Chapter 1 – On the Verge of Being Dropped
The sharp whistle of the coach pierced the air, followed by the heavy thud of boots striking the ball. Voices of teammates overlapped—some shouting instructions, others yelling in frustration.
On the far side of the pitch, Zyren Cross sprinted after a ball rolling toward the touchline. His chest burned, lungs aching, every step heavier than the last. The ball reached him, and with shaky focus, he tried to control it.
The touch was sloppy. It bounced too far from his foot.
"Too slow, Cross!" Coach Martin. barked, clipboard tucked under his arm.
Before Zyren could recover, a defender slid in and stripped the ball cleanly. The drill stopped cold.
A groan rippled from his teammates.
"Pathetic," someone muttered under their breath.
Zyren's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
It wasn't just this drill. He had been messing up all morning—misplaced passes, weak shots, sluggish runs. Every mistake piled onto the last, until his confidence was crumbling. He used to believe he had something special, a spark that made him different. But here, at sixteen, standing among Southampton's youth talents, that spark had flickered out.
⸻
The shrill whistle cut the air again.
"Bring it in!"
The players jogged toward the coach, sweat dripping, breaths ragged. Zyren trailed at the back of the group, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his jersey. His teammates clustered together, some looking determined, others nervous.
Coach Martin scanned their faces, his expression grim.
"You all know what this is," he began, voice carrying across the pitch. "This academy isn't a playground. It's not charity. Southampton invests in you because we expect results. But football is ruthless. Money is tight. The board has made it clear—our budget doesn't allow us to carry dead weight."
His gaze swept across the group. "If you're not showing promise, if your progress has stalled, you'll be cut. You got still a week, you can improve with that time if you don't want to get cut out."
A heavy silence fell.
The words weren't new, but this time they carried weight. Everyone knew what it meant.
Several pairs of eyes flicked toward Zyren. He caught the glances—some pitiful, others mocking. A couple of boys smirked, whispering under their breaths.
Zyren's stomach twisted. He didn't need them to say it aloud. He knew. He was the weak link. He had been for months.
Coach Martin snapped his clipboard shut. "Training's over. Go shower, rest, and think carefully about whether you deserve to be here."
⸻
The squad dispersed, some laughing and joking as if the threat didn't apply to them. Others stretched their muscles, focused and serious. Zyren walked slowly off the pitch, his boots dragging against the grass. His jersey clung to his back with sweat, and the evening sun cast long shadows across the academy ground.
Inside the locker room, the chatter of teammates filled the air. Bags unzipped, boots clattered against the tiled floor, the smell of sweat and liniment hung thick. Zyren sat at the far end, quiet, staring at his own pair of boots. Back then, he believed they'd carry him to glory.
Now they just reminded him of failure.
⸻
Is this really it?
His chest felt heavy. He thought of his grandmother —she worked hard to give him a comfortable life, to pay the academy fees, to keep him on this path. She never pressured him, she believed in him.
And now, he was letting her down.
But what did he have to show for it?
He wasn't faster than the others. His passing wasn't sharper. His finishing had dropped off completely. The harder he tried, the worse it seemed to get.
And now, with the academy's budget cuts looming, he knew whose name would be first on the list.
His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.
Am I really going to end like this? Just another kid who thought he could make it… and failed?
He tried to shake the thought, but it clung to him like a shadow.
⸻
One by one, his teammates left the room. Some slapped each other on the back, others joked about weekend matches. None of them looked at him.
Soon, the room was quiet. Just Zyren and the faint dripping of a leaky pipe near the showers.
He stared at the floor, then at his reflection in the cracked mirror across the room. His eyes were tired, hollow, carrying the weight of disappointment.
The silence pressed in, suffocating.
For the first time, he whispered to himself, voice trembling:
"Maybe… maybe I don't belong in football."
⸻
And then it happened.
A sharp ding echoed inside his head.
Zyren froze, blinking rapidly. "What the—?"
A voice followed. Cold. Mechanical. Inhuman.
[GOAT System Initializing…]
The words cut through the silence like steel. His heart lurched. He looked around wildly, but the room was empty.
"What… what is this?"
The voice came again, calm, detached, as though it wasn't speaking to him, but about him.
[Player Detected: Low potential. At risk of elimination.]
[Activating GOAT Protocol…]
Before Zyren could move, a blinding flash seared across his vision.
He staggered, clutching his head, eyes wide.
And then—
A screen-like interface flashed behind his eyes.