The training ground was a graveyard of sound.
Forty young athletes stood paralyzed, staring at Renzo Uzumaki as if he had just grown wings or committed a murder. Most of them had fantasized about striking Bill Vance, but Ren had actually done it. And he hadn't just swung; he had dismantled the man's dignity with surgical precision.
Vance lay in the London mud, his face a map of rising welts, his breath coming in ragged, pathetic hitches. He looked less like a Director and more like a discarded training cone.
Ren didn't spare him a second glance. The heat of the moment was already fading, replaced by the cool, hum of the blue interface flickering before his eyes. He was done with this place. He was done with the petty politics of North London.
[Personal Attributes Detected]
[Name: Renzo Uzumaki]
[Age: 16 | Height: 186cm | Weight: 80kg | Position: Midfielder]
Ren's eyes skimmed his stats.
[Passing] Short: 70 | Long: 61 | Vision: 68
[Shooting] Accuracy: 65 | Long Shot: 67 | Heading: 70
[Physical] Strength: 73 | Stamina: 72 | Top Speed: 62
[Overall Rating: 67]
A 67. It was a sobering number. In the U18 League, a 67 made him a god among boys, but in the shark-infested waters of the Premier League or La Liga, a 67 was a ghost—someone who would be bullied off the ball and forgotten by halftime.
Then, the notification he had been waiting for pulsed in the corner of his vision.
[Opening Golden Legendary Treasure Chest...]
[Reward: S-Class · King of France · Michel Platini Passing Model!]
Ren's breath caught. A golden card materialized in the air, visible only to him. It depicted a man with curly hair and a jersey pulled taut—Michel Platini. "Le Roi." The King.
Before Zidane, before Henry, there was Platini. Three consecutive Ballons d'Or. The man who transformed the French national team from an afterthought into the Kings of Europe in 1984, scoring nine goals in five matches from the midfield. He wasn't just a player; he was an architect who drew lines on the pitch that no one else could see.
[Ding! Short Pass attribute increased!]
[Short Pass: 70 —> 99 (MAX)]
Ninety-nine?
Ren's heart hammered against his ribs. The System hadn't just given him a boost; it had granted him the ceiling. The peak of human capability.
[Platini Model: Long Pass and Vision attributes locked. Complete System Tasks to unlock.]
[Overall Rating Updated: 67 —> 71]
A four-point jump from a single stat. A 71 rating for a sixteen-year-old was monstrous—it was the threshold of a first-team rotation player in a top-flight league.
Ren walked away from the unconscious Vance and the stunned crowd, his feet feeling strangely light. He didn't head for the exit. Instead, he veered toward Training Pitch No. 2. He needed to feel it. He needed to know if the numbers were real.
He dragged two ball bags to the edge of the "D" outside the penalty area. He tipped them over, dozens of Nike Ordem balls spilling onto the manicured grass.
Ren took a breath. He didn't look at a teammate—there were none. He looked at the crossbar.
The top left corner. Right where the iron meets the post.
He stepped up and clipped the ball with the inside of his boot. It wasn't a power strike; it was a pass. A casual, 20-yard short ball.
Clang.
The sound was sharp, melodic. The ball rebounded perfectly back toward him.
Ren didn't smile. He just pulled another ball in. Same spot.
Clang.
Again. Clang.
He began to move faster, his rhythm becoming a symphony of leather on grass and ball on iron. Left corner. Right corner. Dead center. Left corner again.
He wasn't just hitting the bar; he was hitting the same blades of grass on the rebound. The ball felt like an extension of his nervous system. It went exactly where his mind dictated, with a weight and spin that felt like magic.
Deep in the shadows of the academy scouting office overlooking the pitch, a man stood by the window, his coffee forgotten in his hand. His eyes were wide, tracking the trajectory of every ball Ren struck.
"Eight... nine... ten..." the man whispered, his voice trembling.
Ten balls. Ten strikes on the woodwork. No—if he counted the ones from a minute ago, it was closer to twenty.
"He's not shooting," the man realized, his grip tightening on the window ledge. "He's passing to the post. Who the hell is that kid?"