Qatar Airways Flight QR131.Business Class.30,000 Feet Above The Ocean.
Rio sat stiffly in a leather seat that cost more than his mother's entire yearly income. He stared at the glass of sparkling water on his tray table. The bubbles rose to the surface and popped, just like the seconds of his life.
[Current Lifespan: 363 Days, 14 Hours, 20 Minutes]
He had lost another day just by sitting here. Travel time consumed life. Sleeping consumed life. The System didn't pause for jet lag.
"Stop staring at the clock," Adrian Vance said without looking up from his laptop. "Stress releases cortisol. Cortisol damages muscle recovery. You are an asset now, Rio. Protect the asset."
Rio looked at the crippled genius across the aisle. Adrian was typing furiously, lines of code and football formations reflecting in his spectacles. "Where are we going exactly?" Rio asked. "You said Bologna. Is it a big club?"
Adrian stopped typing. He sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Bologna FC. Established 1909. Seven Serie A titles." Adrian paused for dramatic effect. "The last one was in 1964. Before your mother was born."
Adrian spun his laptop around to show Rio a graph. It was a red line plunging downward like a stock market crash. "We are a 'Sleeping Giant'. Or, more accurately, a Comatose Giant. We finished 12th last season. 13th the season before. We exist in the gray zone of mediocrity. Not good enough for Europe, not bad enough to be relegated."
Adrian pointed at a picture of the Head Coach on the screen. A man with gray hair and a stern, professorial face. "Marco Rossi. The Head Coach. He is a tactician from the old school. He hates risky players. He hates improvisation. He hates you."
Rio blinked. "He hates me? He hasn't even met me."
"He hates what you represent," Adrian corrected. "I forced my father—the Technical Director—to sign you against Rossi's wishes. Rossi wanted a safe, boring Italian winger. Instead, he got an unknown Indonesian kid with a history of heart murmurs." Adrian smirked, a hint of arrogance in his eyes. "And to make it worse, I put a clause in your contract. You are assigned the Number 10 jersey. Baggio's number."
Rio's eyes widened. "You did what? That's painting a target on my back."
"Exactly," Adrian closed his laptop. "Pressure creates diamonds. Or it crushes dust. I need to know which one you are before the season starts."
Bologna, Italy.Casteldebole Training Centre.10:00 AM.
The taxi dropped them off at the gates. The sun in Italy was different from Jakarta. It wasn't humid and sticky; it was a dry, baking heat that felt like standing in front of an open oven. The training complex was impressive—manicured green pitches, red brick buildings, and the emblem of Bologna FC towering over the entrance.
But the welcome was cold.
"Name?" the security guard grunted, blowing cigarette smoke through the gate bars.
"Rio Valdes," Rio said, dragging his suitcase. "New signing."
The guard squinted at Rio's plain t-shirt and worn-out sneakers. Then he looked at Adrian in the wheelchair. "Ah," the guard chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "The Director's son... and his souvenir." The gate buzzed open. "Go on. The tour group is usually later, but you are early."
Rio walked in, his jaw tight. "Souvenir." "Tourist." "Marketing Stunt." He was collecting nicknames faster than goals.
The Locker Room.
If the outside was hot, the locker room was freezing. The air conditioning was blasting. The room smelled of deep heat muscle cream, expensive cologne, and testosterone. Twenty men were in various stages of undressing. These were not the skinny kids from the U-17 selection. These were grown men. Gladiators. Thighs like tree trunks. Tattoos covering their arms. Scars on their knees.
The chatter died instantly when Rio and Adrian entered. Twenty pairs of eyes locked onto them. No one dared to stop Adrian because of who his father was, but their eyes were filled with disdain.
"Well, well," a deep voice boomed from the corner.
Lorenzo De Luca, the Club Captain, sat on the central bench like a king on his throne. 34 years old. A veteran defender with over 300 Serie A appearances. He had a face chiseled from granite and eyes that looked like they had seen everything. He was taping his ankles with slow, deliberate movements.
"The babysitter brought the baby," Lorenzo said in Italian, but the tone translated perfectly. The other players snickered.
Adrian wheeled himself forward, unfazed. "This is Rio Valdes. He takes the Number 10 shirt starting today."
"Number 10?" Lorenzo laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. "Did you hear that, boys? The kid thinks he is Roberto Baggio."
Lorenzo stood up. He towered over Rio by at least 15 centimeters. He loomed over the boy, casting a shadow. "Listen to me, Tourist," Lorenzo pointed a thick, taped finger at Rio. "The contract might give you the shirt, but I decide who wears it. You? You look like you got lost on the way to the gift shop."
Lorenzo pointed to a dark corner of the room, near the entrance to the toilets. There was no locker there. Just a rusted hook on the wall and a small wooden stool. "We don't have lockers for tourists," Lorenzo sneered. "Put your bag there. That is the 'Primavera' (Youth) spot. And don't touch our shampoo."
Rio stood his ground. He felt the familiar anger rising, the heat in his chest. He wanted to activate [The Cannon]. He wanted to kick a ball through Lorenzo's skull.
Cost: 7 Days.No, Rio told himself. Not here. Not yet.
Rio walked calmly to the wooden stool. He placed his bag down. He turned to face the room of giants. "I don't need a locker to take your place in the starting eleven," Rio said in English.
The room went deadly silent. Lorenzo's smile vanished. His face turned a shade of purple. "You have a big mouth," Lorenzo stepped closer, his chest bumping Rio. "Let's see if you can keep it open when you are eating grass."
[SYSTEM SCAN: PASSIVE][Target: Lorenzo De Luca (Captain)][Role: Center Back][Overall Rating: 79 (Serie A Veteran)][Physicality: 88][Aggression: 92][Status: HOSTILE]
Rio gulped. His own rating was 62. Lorenzo was 79. The gap in stats was massive. Without a Skill, Rio was an ant fighting a boot.
Suddenly, the door slammed open. Coach Marco Rossi walked in, holding a clipboard and a whistle. He ignored the tension. He ignored Rio completely. "On the pitch! Now!" Rossi barked. "Today is physical conditioning. If you vomit, do it off the field."
Rossi glanced at Rio for a split second. His eyes were cold, devoid of hope. "Valdes. You wear the orange bib. You are the 'Joker' in the Rondo. Try not to get killed."
Rio grabbed the orange bib. It felt like a target on his back. Usually, the Joker is protected in training. But looking at Lorenzo's eyes, Rio knew the rules wouldn't apply today.
He looked at Adrian. Adrian was parking his wheelchair by the door, his face unreadable. He gave Rio a small, almost invisible nod. Survive.
Rio stepped out onto the pitch. The grass was perfect. The Serie A training ground. But as Lorenzo jogged past him, the Captain whispered one word: "Hospital."
[SYSTEM ALERT][Mission Generated: Survive the First Session][Objective: Do not get injured by Lorenzo.][Reward: +2 Days of Lifespan][Failure Penalty: Injury (Hospitalization)]
Rio tied his laces. His hands were shaking slightly. He wasn't playing for points anymore. He was playing for survival.