Griffin Park Stadium – England
89:42 minutes
Score: Brentshire Rovers 1 - 1 Southport United
Danein Blake ran like the world was crumbling behind him.
His boots dug deep into the churned-up turf, flinging clumps of wet earth in his wake. Rain misted down in fine sheets, glinting under the floodlights like falling dust. His lungs burned. His thighs screamed. But none of that mattered now.
Because the ball was rolling free, just ahead.
And this—this—was the moment.
"Blake receives it from Gibbs… oh, is he going to—?! This could be the winner!!"
The voice crackled from the local radio booth, barely audible over the roar of the small but feverish crowd. Every seat in the old ground seemed to lean forward. The Brentshire faithful—hard men, long memories—held their breath.
Danein didn't hear the noise.
He heard the silence beneath it.
The silence of could've-beens. Of twenty thousand small regrets folded into a single run. He wasn't thinking about his stats. Or his contract. Or how the scouts had stopped calling two years ago. No, Danein Blake was chasing something deeper—one last crack at meaning.
One last sprint before the lights went out.
His vision narrowed. Defender closing in on his right. Teammate shouting on the left—"Pass it, Blake!"—but his ears filtered it out. This goal wasn't for anyone else. It was his.
Just a step. A touch. One feint to send the defender the wrong way—
And then: BOOM!!.
A knee, brutal, cracked into his ribs. His boots left the ground. The cold air punched into his lungs as his body twisted sideways in the air like a puppet with its strings slashed.
"Agh—!"
All he saw was grey sky. The blur of a black boot. Then the grass came up fast.
CRACK!.
His head bounced off the turf. Then everything stopped.
No pain. No noise.
The referee waved play on. The crowd erupted in disbelief.
"What?! That's a foul!"
"He's not moving! Someone get the medic!!"
But Danein Blake didn't hear them.
Only the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat remained—slow, fading. His breath was gone.
Then came the whisper.
Not a voice he knew. Not the coach, not the physio, not the shouting crowd. It was something else. Cold.
[Checkpoint loaded…]
[Player Insight system standing by…]
[Last moment recorded complete.]
What is this?
His thoughts came in flashes. Faint. Is… that my voice? I can't move… can't see…
His life wasn't flashing before his eyes. Just one moment. One goal he never got to score.
Then a new sound—a whistle.
But it wasn't the sharp end-of-match kind. No—the tone was lighter. Cleaner. Like something starting.
[Sync successful…]
[System activated…]
[Current user: Leon Fischer | Age: 10]
[Location: Athlion Academy – North Training Ground]
Suddenly—
Light.
Sunlight, not floodlights. A bright sky stretched overhead, white clouds smeared across an endless blue. The smell of mud was still there, but it was dry. Fresh. The wind was warmer, teasing the edge of a summer breeze.
And his body—he sat up without pain. No ache. No weight on his chest. His hands were small. His legs thin.
He blinked. Looked down.
Boots far too clean. A jersey far too new.
Then, the name.
FISCHER
Printed bold across the back.
"What the hell...?"
His voice cracked.
Not his voice.
Higher. Lighter. A kid's voice.
Then came the shout.
"Leon! What are you waiting for? Get back in! Time waits for no one!"
The coach's voice was clipped, exasperated, with the gravel of a man used to yelling over storm winds and teenage egos. But the command jolted him into motion. He stumbled to his feet, instinctively.
Leon?
Who was that?
Before he could process it, something else caught his eye—floating, digital numbers shimmering above the heads of players across the pitch.
Isaac Doyle – Lv. 41 | Potential: 89
Rafael Costa – Lv. 39 | Potential: 94
Coach Holloway – Lv. 62 | Potential: ??
The world didn't feel real. It felt like a game.
But it was real. He could feel the breeze. Hear the ball being pinged around. The thud of a crossbar. The shrill laughter of a kid who just nutmegged someone. He turned to the side, toward a tall metal equipment locker with a scratched-up mirror.
And saw himself.
A boy.
Blue eyes. Blond hair, wild. Freckles.
He raised his hand. The boy in the mirror did too.
[Level: 37 | Potential: 92]
[Welcome back…]
[This time, you won't be forgotten.]