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Chapter 1 — Ding in the Head
Hale End, London – Summer 2003
Two long whistles sliced through the warm air. "Peeep—! Peeep—!"
The trialists stopped, boots scuffing the grass, bodies dripping sweat. Some bent over gasping, others tried to stand tall, pretending they weren't exhausted. Everyone here was fighting for survival — one chance to impress Arsenal.
Jeremy Lynch wiped his forehead with his sleeve. His chest was heaving, but it wasn't just from the running. His head was pounding, like someone had shoved a bass speaker inside his skull.
Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of the dugout.
He froze. His reflection stared back — younger. His jawline wasn't sharp anymore. His skin looked smooth, no beard, no stubble. His arms… really skinny. His legs… were a little bit smaller. He looked down at his boots: battered Adidas Predators. Not the flashy customs he rocked in 2025, but the exact pair he wore when he was a teenager.
Jeremy's stomach dropped. "What the…?" His voice cracked higher than he expected. "Nah… nah, no way."
It wasn't possible. He remembered 2025. Filming YouTube freestyles. Arguments with kids online calling him a fraud. The weight of being "the guy who never made it." That was yesterday. Now? He was fifteen. Back at Hale End. The very pitch where his dreams went to shit.
His breath came quicker. "This is… this is mad. This can't be real."
DING!
Jeremy staggered, clutching his head. A metallic echo rang in his skull. Then a voice — cold, commanding, sharp as broken glass.
> [Egoist System Activated.]
[Protocol: Ego Jinpachi Online.]
"What the f—" Jeremy's words caught in his throat. The other lads were jogging back into position, none of them hearing what he had just heard.
The voice boomed again, dripping with disdain:
> "Wake up, diamond in the rough. You've been handed a second chance. Don't waste it. Football isn't about teamwork. It's about domination. Out there, they are not teammates. They are meat. You eat — or you're eaten."
Jeremy blinked rapidly. "No, no, this is nuts. I'm hearing voices. I'm losing it."
DING!
> [Mission: Win your next 1v1.]
[Reward: +1 Dribbling. Ego +5.]
Jeremy's jaw unhinged. "Bruv, I'm seeing FIFA stats in my head. Nah… nah, I've lost the plot."
But before he could even process, the ball came fizzing toward him. The sound of leather smacking a boot. "Jeremy, go on then!" one of the coaches barked from the sideline.
A defender was already closing in. Big lad. Broad shoulders. Jeremy knew that face from memory — Ciaran Clark, the Irish centre-back who would go on to play for Aston Villa. Back then, he was just another trialist, hoping to prove himself.
Clark's eyes were locked on him, confident, ready to muscle him off.
The voice in Jeremy's head growled like a drill sergeant:
> "Take him on. Don't you dare pass. Don't you dare hide. Humiliate him. Football isn't about being liked — it's about being the star. Be the star."
Jeremy's legs shook. His pulse thundered. "This is mental. This ain't real."
But his instincts kicked in. The ball rolled closer. Clark lunged. Jeremy flicked it forward with his studs, let Clark bite, then snapped it straight through his legs. A nutmeg.
Gasps exploded from the sidelines. A couple of the boys laughed, shouting "Oiiii!" Clark spun, red-faced, but Jeremy was already past him, the ball at his feet.
DING!
> [Mission Complete. Dribbling +1 → 69. Ego +5 → 90.]
"That's it. That's football. Not friendship. Not teamwork. Domination. Remember this feeling, Lynch — this is who you are. The one. The only. HIM."
Jeremy stopped dead, his chest heaving. His heart slammed against his ribs. "No way. No bloody way. This is happening. I'm fifteen. I've got… a system in my head. And it wants me to—"
His words broke into a shaky laugh. He didn't know if he was scared, or if something darker was creeping in.
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