Thirty years old. What a joke."
Alex Villar stared at his reflection in the grime-covered window of his office building. The man looking back had sunken eyes and the posture of someone who stopped fighting a long time ago.
He wasn't a La Liga midfielder anymore. He was a logistics clerk—days lost inside spreadsheets, nights trapped in memories of a career that barely existed.
The "what-ifs" never left him.
What if I hadn't skipped that training session?
What if I had taken recovery seriously?
What if I wasn't such a lazy bastard at fifteen?
His left ankle throbbed as he walked toward the bus stop—a familiar pain, like a reminder stamped into his body.
Then the street went silence. Too silent.
A sudden roar shattered the air.
Alex looked up. A massive white truck was swerving violently, tires screaming against the asphalt as it barreled straight toward him.
Most people would freeze. Alex didn't. He just stared.
As the truck filled his vision, something strange rose inside him—not fear, but irritation.
"Are you kidding me?" he muttered. A dry laugh slipped out. "A white truck? Really? I'm going out like a cliché?"
The driver's panicked face flickered behind the windshield. Alex exhaled, then spread his arms slightly.
"If you're going to kill me," he shouted, voice cracking with sarcasm, "at least make it interesting! A Ferrari, maybe? Or something original!"
He laughed once, breathless. "Send me to another world, turn me into anything—I don't care. Just end this pathetic excuse of a life!"
CRACK.
The impact was instantaneous. For a moment, he felt like he was breaking apart—then nothing. No pain. No light. Just silence.
Then a voice appeared. Cold. Mechanical. Detached.
[System Initialization…]
[Host: Alex Villar.]
[Status: Deceased.]
[Cause: Impact with high-speed vehicle + extreme sarcasm.]
[Calculating regret levels… 99.9%]
"Shut up," Alex thought. He didn't have a mouth, but the thought came clearly.
The system paused.
[Host attitude: unexpectedly disrespectful.]
[Criteria met.]
[Activating: The Legend System.]
[Requirement: A soul unwilling to accept failure.]
[Temporal Rebirth initiated.]
[Destination: March 2020.]
[Age: 15.]
The darkness tore apart. His existence collapsed inward—compressed, dragged, rewritten. Air returned violently. Sound returned violently. Life returned violently.
A steady vibration pulsed beneath him. Alex's eyes snapped open.
A bus. Not a street. Not death. A luxury coach. The smell of cheap fabric, sweat, and fuel filled his lungs.
He looked down. Smaller hands. Younger skin. No scars of adulthood.
"No way…" he whispered. His voice cracked—still forming.
Outside the window: rolling Spanish countryside. He knew this road. Seville youth tournament route. The moment everything had begun to fall apart.
Then it appeared. A blue interface flickered in front of his vision.
[Welcome back to the starting line, Alex Villar.]
[GENERAL STATUS]
Overall Rating (OVR): 51/100
Rank: Academy Trash
Position: Attacking Midfielder (CAM) / Playmaker
[PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES]
Strength: 35
Stamina: 38
Pace: 48
Agility: 45
[TECHNICAL ATTRIBUTES]
Ball Control: 52
Dribbling: 50
Passing: 55
Shooting: 42
[MENTAL ATTRIBUTES]
Vision: 85 (Veteran Soul Bonus)
Composure: 82 (Veteran Soul Bonus)
Awareness: 88 (Veteran Soul Bonus)
Aggression: 30
[System Comment: You are currently the weakest player on this bus. Your body is a fragile cage, but your mind sees what others cannot. Adapt or perish.]
Alex leaned back slowly. No panic. No confusion. Just understanding.
"Academy Trash…" he whispered, watching his reflection in the window. A faint smile formed. "I spent thirty years being nobody."
A pause.
"Being trash at fifteen… honestly feels like an upgrade."
He looked forward. Miguel was there—laughing, confident, throwing paper at younger players. The same Miguel who would once overshadow him.
[New Mission: Survival of the Fittest]
[Objective: Avoid bullying from Miguel until arrival]
[Reward: +1 Strength / +1 Glory Point]
[Penalty: -5 Stamina (stress)]
Alex's eyes narrowed. Not fear. Interest.
"Alright, System…" A cold smirk. "Let's see how far this life can go."
The laughter in the bus was grating. To the other fifteen-year-olds, it was just camaraderie, but to Alex's thirty-year-old mind, it sounded like static. He sat still, feeling the unfamiliar lightness of his teenage frame. He felt weak—dangerously weak—but his senses were screaming with a clarity he hadn't felt in decades.
[Awareness: 88] wasn't just a number.
Alex could feel the vibration of the tires, the shift of the wind against the bus, and most importantly, he could track every movement in the cabin without even turning his head.
Thwack.
A crumpled ball of paper bounced off the side of Alex's head.
"Hey, Villar! Still alive back there?"
The voice belonged to Miguel—the academy's 'Golden Boy' and the primary source of Alex's misery in his past life. In 2020, Alex would have lowered his head, flushed red with embarrassment, and muttered an apology for simply existing.
But the Alex Villar who had survived a decade of corporate soul-crushing and a literal truck collision didn't even flinch. He didn't look up. He didn't react.
"Look at him," Miguel jeered, turning in his seat to face the back of the bus. He was a head taller than Alex, built like a young bull, and already possessed the arrogance of a millionaire. "The 'Ghost of Atletico' is daydreaming again. What's the matter, Alex? Nervous about getting cut from the squad today?"
A few of the players nearby snickered. The tension in the bus shifted. It was a classic predatory move—pick on the weakest link to solidify the hierarchy.
[Warning: Mission 'Survival of the Fittest' in progress.]
[Miguel is preparing to escalate. Mental stress detected.]
Alex slowly turned his head. His eyes, usually clouded with self-doubt at this age, were now cold, calm, and unsettlingly deep. He looked at Miguel not as a victim looks at a bully, but as a veteran investigator looks at a petty criminal.
"Miguel," Alex said, his voice flat and steady. "Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?"
The snickering stopped instantly. The entire bus went silent. Even the coach, sitting at the front with his headphones on, seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere.
Miguel's grin faltered. He blinked, clearly confused by the lack of fear. "What did you say, you little rat?"
"I said," Alex repeated, leaning forward slightly, the [Composure: 82] making his heartbeat as steady as a drum, "that for someone who claims to be the best striker in the academy, you spend a lot of time looking backward. Maybe that's why you missed three sitters in last week's scrimmage. Too busy looking for an audience?"
Miguel's face turned a deep shade of crimson. He stood up, his massive frame looming over the aisle. "You're dead, Villar. I'm going to make sure you don't even get off the bench today."
He lunged forward, reaching out to grab Alex's collar—a move he had done a hundred times before.
In the past, Alex would have been too slow to react. But now, with [Awareness: 88], Miguel's movements looked like they were happening in slow motion. Alex saw the angle of the shoulder, the tension in the forearm, and the slight tilt of Miguel's feet.
Without standing up, Alex simply leaned his head two inches to the left.
Miguel's hand swiped through empty air. The momentum of his own aggression, combined with the slight sway of the bus as it took a curve, sent him stumbling forward. His hip slammed hard against the metal edge of the seat.
"Dammit!" Miguel hissed, clutching his side.
"Careful," Alex said softly, his eyes never leaving Miguel's. "If you hurt yourself before the game, people might think you're making excuses for another poor performance."
[System Notification: Mission Objective Met.]
[Result: Bulling Avoided / Dominance Asserted.]
[Reward: +1 Strength / +1 Glory Point.]
[Current Strength: 36]
[Current Glory Points: 1]
The players around them were staring at Alex as if he had grown a second head. This wasn't the Villar they knew. The Villar they knew was a coward. This person... this person felt dangerous.
"You're lucky, Villar," Miguel spat, his voice trembling with rage as he retreated to his seat. "The stadium is only ten minutes away. Enjoy your last game in this jersey."
Alex didn't reply. He turned back to the window. The stadium lights were visible in the distance, rising like a cathedral of steel and grass.
His body felt like it was made of lead, his muscles tight and untrained, but for the first time in thirty years, Alex Villar wasn't afraid of the future.
"Ten minutes," Alex whispered to himself.
He closed his eyes, and for a split second, he saw a vision of the pitch—not as a place of failure, but as a chessboard where he finally knew all the moves.
[System Warning: Physical Stamina is low. The 'Tactical Eye' will be restricted to 15 minutes of match time.]
"Fifteen minutes is all I need," Alex thought. "To show them that the trash is gone."
The bus came to a heavy halt in the parking lot of the Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán youth complex. As the doors hissed open, the hot Andalusian air rushed in, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and deep-heat liniment. For most of the boys, it was the smell of excitement. For Alex Villar, it was the smell of a battlefield he had lost once before.
"Everyone out! Gear up in five minutes!" the coach barked, clapping his hands.
Alex stood up, feeling a slight dizzy spell as his [Stamina: 38] reacted to the sudden movement and the heat. His body felt like an old, rusty engine trying to turn over.
"Don't trip over your own feet, Villar," Miguel sneered as he pushed past him, intentionally clipping Alex's shoulder.
Alex didn't say a word. He followed the line of players into the locker room. The atmosphere inside was electric—the rhythmic clicking of studs on tile, the snapping of elastic shinguards, and the low hum of nervous chatter.
Alex sat in the far corner, pulling his jersey over his head. The fabric was slightly too loose on his fifteen-year-old frame. He looked at the reflection in the locker room mirror. He saw a boy with a narrow chest and thin legs, but when he looked into his own eyes, he saw a predator waiting for the right moment.
[System Notification: Tactical Eye Calibration...]
[Scanning Environment: Seville Youth Academy U-16.]
[Target identified: Lucas Silva (Seville Captain). OVR: 64.]
[Target identified: Mateo Gomez (Seville Center-Back). OVR: 62.]
Alex's vision flickered. For a second, the locker room was overlaid with blue data streams. He could see the physical condition of his opponents and teammates. Most of them were in the 60s—vastly superior to his current 51.
"Listen up!" Coach Lorenzo stood in the center of the room, tapping a tactical board. "Seville is fast. They'll press high. Miguel, you're our target man. Use your size. Alex..."
The coach paused, looking at Alex with a mixture of pity and hesitation. "Alex, you start on the bench. Stay ready, but don't expect much unless we need to rotate."
The locker room went silent. A few players glanced at Alex, expecting to see the usual look of dejection. Instead, they saw him nodding calmly, his fingers tracing the studs on his boots.
"Understood, Coach," Alex said.
[Mental Check: Composure 82]
Internal Monologue: Being on the bench isn't a setback. It's an observation post. I have thirty years of tactical knowledge. I don't need ninety minutes to change a game. I only need one.
As the team headed out to the pitch for warm-ups, Alex stayed back for a moment, staring at the white lines of the football field. The sun was blinding, and the stands were starting to fill with scouts from across Europe.
[New Quest: The Substitute's Strike]
[Objective: Get substituted into the match and record at least one 'Key Pass' or 'Goal'.]
[Reward: +2 Agility / +5 Glory Points / Unlock Skill: 'First Touch (Bronze)'.]
[Failure: Permanent -1 to 'Coach's Trust' stat.]
Alex stepped onto the grass. It felt different this time. In his past life, the pitch was a place of pressure and fear. Now, it was a playground. He felt the weight of his veteran soul stabilizing his trembling teenage nerves.
"51 rating," Alex whispered, feeling the tension in his hamstrings. "Let's see how much damage a 51 can do when he knows exactly where the 60s are going to blink."
He walked toward the dugout, his eyes locked on the Seville captain. He wasn't just watching a player; he was analyzing a weakness.
The whistle blew. The match was on. And Alex Villar, the 'Academy Trash', was just waiting for the clock to tick down to his moment of rebirth.