Chapter 2 – The First Stats
Zyren's breathing slowed, but his heart still pounded as he stared at the glowing blue panel floating in the air.
He rubbed his eyes once, twice—yet the screen didn't vanish. The locker room was silent except for the dripping of the pipe near the showers.
[GOAT System Initializing…]
[Program Activated.]
The voice came again—calm, metallic, detached. It didn't feel like it was talking to him, but about him.
"GOAT System…?" Zyren muttered under his breath. His voice echoed faintly against the tiled walls.
[Designation: GOAT – Greatest of All Time Protocol.]
[Objective: Transform the user into the world's greatest footballer.]
[Warning: Current host potential—negligible.]
Zyren blinked. "Negligible?" His chest tightened. "I'm not that bad."
[Data does not lie.]
The panel flickered, and new text filled the screen.
[Player Stats]
• Speed: 38/100
• Stamina: 35/100
• Strength: 33/100
• Shooting: 34/100
• Passing: 36/100
• Dribbling: 33/100
• Mentality: 29/100
• Game Sense: 30/100
Zyren's jaw clenched as he read the numbers. It felt like a cruel joke.
"Thirty-three dribbling? I'm better than that. And mentality twenty-nine? What does that even mean?"
[Definition: Mentality measures confidence, focus, and willpower. Current host collapses under pressure easily. Rating is accurate.]
The bluntness stung worse than Coach Martin shouting. He wanted to argue, but deep down… he knew it was true. Every missed pass, every failed drill, every heavy step at training had been proof of it.
His hands curled into fists. "So what now? You're just here to tell me I'm useless?"
[Negative.]
[Protocol requires host improvement. Missions will be assigned. Completion will yield incremental growth. Failure will reduce mentality.]
The screen pulsed, and a new set of glowing lines appeared.
[System Mission: The First Step]
• Run 5 km in under 30 minutes.
• Complete 200 ball touches.
• Execute 100 wall passes.
Reward: +1 Stamina, +1 Dribbling, +1 Mentality
Failure: -1 Mentality
Zyren read the list twice, his throat dry.
"You've got to be kidding me. I've already trained all day. I can barely walk right now."
[Excuse detected. Mission is compulsory. Growth requires effort.]
His head dropped into his hands. "This is insane…"
But the words of his coach echoed in his memory: "This academy isn't charity. If you're not showing progress, you'll be cut."
Cut. Dropped. Thrown out.
The thought made his stomach churn.
Then, unbidden, an image of his grandmother floated into his mind—her small figure at the door of their modest house, her warm smile when he came home. She didn't know the full truth about his struggles, but she always said, "Zyren, you have a gift. Don't waste it."
He swallowed hard.
I can't give up. Not yet. Not when she believes in me.
Zyren lifted his head, eyes burning. "Fine. I'll do it. I'll complete the mission."
The screen pulsed again.
[Mission Accepted.]
[Timer begins: 24 hours.]
⸻
The academy grounds were quiet when Zyren stepped outside. The sky was dark, stars scattered faintly above the training pitch. Most of his teammates had already gone home, probably relaxing with dinner or video games. Meanwhile, he tied the laces of his worn-out boots, his body already sore.
"Five kilometers…" he muttered, stretching his legs. "That's… what, twelve laps around the field?"
[Affirmative. Average lap: 400 meters.]
Zyren sighed. "Of course you'd know that."
He started jogging, each step heavy at first. His muscles screamed from the morning session, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward.
The system's voice accompanied him like a shadow.
[Distance: 0.8 km. Time: 5 minutes, 36 seconds. Pace—too slow.]
He gasped for air. Sweat dripped down his temples, stinging his eyes. "Too… slow? You think I'm a machine?"
[Host is weak. Adjust pace or fail mission.]
Anger flared in his chest. "Then watch me."
He lengthened his strides, forcing his legs to move faster. His lungs burned, but his determination hardened. Each slap of his boots against the turf echoed in the night.
⸻
By the third lap, his vision blurred. His breaths came ragged, shoulders heavy. But he didn't stop.
For Grandma. For my place in the academy. For myself.
The system's voice remained merciless.
[Distance: 2.6 km. Time: 16 minutes, 12 seconds. Slightly behind target.]
He bit down hard, tasting blood where he'd bitten his lip. His arms pumped, his legs screamed, but his mind repeated one phrase: Don't quit. Don't quit.
By the sixth lap, his body wanted to collapse. Every joint ached, his chest felt like it might burst.
And yet, something shifted inside him. A flicker of fire in his chest. Not speed, not skill—just raw stubbornness.
⸻
When the final lap ended, he collapsed onto the grass, gasping like a drowning man. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat. His vision spun, but the glowing panel floated above him.
[Distance: 5.01 km. Time: 29 minutes, 47 seconds. Mission criteria achieved.]
Zyren laughed weakly, the sound ragged. "I… I did it."
[First objective complete. Remaining tasks: 200 ball touches, 100 wall passes.]
His head dropped back against the grass. "You've got to be joking."
[Failure to complete full mission within 24 hours will result in penalty.]
For a long moment, he lay there, chest heaving, staring at the stars. Exhaustion threatened to swallow him whole.
But somewhere deep inside, past the pain and fatigue, a spark glowed. A tiny flame that refused to die out.
He pushed himself to his knees, then staggered toward the ball bag near the field. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it.
He wasn't done.