you in the room now. Want me to stall 'em? Tell 'em you are stuck in the bog out back?"
Adams snorted, voice like rust. "Tell them I am coming."
They stepped into the tunnel, rain hammering the tin above like a war drum. A flickering AR ad blinked: "Build Your Legacy! Become a Champion!" Adams almost spat on it.
The System pinged again:
> [Hidden Objective Complete: Keep Manager Job]
> [Reward: 3–5–2 Formation Module Unlocked]
> [Failure: Immediate Obliteration]
Adams leaned back.
Obliteration had been just a red "Game Over" screen. This time, the blood was real.
He stared at the glitchy text until the words were blurred out.
Another reward, another leash.
A voice bubbled up in his mind, the echo of a gaming streamer he had once been in another world. What is the worst that can happen, huh?
Now he knew.
He grabbed his coat as he stepped out of his dusty office, and Ernesto fell in behind him, still tapping the tablet. "Boss, the schedule is brutal. Away derby next. Then the top-ten side. And the final two are having a good run."
Adams clenched his fist and then wiped the raindrops on his brow.
He could hear the voice of his father back when he was just a kid shouting at pixelated tactics on an old rig in Madrid: "You do not win because you are strong. You win because you refuse to stay down."
He squared his shoulders, boots leaving muddy prints as he headed for the Boardroom. Ernesto tapped the tablet behind him. Primeport was his last anchor. The Boardroom was the chain.
> [Next Match: Avoid Defeat]
> [Failure: Immediate Obliteration]