Three voices echoed from the corridor. Demien tucked his phone beneath the blanket and counted the approaching footsteps on the polished floor.
The door swung open. Coach Martinelli entered first, his shoulders slumped as if he carried invisible weights. Roberto bounced in behind him, his purple academy tracksuit rustling with each step. Francesco slipped in last, quiet eyes already taking in the monitors and drip stand.
"Ciao, ragazzo." Martinelli's voice sounded hollow. Grey stubble shadowed his usually clean jaw, and his shirt was creased as if he had slept in a chair.
"Coach." Demien shifted against his pillow. Inside his head, the future he had already lived ran clear and sharp: Martinelli would rise from academy coach to the man who transformed Florentina, leading them to the world stage in 2030 and lifting the Champions League, then later shocking England by guiding Brentfield to a Premier League title. Across Europe, they would call him the "Changing Manager," the coach who could turn any team he touched into something greater.
As for Roberto and Francesco, Demien remembered how they would grow into legends—Roberto for Real Madrit, Francesco for Barçelona—and together they would be hailed as the "Engine of Italy," the heartbeat of the national midfield, feared and admired, even if a major international trophy would always slip away. Knowing all that while looking at the three of them here, now, made the moment feel unreal.
Roberto dropped into the bedside chair, making it creak. "Everyone keeps asking about you at training. Gallo says you were dancing around their defenders before that animal struck."
"Language, Roberto." Martinelli rubbed his temples.
Francesco stayed near the wall, hands deep in his pockets. "We brought something for you."
He took a faded purple scarf from his jacket. The worn fabric felt soft from countless matches and celebrations.
"From the supporters on Via dei Benci. They pray for you at Santo Spirito every evening."
The simple gesture pierced deeper than Demien expected. In his first life, he had thrown away everything from Florentina after the injury, too bitter and proud to keep painful reminders. This threadbare scarf felt sacred now.
"Grazie mille." His voice cracked slightly. "That touches my heart."
Martinelli dragged his chair closer, the metal legs scraping over the tiles. "I owe you an apology, son. This happened under my watch. I should have taken you off when that defender grew violent."
"Absolutely not, Coach." The reply came firm and immediate. Demien had wasted years blaming everyone but himself. "You gave me my senior debut. What followed was football's cruelty."
"Was it simply cruelty?" Roberto's voice pitched higher. "That stronzo went for your knee like a hired assassin."
Memory flashed through Demien's mind: the sickening crack as the cartilage gave way; the instant, cold knowledge that dreams had died. Even so, the agony felt distant now, like footage from another life.
Francesco stepped closer to the bed. His intelligent brown eyes searched Demien's face. "The doctors described severe structural damage and many months of rehabilitation." He tilted his head, curious. "Yet you look stronger today."
Martinelli leaned in, weathered hands clenched together. "They have booked urgent consultations with your mother in the morning. Treatment protocols, recovery projections, and realistic expectations for your future." His voice dropped to a murmur. "They warned you might never reach professional level again."
The weight of future knowledge pressed on Demien's shoulders. These three would reach heights that would echo across Europe—Martinelli the "Changing Manager," Roberto the Madrit metronome, Francesco the Barçelona conductor—while in the original timeline Demien had been too shattered to watch it happen.
"I need to show you something important."
The room stilled. Only the heart monitor kept its soft rhythm. Martinelli's eyebrows lifted. Roberto and Francesco exchanged puzzled looks.
Demien gripped the cold bed rail. He swung both legs over the edge with deliberate care. The movement felt smooth, without even a hint of the grinding torture he remembered from recovery.
"What are you doing?" Martinelli's tone sharpened with alarm. "The staff explicitly forbade weight-bearing for a minimum of six weeks."
"I understand." Demien set both bare feet on the linoleum. The floor's chill steadied him. "But something has changed."
He pushed himself upright. His left knee took his full weight without complaint. There was no electric stab, no wobble, no grinding. The joint felt sound.
Roberto's jaw dropped. "Madonna santissima…"
Francesco stepped backwards, colour draining from his face. "How could this be possible?"
Martinelli shot to his feet so fast the chair almost toppled. "Back into bed at once. This defies orthopaedic sense."
Demien stayed standing. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then bent and straightened his knee through a full range of motion. The monitor ticked faster for a beat and settled again. Wonder ran through him like a charge.
"I do not understand it either," he said, honestly. "This morning I could not change position without shouting. Now…"
The door burst open. His mother rushed in, her worn jacket flaring. A plastic carrier bag slipped from her hand and thumped to the floor as she took in the sight.
"Gesù Cristo!" She crossed herself. "What is this? Back to bed, now."
"Mamma, please." He raised his palms. "Watch me first."
She approached with care, her exhausted eyes scanning him from head to toe. "The doctor swore you would not walk for many months. He said the damage was too much."
"I remember exactly what he said." Demien took one step, then another. His gait was steady and natural. "But I am walking now, and nothing hurts."
Her hands flew to her mouth. Tears gathered as she watched her son move freely for the first time since the tackle.
"This breaks every rule I know," Martinelli muttered, raking his hands through his grey hair. "Bodies do not mend overnight."
"We should call the staff," Francesco said, already reaching for the emergency button. "They need to see this."
Roberto stayed rooted to the chair, eyes wide. "I have never seen anything like it."
Within minutes, nurses and a doctor filled the small room. Dr Rossi took charge while the team checked vitals, asked questions, and noted everything. They tested reflexes, balance, and strength. They watched him walk. They booked imaging and wheeled him away, then brought him back and compared the brand-new pictures with yesterday's scans.
The findings left them stunned.
There was zero evidence of ligament damage, and the cartilage looked pristine. The joint tracked cleanly, and function was normal.
"In three decades of orthopaedic practice," Dr Rossi said at last, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles with trembling fingers, "I have never witnessed recovery like this. The knee is sound." He exhaled. "We will keep you for observation for seven days, but you are cleared."
Martinelli gripped the back of his chair until his knuckles whitened. "Then he can still play professionally?"
"Based on today's results, yes," the doctor said. "We will monitor, but the structures are intact."
After the team left to file reports, the room fizzed with relief and disbelief. His mother wept and held the supporters' scarf to her chest. Roberto and Francesco fired off questions he could not answer. Martinelli paced to the window and back, checking Demien as if the sight might change if he blinked.
"I need to tell the club," the coach said at last.
His mother fumbled for her mobile with shaking hands. "I should ring Marco."
She told the agent what had happened. His voice crackled over the speaker, shocked and cautious. He asked for written confirmation and copies of the scans before anyone breathed a word outside the room.
"Keep it quiet until everything is on paper," Marco said. "If this gets out too soon, it will complicate the next steps."
Evening slid towards night. Roberto and Francesco promised to be careful with what they said at the academy. Martinelli stayed longest, studying Demien with a planner's focus, as if a season's tactics had just changed.
"Rest tonight," he said, squeezing Demien's shoulder. "We will talk about training when you have an official discharge."
His mother smoothed the blanket with careful hands, the relief in her movements almost visible. "Sleep, tesoro," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "Tomorrow we start planning your comeback."
Quiet returned. The monitor kept its soft beat. Demien took out his phone, the screen lighting his hands.
"Hey, system," he said under his breath.
Text appeared at once: 「Hello, Demien.」
A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Do you have a name I can use?"
「You may choose one.」
He thought of the email that had started everything. "UG," he typed. "Ultimate Gacha."
「UG has been registered as my name.」
"When do I start earning points?"
「You already have. Would you like to view today's missions?」
"Show me."
A clean window opened:
「DAILY MISSIONS — DAY 1」
• Run for 60 minutes — Reward: 20 Training Points
• Complete 300 pushups — Reward: 40 Training Points
Demien stared at the numbers. "Sixty minutes? Three hundred? That is harsh for someone who just left a bed."
「Requirements scale with your current condition. Your restored body can handle higher loads.」
He rubbed his temples and let out a breath. The gift came with a price, and that price was work.
"Corporate meetings were easier," he muttered.
「Tomorrow begins your training. Are you ready to commit?」
He looked around the room: the scarf, the empty chairs, the door his friends had just walked through. He pictured Martinelli's shock, his mother's tears, and the futures that still waited.
"Absolutely," he said, settling back on the pillows. "Tomorrow we start."
The screen dimmed to black. Beyond the window, Florence rested under a clear sky, unaware that one of its sons had just been handed the rarest gift of all: a second chance.
A/N
Sorry for the late upload. Thank you so much to everyone who added the book to your collection and kept reading. Your support means a lot and keeps me motivated to write. If you are enjoying the story, a quick comment or review helps more than you know. Thanks for your patience and for being here.