"Talent without working hard is nothing." — Cristiano Ronaldo
The electronic board went up.
Red: 6Green: 14
Kwame Aboagye didn't need to look at the sideline to know it was for him. The clock on the scoreboard read 50:00. Ten minutes into the second half.
It was always the same story. If he was lucky enough to start, he was hooked ten minutes after the break. If he didn't start, he sat there rotting until the final whistle.
He jogged towards the touchline, head down, eyes fixed on the muddy grass. He didn't sprint off in anger, and he didn't wave to the crowd. He just jogged. A steady, reliable, uninspiring jog.
"Too many touches, Kwame!" the academy coach, barked as Kwame crossed the white line. "Move the ball faster or don't ask for it."
Then, the tone shifted to the usual, dismissive monotone. "Good job, though. Grab a jacket."
"Thanks, coach," Kwame mumbled.
He took his seat on the bench, pulling the training jacket over his head to hide his face.
On the pitch, the substitute, a flashy winger named Toby immediately tried a step-over and lost possession. The coach applauded the intent.
Kwame stared at his blacked-out boots.
He had come so far for this?
Memories flashed in his mind. The dusty pitches in Accra, Ghana. The scout who had watched him dominate a local tournament two years ago. The promise of England. The plane ride where he felt like he was flying straight into heaven.
He remembered his sister's voice on their last call. "You are young, Kwame. Don't rush. Your time will come. God did not take you to England to fail."
But I am failing, he thought, a cold stone settling in his stomach.
He had come here to be a king. He wanted to be a god in the midfield. He wanted the world to chant his name the way they chanted for all the greats of football. He wanted to stand out, to be the player the cameras focused on, the one who made the difference.
Instead, he was a 6/10. Every match. He completed his passes, he made his tackles, but he was invisible. He was a placeholder. A ghost in a number 6 shirt.
If I don't change, the realization hit him harder than any tackle, I'm going to go back to Ghana with nothing. No contract. No glory. Just stories about how I almost made it.
The whistle blew. 1-1. Another average result for an average player.
The locker room was loud. Boys were laughing, throwing damp socks, talking about FIFA ratings and girls. Kwame showered quickly, the water running off him.
At seventeen, he stood at 5'10". He wasn't short, but he looked slight compared to the protein-shake-fueled giants in the squad. His dark mahogany skin glistened under the fluorescent lights. He kept his hair in neat twists, a style he'd had since he arrived.
"See you tomorrow, Kwame," a teammate said without looking up from his phone.
"Yeah. Tomorrow."
Kwame walked out of the complex into the cool English evening. But he didn't turn left towards the bus stop. He turned right, heading back towards the furthest training pitch—the one hidden behind the equipment shed, where the floodlights from the main pitch barely reached.
He dropped his bag. He took off his jacket.
"No more," he whispered to the empty field. "I am not going back empty-handed."
He started running.
Two Months Later.
It was 2:00 AM. Or maybe 3:00 AM. Time had ceased to have meaning.
Kwame's lungs were burning. Not the good kind of burn—the kind that tasted like copper and bile. His legs felt like they were encased in concrete.
He had been doing this every night for sixty days. He watched tape until his eyes watered. He practiced ball control against a brick wall until his feet bled in his boots.
And he lifted.
He realized that in the brutal, physical world of English football, technique wasn't enough. He needed armor. So, he attacked the weights with the same desperation he applied to his running. When the academy gym was open, he was the first one in, pushing heavy metal until his muscles screamed. Squats, deadlifts, bench press—compound movements designed to build raw power.
When the gym was closed, he used his own bodyweight. He did push-ups on the cold grass until his arms shook and failed. He did pull-ups on the crossbar of the goal until his calluses tore and bled. He treated gravity like a personal enemy, fighting it rep after rep, forcing his muscle fibers to tear and rebuild thicker, stronger, denser.
And he ate.
He didn't eat like a bird anymore. He ate with the same ferocity he trained with. Massive portions of rice, beans, chicken, pasta—anything to fuel the engine and repair the damage he was doing to his body.
He had even taken a pair of clippers to his own head, shearing off his neat twists into a severe, military-grade buzz cut. Vanity was a distraction. He didn't need to look good; he needed to be effective.
The physical transformation was startling. The wiry, fragile boy was gone. In his place was something denser, harder. His shoulders had broadened, filling out his training top. Under the dim light, the muscles in his calves and thighs didn't look like thin cords anymore, they looked thick and powerful from the sheer volume of work and the calorie surplus.
He didn't look like a runner anymore. He looked built for collision.
"Again," he wheezed.
He turned at the goal line and pushed off for another suicide sprint.
Move. Just move.
He took three steps, and then his body simply quit. His legs folded underneath him, and he crashed face-first into the dew-soaked grass.
He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled and collapsed. He was paralyzed by exhaustion. He lay there, cheek pressed against the cold dirt, staring sideways at the darkness.
Is this it? he thought, a tear leaking from his eye. I'm going to die of a heart attack on a training pitch, and I never even played a full 90 minutes.
The darkness seemed to thicken around him. The hum of the distant motorway faded into silence. The cold air grew still.
Then, a light.
It wasn't a floodlight flickering on. It was a soft, golden glow, hovering directly above him. It felt warm, like standing in the sun.
Kwame blinked, trying to clear the hallucination. "Am I... dead?"
"Not yet," a voice echoed. It didn't come from the light; it came from inside his own mind.
The glow descended, taking a vague, humanoid shape. It had no face, just pure, radiating energy.
"Tell me, child," the voice resonated, vibrating in Kwame's bones. "What is it that you desire? You destroy your body. You sacrifice your sleep. You bleed in the dark where no one can see you. Why?"
Kwame tried to speak, but his throat was dry. He swallowed hard. "I want... to be a god."
He squeezed his eyes shut, the shame of his mediocrity welling up. "I came here to be the best. To be like Rashford. To be like Mbappé. I don't want to be invisible anymore."
Silence stretched for what felt like an eternity.
Then, the presence laughed. It wasn't one of mocking, but a sound of pure amusement.
"Ambition," the voice said. "A common wish. But wishes are cheap. Everyone wishes to be a king. Few are willing to bleed for the crown."
The warmth intensified. Kwame felt the pain in his legs receding, replaced by a strange, soothing energy.
"I have watched this world for a long time," the entity continued. "Talent is distributed unfairly. Luck is capricious. But effort... effort is the only currency that never devalues."
The light began to fade, drifting upwards.
"Wait!" Kwame croaked, finding his voice. "Wait… what are you?"
The entity paused. The voice turned solemn, carrying the weight of a judge delivering a verdict.
"Kwame Aboagye, at this precise second, out of seven billion people on this planet... you are the hardest working human being in the world."
"And the universe owes you one. Make your dream come true."
FLASH.
A blinding white light exploded in Kwame's vision.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]