The week moved in rhythm, each day blending into the next like the measured beats of a long song.
For Virtus Lombardia, the upcoming match against Follonica Gavorrano wasn't just another fixture — it was a test of identity. Fourteenth in the table, barely above the relegation line, one mistake could undo all the momentum they'd built.
For Jaeven, it felt different.
He no longer trained as the newcomer trying to prove himself. He trained like a player with a purpose — not to impress, but to belong.
The Monday session began under gray clouds, the kind that hung heavy over Lombardia's modest training pitch. Rossi's voice cut through the chill morning air as he gathered the squad in a semicircle.
"Listen carefully. Gavorrano are organized. They defend with five at the back and push high with their wing-backs. That means space — but only if you create it."
His eyes swept toward Jaeven for a moment, a flicker of acknowledgment that didn't go unnoticed by the others.
"Han," Rossi said, "your positioning on the left — stay narrow when we build. Force their full-back to follow you inside. When our right-back overlaps, the switch ball will open. You know what to do from there."
"Yes, coach."
"And Ricci," Rossi turned toward Matteo, "you'll anchor the midfield. Control transitions, and keep him—" he pointed at Jaeven "—supplied early when he drifts in."
"Got it," Matteo replied with his usual grin.
They broke into tactical drills, sharp and focused. The first pattern was simple on paper — build from the back, shift to the right, then swing the ball left to isolate Jaeven in a one-on-one. But simple didn't mean easy.
Each repetition demanded timing, communication, awareness.
Matteo directed traffic with energetic shouts. "Hold! Move! Switch!" His voice carried like a metronome, syncing the rhythm of play.
Jaeven's runs grew more refined as the hours passed. His body moved before thought, instinct weaving with precision. Every time he received the ball, his first touch felt lighter, his feints more deliberate. He wasn't faster or stronger — just sharper.
It wasn't a stat increase. It was something deeper — synchronization in practice, the physical reflection of confidence meeting familiarity.
At the end of training, Rossi called them together again. "Better. The coordination between you two—" he nodded toward Jaeven and Matteo "—that's progress. Keep that up, and we'll finally start dictating games."
Matteo grinned and bumped his shoulder into Jaeven's as they left the field. "See that? The old man approves."
"Maybe because you finally stopped yelling every second."
"Hey, communication wins matches," Matteo shot back, mock-offended. "You artists just run around looking cool."
Jaeven smiled faintly, shaking his head. "If you say so."
They spent the afternoon in the gym, light strength training and conditioning. Rossi's staff monitored them with quiet precision — data sheets, heart rate monitors, notes scribbled in shorthand Italian. Professional structure, even in a small club.
By Wednesday, the weather cleared. Blue skies stretched above the pitch as the team ran small-sided games. Jaeven's awareness of space felt sharper — he could sense pressure before it arrived, adjust his runs half a second earlier, slip between defenders like smoke.
The system didn't announce it, but he could feel it: subtle growth born of repetition.
Matteo noticed too. "You move like you know where everyone is," he said after one drill. "It's creepy."
"Maybe I just read the game better."
"Or maybe you're a magician and I'm your sidekick," Matteo replied, laughing as he tossed him a bottle of water. "Don't worry, I'll take care of interviews when we win. I'm better looking."
"That's debatable."
Thursday was tactical video day.
Inside a small room lined with monitors, Rossi stood beside a projector screen showing clips of Gavorrano's last three matches.
"They're compact," he said, gesturing with a pointer. "Notice the gaps between lines — small, but exploitable. Their left center-back tends to drift when pressed. We overload his side and strike diagonally."
He paused the video, turning to Jaeven. "That's your cue. You see that space between their center-back and full-back? That's where your diagonal runs go. Matteo, you feed him early. No hesitation."
"Understood."
"Also," Rossi added, "we're not chasing highlights. I want efficiency. Possession with intent, not dribbling for applause."
Jaeven nodded. The reminder wasn't harsh — it was surgical. Rossi didn't just coach football; he sculpted it. Every instruction carried reason.
That night, Jaeven sat by his desk, replaying those same clips on his phone. He studied movement patterns — how the defensive line shifted, where gaps appeared when a midfielder pressed too high. He paused and scribbled notes, then leaned back, exhaling slowly.
The glow of the system flickered faintly in his vision.
> [Observation Skill: Passive efficiency increasing — mental integration improved.]
[Body Synchronization: 79% → 80%.]
A small smile crossed his lips. No stat jumps, no flashy pop-ups. Just quiet acknowledgment of effort.
Friday brought another scrimmage — full intensity this time. The starting eleven faced the reserves in a controlled match. Matteo commanded the midfield, barking orders with an energy that carried through the cold air.
"Jaeven! Inside, now!"
The pass came from Matteo's boot, slicing through two defenders. Jaeven met it mid-run, flicked it past the full-back, and cut in sharply before releasing a cross that skimmed across the goalmouth. Their striker missed by inches, cursing under his breath.
"Perfect ball," Rossi called from the sideline. "Next time, trust your shot!"
Jaeven nodded, hands on knees as he caught his breath. He wanted to — every instinct told him to shoot, but hesitation still clung like a shadow. The mental step from potential to instinctive execution was something no system could grant.
After the scrimmage, Rossi gathered them mid-pitch. "That's the pace I want on Sunday. Compact defense, quick transitions, no unnecessary risks. Remember, football rewards patience as much as talent."
Matteo patted Jaeven's shoulder as they walked off. "You heard the boss — patience."
"I'm trying."
"You'll get it. You've already got the touch; the rest comes with time."
They cleaned up and headed out together, the late afternoon light painting the sky gold.
By the weekend's eve, tension hung in the locker room. The match kits were already lined up, white and red gleaming under the dim light. The equipment manager hummed softly as he arranged boots by number.
Jaeven stayed late after training, juggling a ball alone on the empty pitch. Each touch echoed faintly under the fading sun. The grass smelled of dew and mud, the air crisp and still.
He thought about the last few weeks — the debut, the celebration with his family, the silent drive back to the apartment afterward. It felt both recent and distant, like a memory he'd already outgrown.
He still remembered his mother's proud eyes, his father's quiet nod, Lucia teasing him about becoming "too famous for home." Those moments had grounded him — reminders that beneath all the system screens and match reports, he was still just Jaeven.
The ball rolled to a stop near his feet. He took one final touch, trapping it with quiet precision before looking toward the empty stands.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, "I show them it wasn't luck."
He picked up the ball and walked off.
That night, rain began to fall lightly over Lombardia.
In his room, Jaeven sat by the window, watching the droplets race down the glass. His muscles ached, but his mind was calm.
The system interface appeared once more, unprompted.
> [Status Update]
Body Synchronization: 80%
Condition: Peak readiness (Match form optimal).
Mental Focus: Stable.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. The rain outside became a rhythm, steady and soft — the perfect lullaby before a storm.
Tomorrow, the whistle would blow, and everything he'd built this week would be tested.
But for now, silence was enough.