The air in Tokyo didn't just feel different; it tasted different.
It was crisp, chemically sterile, and carried a faint, metallic scent of exhaust fumes mixed with the dying leaves of late autumn. To Rio, whose lungs were acclimated to the humid, heavy soup of Jakarta's pollution, every breath felt like inhaling crushed ice. It stung his throat and chilled his already fragile blood.
He stood at the imposing gates of the Tokyo Verdy Training Complex in Inagi.
Back home, training grounds were patches of grass fighting a losing war against mud, weeds, and the tropical sun. Here, the facility looked more like a Silicon Valley tech campus than a sports center.
Pristine hybrid-grass pitches stretched out like emerald carpets, trimmed to the millimeter. High-tech gymnasiums with floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooked the valley. Analysis drones buzzed overhead like giant, mechanical mosquitoes, their red camera eyes blinking as they recorded every movement on the field.
"Don't gawk like a tourist," Specter grumbled.
The ghost was floating beside Rio, wrapped in a spectral scarf that billowed in a wind Rio couldn't feel. Specter looked annoyed, tapping ash from his cigar onto the immaculate Japanese pavement.
"Act like you belong here, kid. This place is a shark tank. Predatory animals can smell fear. If you look weak, they'll eat you before you even lace up your boots."
Rio adjusted his backpack strap, his knuckles turning white. He felt small. He felt out of place. He was the only one wearing a worn-out, thrift-store jacket among the sea of sleek, branded windbreakers entering the complex.
"I'm not scared," Rio lied, his breath misting in the cold air. "I'm just... freezing."
He walked to the reception. The silence of the place was unnerving. No shouting, no music—just the rhythmic, disciplined thud of balls being kicked in the distance.
A stern-looking Japanese coach was waiting for him by the turnstiles. He held a tablet with the precision of a weapon. He looked at Rio and barked something in sharp, rapid-fire Japanese.
"Omae ga Rio Barudesu ka? Okureteru zo."
Rio froze. The language hit him like a wall. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"He said: 'Are you Rio Valdes? You are late,'" Specter translated instantly, whispering directly into Rio's auditory cortex.
Rio blinked, checking the cheap digital watch on his wrist. "Late? But the trial invitation said 10:00 AM. It's only 9:45."
The coach narrowed his eyes at Rio's confusion. He tapped his watch aggressively.
"Nihon de wa, jugofun mae kudo ga atarimae da!"
"Translation: 'In Japan, if you are not fifteen minutes early, you are late,'" Specter sighed. "Apologize. Bow. Deeply. Now."
Rio swallowed his pride. He bowed at the waist, mimicking what he had seen in movies. "Sumimasen."
The coach scoffed, turning on his heel. "Follow me. The U-18 team is already in session. Do not fall behind."
The Pitch
Rio changed into the generic grey trialist kit in record time, his fingers fumbling with the laces due to the cold. When he jogged onto the main field, the atmosphere shifted from sterile to suffocating.
There were about forty players on the pitch. Thirty of them wore the emerald green of Verdy. Ten of them wore the grey of trialists.
The speed of the game here was terrifying.
The U-18 players were in the middle of a Rondo (possession drill). The ball moved like a pinball in a machine—ping, ping, ping—one-touch passes, constant triangular movement, zero hesitation. There was no wasted energy. Every touch had a purpose.
Compared to the physical, chaotic, individualistic style of Indonesia, this was surgical. It was math in motion.
"Stop!"
A loud, bored voice cut through the rhythmic noise of the drill.
The movement froze instantly.
The voice belonged to a player standing in the center circle. He was tall for a Japanese midfielder, with messy, dyed-blonde hair that fell over his eyes. He wore the #10 jersey, and his posture was slouched, almost lazy.
But the way the other players looked at him—with a mix of fear and reverence—told a different story.
The blonde player glared at a sweating teammate who had just delivered a pass slightly behind him.
"Osoi," the blonde player spat.
"He said: 'Too slow,'" Specter whispered.
"Passing speed is garbage. If you pass like a turtle, I can't score. Go home if you want to play casually. You're ruining my rhythm."
The teammate—a massive defender—bowed deeply, a flush of shame coloring his neck. "Sumimasen, Hiroto-san!"
"Hiroto..." Rio whispered the name.
He looked at the player. Focus.
Suddenly, a sharp pain pricked behind Rio's eyes. His System reacted to the overwhelming aura on the field.
[PASSIVE SKILL TRIGGERED: EAGLE EYE][HIGH-LEVEL TARGET DETECTED]
A jagged red aura flared around the blonde player, visible only to Rio. It wasn't the soft blue of normal players. It was the color of a warning sign.
Name: Hiroto Nakamura Age: 17 Club: Tokyo Verdy Youth Talent Assessment:S-Rank
[OBSERVED SKILLS]
Perfect Ball Control (Rank A)
Spatial Awareness (Rank B+)
??? (Hidden Skill)
"S-Rank?" Rio gulped, the saliva tasting thick in his throat.
Back home, Kevin was considered a talent, and he was barely a C-Rank. This guy... this guy was a monster. A prodigy who belonged in Europe, not a youth academy.
Even Specter floated closer, taking the cigar out of his mouth to stare.
"That kid," Specter muttered, his ghostly eyes narrowing. "His balance... his center of gravity... he reminds me of Hidetoshi Nakata in his prime. But arrogant. Be careful, Rio. He's dangerous."
The strict coach blew his whistle, shattering the tension.
"Scrimmage! Team A (Starters) versus Team B (Trialists and Reserves)! 15 minutes! Show me you deserve to breathe my air!"
Rio was shoved into Team B. He didn't know anyone's name. They didn't look at him. To them, he was just another Gaijin (foreigner) destined to be cut.
Rio jogged to the wing. His legs felt heavy. The jet lag was kicking in, and his heart—the bypass engine—was humming ominously.
The game restarted. Tweet!
Immediately, Rio felt like he was drowning.
He tried to find space, but the Japanese defenders were disciplined machines. They didn't lunge blindly like Kevin had; they maintained a perfect defensive grid, cutting off passing lanes before Rio could even think about running into them.
Rio's lungs burned from the dry cold. His [Flash Step] was on cooldown from the warm-up, and his F-Rank physical stats meant he couldn't outmuscle anyone.
A pass whizzed by his ear. He tried to control it, but a defender stepped in front of him, stealing the ball with surgical precision.
"Gaijin is slow," a defender muttered in Japanese. "Why did they invite him?"
Rio clenched his fists. I can't get the ball. They are suffocating me. I'm going to fail the trial before I even touch the leather.
"Use it," Specter whispered, drifting right beside Rio's head, his voice cutting through the panic. "Stop trying to play their game. You can't beat them at organization. Change the perspective. Use the ticket skill."
Rio took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a micro-second, shutting out the noise, the cold, and the judgment.
Eagle Eye.
[ACTIVATE: EAGLE EYE][DURATION: 10 SECONDS]
ZING!
The sensation was instantaneous and disorienting.
Suddenly, Rio wasn't just looking at the players around him from eye level. His perspective violently "lifted" into the air.
In his mind's eye, the stadium roof vanished. He saw the pitch from a top-down view, like a tactical board or a drone feed. Everything turned into a grid of data.
The players weren't people anymore; they were dots. Red dots (Team A). Yellow dots (Team B).
And on the green grass, glowing lines of light appeared—passing lanes and geometric angles that were invisible from the ground.
I see it.
Hiroto (Team A) was pressing high, arrogant and lazy, leaving a tiny pocket of space behind the defensive midfielder—a blind spot in the formation.
Rio dropped deep into his own half. "Here!"
His teammate, a desperate trialist goalkeeper, threw him the ball.
Normally, Rio would turn and run, trying to carry the ball. But the Eagle Eye showed him a red danger zone closing in—two defenders were rushing him from his blind side. If he took a touch, he would be crushed.
Don't hold it. One touch.
From the sky, he saw a yellow dot—a winger named Kenji—making a run on the far right. From the ground, Kenji looked blocked by a defender. But from the sky... the angle was open.
Rio didn't look. He didn't need to.
As the ball arrived, Rio spun his body. Instead of controlling it, he chopped down on the ball with his heel.
Crack.
A No-Look Backheel Pass.
The ball sliced through the defense, spinning violently across the grass. It threaded the needle between two rushing defenders who looked confused, landing perfectly in the path of the winger forty meters away.
"What?" Hiroto stopped running, his bored eyes widening slightly.
The winger took the ball in stride, one-on-one with the keeper. He didn't miss.
GOAL.Team B [1] - [0] Team A
The coach stopped scribbling. Silence fell over the pitch.
Rio deactivated the skill.
Gasp.
The breath left his body. The 10-second duration ended, and reality snapped back into place. A sharp migraine stabbed his brain—the side effect of processing so much visual data at once. He grabbed his knees, panting, seeing spots.
"Oi."
A shadow fell over him.
Rio looked up.
Hiroto Nakamura was standing in front of him. Up close, his aura was suffocating. He smelled of expensive cologne and sweat. He wasn't looking at the goal scorer. He was looking at Rio.
"That pass," Hiroto said.
To Rio's surprise, Hiroto spoke in English. It was fluent, though tinged with a bored accent.
"You didn't look. You didn't check your shoulder. You didn't scan the field. How did you know he was there?"
Rio straightened up, hiding his trembling hands behind his back. He forced a smirk, trying to look confident despite his pounding heart.
"Instinct."
Hiroto stared at him for a long, intense second. His dark eyes seemed to be dissecting Rio, searching for the trick. Searching for the lie.
Then, he laughed.
It wasn't a friendly laugh. It was cold, competitive, and terrifying.
"Instinct, huh? Interesting."
Hiroto stepped closer, invading Rio's personal space until they were chest to chest.
"But instincts don't work against me. You just woke me up, Gaijin."
Hiroto pointed a finger at Rio's chest.
"I'm going to crush you now. Let's see if your instinct can save you from humiliation."
Suddenly, the red text of the System exploded into Rio's vision, overriding everything else.
[SYSTEM ALERT][NEW RIVALRY DETECTED]
[SUDDEN QUEST: SURVIVE THE ONSLAUGHT]Objective: Do not let Hiroto score a goal or assist in the next 10 minutes. Reward: +3 Days Lifespan. Penalty for Failure:-5 Days Lifespan.
Rio stared at the notification. His blood ran cold.
"Penalty for conceding a goal?" he whispered, horrified. "Are you kidding me? If he scores, I lose five days of my life?"
Specter laughed maniacally, floating above Hiroto's head like a dark omen.
"Welcome to the big leagues, kid. Defend with your life. Literally."
The whistle blew. Hiroto raised his hand, demanding the ball immediately.