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Chapter 10 — FA Youth Cup Semi-Final (First Leg)
March 2003 – Highbury, London
Arsenal U18 vs Middlesbrough U18
The night lights cut through the drizzle. The stands weren't full, but the buzz was there. Parents, scouts, and a few scattered Arsenal die-hards filled the seats, their voices echoing against the old Highbury concrete. And on the touchline, arms folded, that sharp nose and calm stare—Arsène Wenger.
Jeremy tugged on his red-and-white shirt, pulling the collar straight. His boots crunched against the damp pitch as he jogged into position. His heart wasn't pounding with nerves. No—he had the system, and he had something else tucked away.
[Egoist System Online]
A soft chime in his head. The UI blinked up across his vision like a FIFA stat screen.
Jeremy Lynch — Age: 15
Position: Forward
Shooting: 68/100
Dribbling: 74/100
Technique: 70/100
Passing: 58/100
Defence: 42/100
Instinct: 61/100
Ego: 75/100
A line flashed underneath.
[Weekly Shop Refresh: March 2004]
Prime Ronaldinho Dribbling – 10 minutes – 480 credits
Stamina +10% (permanent) – 250 credits
Speed +5 (permanent) – 300 credits
Recovery Boost (Injury Shield) – 200 credits
Jeremy whistled under his breath. 480 credits. That's robbery, man. But his lips curled. Ten minutes of Ronaldinho's magic? No-brainer. He tapped his mental trigger.
A surge ran through his legs. His feet felt lighter, sharper, like his boots were glued to the ball before it touched him.
"Oi, Lynch, focus, mate!" Jack Wilshere called from midfield, snapping him back. The whistle blew.
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Kick-off
Middlesbrough came out scrappy—pressing, bodies everywhere. Jeremy dropped into the half-space and let the ball roll under his studs. His first touch felt unreal, like velvet.
"Ball, ball!" shouted a teammate, but Jeremy ignored it. Step over. Drag-back. Two players lunged, and he ghosted between them like they weren't there. Gasps from the small crowd.
"Bloody hell," murmured one of the defenders chasing him.
He cut inside, curled one from the edge of the box—net rippled.
GOAL.
Cole Palmer's cold-point celebration followed, finger raised, face blank. The lads swarmed him.
"Lynch, lad! What a hit!" shouted Kieran Gibbs, slapping his head.
"Pass next time, eh?" muttered another, only half-joking.
Up in the stands, Wenger leaned slightly forward. No expression, just studying.
+2 Shooting]
[+1 Ego]
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Kick-off again. Middlesbrough tried to settle, but Jeremy was floating now. The Ronaldinho boost burned through him. The ball stuck to his feet like glue. Elastico past one. Flip-flap past another.
"Take him down!" screamed their coach from the touchline.
Too late. Jeremy slipped past, chipped the keeper with a nonchalant flick. The ball kissed the net.
GOAL.
Cole Palmer's celebration again. Cold, cocky, almost mocking.
"Mate, you're taking the piss!" Wilshere laughed, half-amazed, half-irritated.
"Get used to it, lad," Jeremy winked.
[+3 Dribbling]
[+1 Ego]
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Middlesbrough pushed higher, desperate. Jeremy smelled blood. The system timer blinked: 4:32 remaining. He wasn't wasting it.
He picked up the ball near the halfway line, spun past one, and let it run past his body. A roulette. A flick-up over the defender's head. The crowd roared now, louder than a youth match had any right to be.
Volley—straight into the bottom corner.
GOAL. Hat-trick.
Arms out wide this time, striding towards the stands, soaking it in. "I'm him, mate!" he yelled, grinning.
Teammates mobbed him again, but some were muttering. Gibbs shook his head. "Unreal, but you gotta pass sometimes, Lynch."
"Score three in ten minutes, and you tell me that, lad," Jeremy shot back.
Wenger? Still motionless. But this time, just barely, an eyebrow twitched.
[+5 Shooting]
[+2 Instinct]
[+2 Ego]
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The Ronaldinho boost faded. His body still felt good, but the magic touch dulled. Jeremy checked his system quietly:
[Stats]
Shooting: 75
Dribbling: 77
Technique: 70
Passing: 58
Defence: 42
Instinct: 63
Ego: 79
Respectable. Still nowhere near where he wanted, but better.
Middlesbrough clawed one back. Jeremy barely tracked back. "Not my job, mate," he muttered when the coach barked at him. The system dinged:
Reminder: Egoists score. They don't cover.]
Wilshere gave him a shove. "Oi, we're a team, bruv,"
Jeremy smirked. "And I'm the one winning us the match. Remember that."
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Full Time
Final whistle. Arsenal 3–1 Middlesbrough. Jeremy's hat-trick is the difference. The crowd chattered on the way out, voices trailing:
"Kid's something else."
"Cocky, though."
"Wenger was watching, wasn't he?"
Back in the tunnel, sweat dripping, Jeremy collapsed onto a bench. System numbers still flickered faintly in his vision.
The voice came—cold, sharp, commanding. Jinpachi Ego.
"That's a taste, Lynch. Three goals. Ten minutes of brilliance. But you relied on borrowed power. You need your own. Be more selfish. More ruthless. On and off the pitch. Only egoists survive."
Jeremy grinned, wiping his face with his shirt. "I hear you, mate. This is just the start."
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