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Chapter 4 — The Whistle of War
The next morning, Jeremy walked through the gates of Hale End with his boots slung over his shoulder. The sun hadn't even cleared the London rooftops, and the smell of fresh-cut grass carried through the air.
He still couldn't shake it. Every step felt unreal. Fifteen years old again. Arsenal trialist again. But the system in his head? That was too real.
"Morning, Lynch," Henri Lansbury called as he jogged up. "Hope you're ready for today. Match against Chelsea's U16s."
Jeremy grinned. "Bruv, I was born ready. Just don't expect me to pass if I get a chance to score."
"Course you won't," Lansbury muttered, half amused, half annoyed.
DING!
> [Mission: Score or assist in today's match. Reward: +5 Finishing, +3 Ego.]
The voice followed immediately, low and commanding, dripping with authority.
> "Listen carefully, Lynch. This is not about teamwork. This is about survival. Football is war. A striker who passes when he can score is already dead. Remember that."
Jeremy clenched his jaw. "Man, you don't stop, do you?"
Nobody else heard, of course. To the others, he just looked like he was muttering to himself. Gibbs gave him a look but shrugged it off.
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The boys warmed up, stretching and doing rondos. Jack Wilshere, already the golden boy of Hale End, was controlling the middle like he'd been born with a ball tied to his boots. Every pass was crisp, sharp, and confident.
Jeremy joined in, taking a touch and flicking the ball over an opponent before sliding it back. "See that?" he said. "Lejit, yeah?"
Wilshere smirked. "Not bad, mate. Don't try that against Chelsea though—they'll eat you alive."
Jeremy tilted his head. "Nah, mate. I'll eat them."
A couple of the lads laughed. Wilshere just shook his head, but he smiled too.
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The whistle blew, and the trial match kicked off.
Chelsea pressed high straight away. Their midfield snapped at Arsenal's heels, forcing mistakes. A sloppy pass rolled loose in midfield, and Jeremy pounced, flicking it past the first blue shirt. He burst forward, space opening ahead of him.
Lansbury screamed for it on the right. Gibbs darted left.
But Jeremy? He went straight through the middle. Step-over, feint, shot—low and hard to the near post. The keeper barely got a hand to it, pushing it wide.
The boys groaned.
"Pass the ball, Lynch!" Gibbs shouted.
Jeremy just smirked. "Relax. That was just the warm-up."
DING!
> [Proficiency: Shooting +4 → 66.]
> "Good," Ego's voice cut in, sharp as a blade. "But you hesitated before shooting. Never hesitate. A killer doesn't second-guess himself. Do you want to be a diamond, or just another stone they throw away?"
Jeremy blew out a breath. "Alright, alright, I get it…"
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Minutes later, the chance came again. Wilshere threaded a perfect pass through Chelsea's backline. Jeremy latched on, first touch a little heavy but still in stride.
The keeper rushed out. For a split second, Jeremy thought about squaring it to Gibbs, wide open.
DING!
> [Override Mission: Shoot. Reward doubles if successful.]
> "Pass, and you vanish. Shoot, and you exist. Choose."
Jeremy didn't even look at Gibbs. He curled it first time with his right foot—across the keeper, into the far corner.
GOAL.
The Hale End pitch erupted with cheers from the boys on the sideline. Jeremy spread his arms wide, ice-cold expression—Cole Palmer celebration, years before Palmer ever existed.
The lads jeered. "Oi, who does this guy think he is?"
Lansbury jogged up, half annoyed but half impressed. "You're mad, you know that?"
Jeremy just grinned. "Nah, bruv. I'm inevitable."
DING!
> [Mission Complete. Finishing +5 → 71. Ego +3 → 98.]
> "Yes," Ego's voice purred, full of menace. "That is the path. Ignore their cries. Ignore their needs. Feed only yourself. That is ego. That is football."
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The game grew scrappy. Chelsea hit back with a header from a corner, and the score was level again. Wilshere pulled the team together. "Lads, keep the ball. Don't lose your heads."
Jeremy smirked. "Speak for yourself, Jack."
When Arsenal broke again, Wilshere sent another ball his way. Jeremy, with defenders closing in, chopped the ball back inside and lashed a shot just over the bar. He cursed under his breath.
Gibbs threw his arms up. "You could've played me in!"
Jeremy turned to him, shrugging. "And miss a chance to score? Nah, man."
The whistle blew for halftime. The lads trudged off, sweaty and frustrated. Steve Bould gathered them.
"You lot need to wake up. Too many selfish decisions in the final third." His eyes locked on Jeremy. "You especially. If there's a pass, play it. This is Arsenal, not a playground."
Jeremy bit his tongue, nodded, but inside he was smirking.
DING!
> [New Directive: Ignore the coach. Coaches don't create stars. Ego does.]
The voice was ruthless, like it was cutting straight through Jeremy's chest.
> "You are not here to follow orders. You are here to rise above them. Do you want to be a name they forget—or the name they curse for the rest of their lives?"
Jeremy leaned back against the bench, breathing hard. "Bruv… you're actually evil."
But his grin didn't fade.
Because deep down, he liked it.
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