I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.
Every breath was ragged. Every muscle screamed in protest. My knees felt like they were made of glass, my legs nothing more than leaden weights dragging me across the field. I stumbled, tripped over my own cleats, and barely managed to regain balance before another opponent barreled past me.
The whistle cut through the air like a knife.
"Sub out! Get him off the field!"
The words hit harder than any tackle I'd ever taken. My chest tightened. My vision blurred. I wanted to scream, to argue, to prove everyone wrong—but I couldn't. I couldn't even lift my head high enough to meet my coach's gaze.
The scoreboard was merciless: 0–3. Another loss. Another reminder that I didn't belong here.
The coach's glare was worse than the scoreboard. He was shaking his head, lips pressed into a thin line. The substitute vest was thrown at me like a punishment.
"You're useless, Leo. I should've never let you on the pitch."
I wanted to tell him I could still fight, that I could still be useful, but the words died in my throat. Every step I took toward the sideline was a victory in its own right. My legs felt like they weren't mine anymore. My knee, the same one that had ended my hopes of going pro, throbbed with every movement.
The crowd wasn't any kinder. Their laughter sliced through the heat of the sun, cutting deeper than any opponent's tackle.
"Benchwarmer!"
"Dead weight!"
"Go home, loser!"
I kept walking, head down. The weight of their ridicule was heavier than my backpack, heavier than my exhaustion. I could feel my own shame pressing down on me, a suffocating layer that I couldn't shake off.
When I finally reached the bench, I sank onto the cold, hard wood. My teammates were nowhere to be found, either on the field celebrating the end of the match or drowning in their own frustrations. Nobody even looked my way. Nobody cared.
I stared down at my cleats, mud-caked and scuffed from years of practice, from every high school tournament, from every street game I'd ever played. These were the shoes that once carried me through every dream I'd ever dared to have. These were the shoes I thought would take me to stadiums filled with cheering fans, to a future I'd imagined since I was ten.
But all those dreams felt like ash now.
I pressed my face into my hands. My thoughts spiraled into the dark corners of my mind where I had spent the past few years. The injury. The surgeries. The endless months of rehab that never seemed to work. The scholarships I didn't get, the scouts who looked right through me. The cruel reality that talent alone wasn't enough—that sometimes life had a way of breaking you before you even got a chance to shine.
"This is it," I whispered. My voice was hoarse, broken. "Maybe I should just quit. Soccer… it's not for me anymore. I'm done."
And then I heard it.
A sharp, unmistakable chime echoed in my head:
Ding!
I jerked upright. My pulse jumped, my ears ringing. My eyes darted around the locker room. Nobody else seemed to notice anything. The other guys were packing up, slamming lockers, swearing about the loss. Nobody reacted. Nobody even looked my way.
And yet, there it was.
[Sports God System Initializing…]
[Host Detected: Leo Carter. Status: Failed Athlete. Potential: Buried.]
[Do you wish to reignite your path to glory? Y/N]
I froze. My mouth went dry. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of my chest. A system? This had to be some hallucination, some sort of breakdown brought on by exhaustion and humiliation.
But the floating screen didn't disappear. It hovered in front of me, glowing with a soft blue light. No matter which way I moved my head, it followed.
[First Mission: Run 5 kilometers without stopping.]
[Reward: +1 Stamina, Beginner Striker's Package.]
[Failure Penalty: -1 Attribute Point, Temporary Fatigue.]
I blinked. The words hung in the air like a challenge. A threat. A promise.
I laughed—bitterly, uncontrollably. "Run 5 kilometers? My legs can barely hold me up. My knees—hell, my whole body—is falling apart! You've got to be kidding me."
But even as I spoke, something deep inside stirred. A tiny spark, buried under years of disappointment and self-doubt, flickered to life.
I remembered the first time I kicked a soccer ball. Seven years old, playing barefoot on a cracked asphalt lot with my friends. I'd felt invincible, like the world was made for me to run and score and dream. I remembered the thrill of my first goal in middle school, the cheers, the way my parents' faces lit up with pride. I remembered dreaming of stadiums, lights, and glory.
Somewhere along the way, that dream had been buried under injury, failure, and ridicule. But now, for the first time in years, it felt alive again.
I clenched my fists, gripping my worn-out cleats. The thought of quitting vanished, replaced by something I hadn't felt in a long time: determination.
"Fine," I whispered, my voice steadying. "If this is real… if this is my chance… I'll take it."
The system seemed to acknowledge my resolve.
[Mission Accepted.]
The chime echoed again, like a starting whistle. Like the first kick of a match.
I rose to my feet, testing my legs. The ache was still there, the pain still real, but it no longer felt like a chain holding me down. Instead, it felt like a challenge I could overcome.
I stared out the window at the empty practice field, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the grass. The wind rustled in my ears, and for the first time, it didn't sound like mockery. It sounded like possibility.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel like a failure.
For the first time in years, I felt like the game had just begun.
I didn't know how far I'd run, how much I'd hurt, or how many failures awaited me—but I knew one thing.
I wouldn't quit.
I couldn't.
Because this was my shot. My chance to rise from nothing to something. And somehow… somewhere… I felt that this system, whatever it was, was the key.
The field awaited. And I was ready to fight.