The morning after training, Lombardia felt quieter than usual. Early sunlight spilled through the narrow windows of Jaeven's apartment, landing across his desk — the one that had become a makeshift shrine of notes, tactical sketches, and training schedules.
He'd woken up before the alarm again, unable to sleep past six. Not from nerves this time, but from habit. His body was slowly syncing with the rhythm of a professional — eat, train, recover, repeat.
He splashed cold water over his face and stared into the mirror. The faint improvement in his looks was still there, subtle but noticeable — the kind of change others couldn't quite describe but would sense when they looked at him. His hair fell neater, his features sharper, his eyes clearer. It wasn't vanity; it was the system doing its quiet work.
But even after two weeks since the Siena match, the rest of his stats hadn't moved. His Strength, Speed, Technique — all frozen. Not because he'd stopped improving, but because the bar had risen higher. The system wasn't rewarding easy progress anymore.
He opened his interface mentally and confirmed it.
> [Body Synchronization: 78%]
(Progress steady — stat advancement now requires real adaptation and match-level performance.)
That line had appeared after every session. It didn't discourage him — it grounded him. He'd already crossed the average threshold for Serie D players, maybe even touched lower Serie C level in some areas. But to rise higher, it wasn't going to be about flashy numbers or new skills. It would be about discipline.
He dressed, ate a quick breakfast — eggs, toast, fruit, and water — then left for the club.
Virtus Lombardia's training complex wasn't huge. Two grass pitches, a small gym, a locker room that smelled of grass and sweat, and a canteen that served pasta so plain the players called it "the punishment dish." But to Jaeven, it was home now.
When he walked into the locker room, a few heads turned.
"Morning, Han."
"Yo, pretty boy, you modeling today or playing football?"
Laughter followed. Jaeven rolled his eyes but smiled. It had become a thing lately — the subtle teasing since his Charm stat kicked in. They didn't know what exactly had changed, but it was enough to spark jokes.
"Modeling doesn't pay unless you're good-looking," Jaeven said dryly, setting down his bag. "You jealous?"
"Ha! The kid's got confidence now," said one of the older midfielders, Pietro. "Must be the Siena goals still talking."
"Keep talking," another player added, "but he's our lucky charm now. Don't jinx it."
Their voices mixed easily, the casual noise of men trying to ease tension before training.
Coach Rossi entered not long after, clipboard under his arm. His eyes swept the group, his usual calm yet firm expression setting the tone before he even spoke.
"Alright, enough noise. Get your boots on. We've got one week until the next match. Follonica Gavorrano away. They're tenth. We're fourteenth. Twelve points from fourteen matches — that's not the record of a club that wants to stay in this league."
The air quieted.
Rossi paced slowly in front of them. "We've improved, yes. The Siena match was a statement, but one win doesn't mean safety. It means expectation. We play well again, we climb to eleventh. Lose again, and we go back to fighting for air. Understood?"
"Yes, coach."
"Good. Now, before we start, I want to introduce someone new."
From behind him stepped a young man wearing a wide grin and bright eyes — short brown hair, lean frame, brimming with energy.
"This is Matteo Ricci," Rossi said. "Promoted from our youth team. Defensive midfielder. He'll train with the first team for the rest of the season."
"Ciao, ragazzi," Matteo said with a small salute. "Try not to be jealous of my looks. I know it's hard."
That drew a wave of laughter. Rossi shook his head but didn't bother hiding the faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Go on, Ricci. Find a spot next to Han."
Matteo jogged over, immediately extending a hand. "Matteo. You're Jaeven, right? The Siena guy?"
Jaeven took the handshake. "That's me."
"You're the quiet type, huh? Don't worry, I'll talk enough for both of us."
"You already do."
Matteo grinned. "Perfect, we'll get along just fine."
Training started with light possession drills. Rossi's emphasis today was on transition play — defensive organization, movement between lines, and compact pressing. Jaeven and Matteo ended up on opposite sides during the scrimmage.
Despite his easygoing attitude, Matteo was sharp. He covered ground relentlessly, slid into tackles with precision, and barked out orders even as a newcomer. He wasn't the flashiest, but his presence balanced the midfield.
When the drill ended, Jaeven walked past him with a nod. "You read space well."
Matteo grinned. "You disappear fast. It's annoying."
They shared a brief laugh.
The rest of the session went smoothly. Jaeven's touch was clean, his control calm — the synchronization made him feel more fluid, more composed. His acceleration out of turns was tighter, even though his stats hadn't technically increased. His body was learning to work with what he already had.
By noon, Rossi called everyone in. "That's enough. Recovery session tomorrow, light work. We'll start tactical prep the day after. Dismissed."
As the players dispersed, Matteo walked up beside Jaeven, towel draped over his neck. "So, how long you been with the first team?"
"Since last month."
"Already scoring twice in your debut, eh? You're setting the bar high. I'm gonna need to trip you in training or something, balance things out."
"Try it," Jaeven said with a faint smirk. "You'll be on the ground before I am."
Matteo laughed, nudging him. "You talk big for a kid. I like that. You and me, we'll make a good duo. I'll hold the line, you break it."
"Sounds like a deal."
They left the pitch together, the winter sun dimming over Lombardia.
That night, Jaeven spent a few minutes reviewing match data before bed. Follonica Gavorrano's recent record — two draws, one win, one loss. Their defensive line played narrow, leaving gaps on the flanks. He'd need to exploit that space if he wanted to make a difference again.
His system window hovered silently as he scrolled through.
> [Charm: 50]
[Body Synchronization: 78% → 79% (minor adaptation detected)]
[Stat advancement rate: reduced due to near-proficiency threshold.]
He didn't mind the message. Instead, he leaned back on his chair and smiled faintly.
"So this is what real progress feels like."
Growth wasn't about easy rewards anymore. It was about repetition — the quiet, endless rhythm of work.
Outside, the streets had fallen silent. Inside, the glow of the system dimmed, leaving only the faint sound of his steady breathing — the calm before another week of war.