The roar of the small but vocal crowd at the Seville training complex was a dull hum in Alex's ears. He sat on the hard plastic bench, his arms crossed, watching the game with an intensity that unnerved the other substitutes sitting beside him.
To them, it was a chaotic scramble for the ball. To Alex, it was a mess of tactical errors.
"Look at them," Alex thought, his eyes tracking the movement of the Seville midfield. "Too much energy, zero efficiency."
[Tactical Eye: Active]
[Analyzing Match Tempo: High Intensity / Low Accuracy]
[Observation in Progress: 05%... 12%...]
The game was brutal. At fifteen, football is less about strategy and more about who is faster and stronger. Miguel, playing as the lone striker for Atletico, was struggling. He was getting bullied by Mateo Gomez, the Seville center-back, because he kept trying to win through pure physical force.
Thump.
Miguel was knocked to the ground again, losing the ball for the fourth time in twenty minutes. He stood up, red-faced, screaming at the referee.
"Fool," Alex whispered.
"Did you say something, Villar?" the player next to him, a substitute defender named Carlos, asked with a smirk. "Or are you just practicing your 'I'm about to get fired' face?"
Alex didn't even look at him. "He's losing because he's playing the man, not the space. Gomez is heavy on his right foot. If Miguel dropped five yards deeper and turned to his left, he'd be behind the defense in two seconds."
Carlos blinked, stunned by the technical depth of the comment. "Since when did you become a coach?"
Alex didn't answer. His mind was elsewhere. He was watching Lucas Silva, the Seville captain. Silva was the engine of their team, a 64-rated player who dictated the tempo. But Alex noticed something—Silva had a habit of glancing at his coach every time he made a back-pass. He was playing for approval, not for the win. He was playing safe.
[System Notification: Weakness Identified.]
[Target: Lucas Silva.]
[Exploit: Lack of vertical vision under pressure.]
"Coach Lorenzo is going to lose his mind soon," Alex muttered.
True to his word, Coach Lorenzo was pacing the technical area like a caged tiger. Atletico was down 1-0. A sloppy goal conceded in the 15th minute had drained their confidence. The midfield was a graveyard of intercepted passes and clumsy tackles.
Suddenly, the coach stopped. He turned around, his eyes scanning the bench with desperation. He didn't want to play Alex—everyone knew Alex was the "safe cut" for next week—but he needed something different. He needed someone who wouldn't just run into a wall.
His eyes met Alex's.
In the past, Alex would have looked at the grass, praying the coach wouldn't pick him and expose his weakness. But now, Alex stared back. His gaze was steady, demanding, and filled with a terrifying level of confidence.
"Villar!" Lorenzo barked. "Warm up. Now."
The bench went silent. Carlos dropped his water bottle. Miguel, from the middle of the pitch, glanced over and let out a scoff of disbelief.
Alex stood up slowly. He didn't rush. He didn't look nervous. He began to stretch his thin hamstrings, feeling the [Stamina: 38] warning light flickering in the corner of his vision.
[Warning: Physical capacity is at 100% of its (low) limit.]
[Estimated time of peak performance: 15 Minutes.]
"Fifteen minutes," Alex thought as he zipped up his training top and prepared to enter the fray. "In my last life, I wasted fifteen years. I think I can handle fifteen minutes."
He looked at the scoreboard. 35th minute of the first half.
"System," Alex whispered as he stepped toward the touchline. "Prepare the 'Tactical Eye'. I'm about to show these kids how a veteran plays a child's game."
Villar! You're on for Jimenez. Play as the #10. Stay behind Miguel and for heaven's sake, just keep the ball moving!" Coach Lorenzo's voice was strained, his eyes showing a mix of hope and pure desperation.
Alex didn't nod. He didn't speak. He just stepped onto the pitch.
The moment his cleats touched the white line, a surge of adrenaline hit his system. It was a strange sensation—his mind felt like a supercomputer, but his legs felt like they were made of dry twigs.
[Match Context: Atletico Madrid U-16 (0) - (1) Seville U-16]
[Time Remaining in First Half: 10 Minutes]
[Stamina: 38/38 (Declining)]
As Alex ran toward his position, Miguel jogged past him, leaning in close to whisper, "Don't get in my way, trash. If you ruin my chances, I'll personally make sure you're packing your bags tonight."
Alex ignored him entirely. He was too busy looking at the "lines."
With [Awareness: 88], the pitch wasn't just grass anymore. It was a grid. He could see the shadows of where the Seville defenders wanted to be and the gaps they were leaving behind. Lucas Silva, the Seville captain, looked at Alex and let out a short, mocking laugh.
"They're sending in the office boy?" Silva joked to his teammate.
The game restarted with a throw-in. The ball was bounced back to an Atletico midfielder who, panicked by the Seville press, fired a reckless, bouncing pass toward Alex.
It was a terrible ball—high, spinning, and targeted right at his chest. In his past life, Alex would have let this ball bounce off him, losing possession immediately.
[System Notification: Skill 'First Touch' not yet unlocked.]
[Warning: Physical control is low. Manual override required.]
Alex didn't rely on a system skill. He relied on thirty years of muscle memory trapped in a fifteen-year-old's nervous system. Instead of trying to trap the ball dead, he stepped into the path of the ball, using the momentum to cushion it with his thigh before letting it drop onto his foot.
Soft. Fluid. Perfect.
In one motion, he turned. He didn't even look at the ball; he was already looking at the space behind Silva.
"What—?" Silva lunged in, trying to bully Alex off the ball with his superior [Strength: 64].
Alex didn't fight him. He waited until the very last microsecond, then performed a simple, sharp 'La Croqueta'—shifting the ball from his right foot to his left. It was a basic move, but executed with such surgical timing that Silva found himself kicking thin air, his momentum carrying him past Alex like a runaway train.
The crowd let out a collective "Ooh!"
[System Notification: Awareness exploited.]
[Target: Lucas Silva – Successfully bypassed.]
[Mental Stamina: 75/80]
"He... he just turned Silva?" Coach Lorenzo stood frozen on the touchline, his jaw dropping.
Alex didn't celebrate. He didn't have the stamina to waste on a smile. He saw Miguel sprinting forward, waving his arms and screaming for the ball. Miguel was marked by two defenders, a classic "dead-end" pass.
But Alex saw the third option.
A young winger named Juan was cutting inside from the left, unnoticed by the Seville defense who were all focused on Miguel's loud shouting.
Alex didn't look at Juan. He kept his eyes on Miguel, faking a long ball. The Seville defenders shifted their weight, preparing to intercept the pass to the striker.
Clack.
With a disguised 'no-look' flick of his ankle, Alex threaded the ball through a gap no wider than a needle's eye. The ball hissed across the grass, cutting through three Seville players before landing perfectly in the stride of Juan.
The entire Seville defense was paralyzed for a split second. They had been baited, hooked, and sliced open by a single pass from a boy they thought was "trash."
[Key Pass Recorded!]
[Mission Progress: 50% Complete.]
"Juan! Shoot!" Alex shouted, his voice cracking but commanding.
Juan, stunned by the sheer quality of the pass, took a touch and fired. The ball hammered against the crossbar with a deafening clang, bouncing back into the box.
The stadium held its breath. The chance wasn't over.
Alex was already moving. His legs felt heavy, his lungs were starting to burn, and his [Pace: 48] was making the sprint feel like running through mud. But his [Vision: 85] told him exactly where that ball was going to land.
"Get out of the way!" Miguel roared, charging toward the rebound like a bull.
But Alex was already there, arriving at the spot two seconds before anyone else—not because he was faster, but because he had started moving before the ball even hit the bar.
[Stamina Warning: 25/38]
[Calculating trajectory...]
Alex looked at the goal. The keeper was out of position. The defender was lunging.
"This one," Alex thought, his eyes cold and focused. "This one is for the thirty years I wasted."
The ball stayed in the air for what felt like an eternity. To the scouts in the stands and the frantic teenagers on the pitch, it was a chaotic rebound. To Alex, it was a mathematical certainty.
[Warning: Stamina 20/38. Physical exhaustion imminent.]
[Calculated Strike Zone: Top Left Corner.]
Miguel was still screaming, his heavy boots thumping against the grass as he tried to bulldoze his way through the box. "Villar! Leave it! It's mine!"
Alex didn't even blink. He knew Miguel was too late. He knew the defender, Mateo Gomez, was sliding in with a desperate tackle that would surely catch Alex's thin legs if he hesitated for even a millisecond.
Alex didn't wait for the ball to settle. As it dropped from the crossbar, he planted his weak left foot firmly into the turf and leaned his body back, centering his gravity.
Clang.
His boot met the ball with a clean, crisp "thud" that echoed through the quiet stadium. He didn't use power; he used [Composure: 82]. He used the inside of his foot to guide the ball's own momentum, redirecting it with the surgical precision of a man who had watched ten thousand goals in his past life.
The ball curled. It bypassed the desperate, outstretched fingers of the Seville goalkeeper and tucked itself neatly into the side netting of the top corner.
GOAL.
For a moment, the world stopped.
The Seville defenders stood frozen. Coach Lorenzo's clipboard hit the ground with a plastic clatter. The Atletico substitutes, who had been laughing at Alex only ten minutes ago, were now standing on their feet, mouths wide open.
[Mission Objective Met: Goal Recorded!]
[Reward: +2 Agility / +5 Glory Points / Skill Unlocked: 'First Touch (Bronze)']
[Overall Rating (OVR) updated: 51 -> 52]
Alex didn't run to the corner flag. He didn't take off his shirt. He stood there, his chest heaving as he fought for breath, his [Stamina: 15] flashing red. He simply looked at the back of the net, then slowly turned his gaze toward Miguel.
Miguel was standing three yards away, his face a mask of shock and wounded pride. He had wanted the glory, but he had been outplayed by the boy he called "trash."
"You... you got lucky," Miguel panted, his voice trembling. "That ball fell right to you."
Alex wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked Miguel straight in the eyes. "Luck is for those who don't know where the ball is going. I knew it was going there before it even hit the bar. Maybe if you stopped shouting and started thinking, you'd be standing here instead of me."
"Villar!" Coach Lorenzo found his voice, screaming from the touchline. "What was that?! Since when do you move like that?"
Alex didn't answer. He just jogged back toward the center circle.
[System Notification: Hidden Stat Unlocked.]
[Coach's Trust: 15/100 (Up from 2).]
As he walked, Alex felt a strange, warm sensation in his legs. The [+2 Agility] reward was being integrated into his muscles in real-time. It wasn't much, but to his frail body, it felt like he had just shed ten pounds of lead.
"First touch unlocked," Alex thought, a cold, satisfied smirk finally reaching his lips. "And I still have five minutes left in this half."
He looked at the Seville captain, Lucas Silva. Silva wasn't laughing anymore. He was staring at Alex with genuine fear in his eyes. He realized that the boy in the oversized jersey wasn't a victim—he was a wolf in sheep's clothing.
The referee blew the whistle to restart the game. Alex lowered his center of gravity, his mind already scanning the pitch for the next gap, the next weakness, the next soul to break.
"Fifty-two," Alex whispered. "Still trash. But even trash can burn a house down."