The morning after his debut, Arthur awoke with his muscles stiff and screaming in protest.
The wooden ceiling above him blurred for a moment as his body begged him to stay in bed. But he forced himself up, remembering Coach Darius's words: "Now we see if you can build from it."
When he arrived at the academy training ground, the air was crisp with dew, the grass glistening under the early sun. The other boys were already gathering—Marcus stretching lazily, Darren jogging laps, Cloris juggling a ball with sharp, controlled touches as if to silently show dominance.
Coach Darius blew the whistle. "Warm-up. Two laps. Let's go."
Arthur fell into pace, his legs heavy. He struggled to keep rhythm with the others, his breath rough by the second lap. A few players smirked.
"You'll drop dead before we even touch the ball," one muttered.
Marcus jogged back to him, matching his pace. "Ignore them. Breathe steady. In through the nose, out the mouth."
Arthur followed, and somehow managed to finish without collapsing.
The drills began. Passing triangles. One-touch exchanges. Small rondos where the boys circled, trying to keep possession from the defenders.
Arthur's mind saw openings others didn't, but his body betrayed him—heavy first touches, passes a fraction too slow.
"Arthur, sharper!" Coach Darius barked, but his tone carried no venom. Just expectation.
Cloris intercepted one of Arthur's passes, flicked it forward, and smirked. "Too predictable."
Arthur gritted his teeth. He wanted to retort, but instead he focused, forcing himself to adjust. He let the ball roll across his body the next time, disguising the direction, and slipped a cleaner pass.
It wasn't perfect. But it was improvement.
That evening, back at the Hayes estate, Arthur sat with his father, Lord Hayes, in the study. The room smelled of old parchment and cedar, bookshelves towering along the walls.
His father's gaze was stern but not cold. "I hear you played your first match."
Arthur nodded. "Yes, Father. We drew."
Lord Hayes leaned back, steepling his fingers. "A draw is not glory. But it is not shame either. What matters is how you carry yourself from here."
Arthur felt the weight of his words. The Hayes name had been dragged down by relegation, mocked in noble circles. Every step he took mattered.
"Yes, Father. I'll improve."
The lord gave a small, approving nod. "Good. The Hayes blood is not meant to fade quietly."
Two days later, Arthur stayed behind after training, long after the others left. The sun dipped low, painting the field gold. His touches were still rough, his body still weak, but he repeated the drills again and again.
Pass. Control. Turn. Pass. Control. Turn.
Sweat poured down his face, soaking his shirt. His chest burned, his thighs screamed—but he kept going.
If I can't outpace them, I'll outthink them. If I can't overpower them, I'll outlast them.
Finally, as darkness crept in, he collapsed onto the grass, panting. The system's faint glow appeared before him.
Ding!
[Hidden Progress: Personal Training Completed.]+1 Ball Control+1 Short Passing
Arthur smiled faintly despite his exhaustion. Small gains. But gains nonetheless.
The next morning, as he walked into town to fetch some supplies for his mother, he spotted a car ahead, its number plates gleaming: the sigil of the Valebridge family.
The door opened, and for a moment, he froze.
Lady Selene Valebridge stepped down, graceful in her pale-blue dress, her dark hair tied with silver threads. She was surrounded by attendants, but her presence eclipsed them all.
Arthur's breath caught.
Their eyes met briefly. Just a flicker. Selene's gaze lingered, curious.
Arthur, flustered, quickly looked away and adjusted the basket in his arms.
She didn't speak. Neither did he.
But that fleeting connection carved itself deep into his memory.