*Beep. Beep. Beep.*
The sound pierced through the darkness like a lighthouse cutting through fog. Cruyff's eyes fluttered open, expecting to see the sterile white of a hospital ceiling, the familiar smell of disinfectant, and the pitying faces of doctors delivering career-ending news. Instead, he found himself staring at a water-stained ceiling in what looked like a cheap hotel room, complete with peeling wallpaper and the faint smell of cigarettes that no amount of air freshener could mask.
"What the hell?" he croaked, his voice higher than he remembered, unfamiliar in his own throat.
He sat up, and the world tilted sideways. His hands—they were smaller, softer, unmarked by years of training and the countless minor injuries that had accumulated like battle scars. His legs, when he looked down in bewilderment, were those of a teenager, lean and unblemished, not the battle-worn limbs of a veteran professional who had suffered through two major knee surgeries and countless rehabilitation sessions.
Stumbling to the bathroom mirror on unsteady legs, Cruyff's reflection sent shockwaves through his soul. Staring back at him was his 16-year-old self—the ambitious, hungry kid from a council estate in Manchester who'd dreamed of playing for Arsenal like his idol Mesut Özil. The face was unmarked by years of pressure, the eyes bright with naive optimism instead of the weary wisdom that came from a decade of professional disappointments.
"This can't be real," he whispered, touching his face with trembling fingers. The skin was smooth, no sign of the small scar above his left eyebrow from that collision with a goalkeeper in his third season. His teeth were crooked—he'd had them fixed at 22 when his first big contract had given him the money for proper dental work.
But the reflection moved with him, young and full of potential, unmarked by the years of pressure that had aged him beyond his years. This was him, but it was also impossible. The last thing he remembered was the searing pain in his knee, the devastating realization that his career was over, the slow fade to black as shock took hold of his system.
Then he remembered. The trial. This was the morning of his trial with Nottingham Forest's youth academy—the stepping stone that would eventually lead him to Arsenal's first team, though not for another eight years of grinding through lower leagues and championship football.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, an ancient Nokia that he'd thought was lost to history. The message was from his father: "Good luck today, son. Make Johan proud."
The memories came flooding back—not just of his 16-year-old life, but of everything that had happened in the years that followed. Two decades of football compressed into his teenage mind like a computer downloading files at impossible speed. He remembered every pass, every assist, every moment of magic and every crushing disappointment. The relegation battles, the promotion celebrations, the international caps, the Champions League nights, and finally, the career-ending injury that had brought him to this impossible moment.
Cruyff sank onto the bed, his head spinning with the implications. This wasn't a dream—it was too vivid, too detailed, too perfectly aligned with his memories of this exact day twelve years ago. Somehow, impossibly, he had been given a second chance.
But there was something else, something that didn't belong to his memories of that first timeline. Words appeared in his vision like a video game interface, glowing softly against the backdrop of reality:
**[FOOTBALL ASSIST SYSTEM ACTIVATED]**
**Welcome, Cruyff Jensen**
[Current Level: 1]
[Assist Rating: 45/100]
[Vision: 52/100]
[Passing Accuracy: 48/100]
[Through Ball: 41/100]
[Set Pieces: 38/100]
[Mission: Become the Greatest Assist Provider in Football History]
[Reward: Unlock your true potential]
"What the actual—" Cruyff started, then stopped himself. In his previous life, he'd been a skeptic, a realist who believed in hard work and natural talent. But staring at impossible statistics floating in his vision, in a body that was twelve years younger than it should be, skepticism seemed like a luxury he couldn't afford.
The system interface expanded, revealing more information:
[Daily Quest Available: Complete your trial at Nottingham Forest]
[Objective: Register at least 2 assists during the trial match]
[Reward: +5 Vision, +3 Passing Accuracy, Unlock: Basic Through Ball Technique]
[Failure: System deactivation]
The implications hit him like a freight train. He wasn't just reliving his youth—he was being given the tools to surpass everything he'd achieved in his first life. The system seemed designed specifically for his greatest strength, his ability to create chances for others rather than score himself.
In his previous timeline, he'd always been good but never great in his teenage years. His breakthrough hadn't come until his early twenties, when maturity and experience had finally allowed his vision to flourish. But now, armed with two decades of professional experience and what appeared to be a supernatural enhancement system, he could accelerate that development exponentially.
Cruyff stood up, testing his young legs, feeling the absence of every ache and pain that had plagued his adult body. His right knee, which had betrayed him so catastrophically just hours ago (or was it years in the future?), felt perfect. Strong. Ready to carry him through another twenty years of football if he played his cards right.
The trial at Nottingham Forest had been a disaster in his original timeline. Nervous, overwhelmed by the occasion, he'd barely touched the ball in the scrimmage match. The coaches had been polite but dismissive, and he'd spent another two years bouncing between amateur clubs before finally getting his break at 18.
But that was the old Cruyff, the boy who didn't know what he was capable of. This time, he carried the experience of 300 professional appearances, 127 career assists, and 31 international caps. He knew exactly how to thread a pass through the tightest of spaces, how to weight a ball to perfection, how to see opportunities that wouldn't materialize for several seconds.
The system pulsed gently in his vision, a reminder of the quest that awaited him. Two assists in a youth trial match—it should be child's play for someone with his experience. But he knew better than to be overconfident. Football was a team sport, and individual brilliance meant nothing if your teammates couldn't finish the chances you created.
Still, as he pulled on his old training kit—the same Arsenal shirt he'd worn to every trial in his youth, now feeling prophetic rather than presumptuous—Cruyff felt something he hadn't experienced in years: pure, unbridled excitement for what lay ahead.
This time, he wouldn't just play football. He would bend it to his will, sculpt it like a master artist working with clay. This time, he would become exactly what his father had dreamed when he'd chosen that legendary name: the greatest creative midfielder the world had ever seen.
Today was just the beginning. The trial at Nottingham Forest would be his first step toward rewriting football history, one perfect pass at a time.