Morning came too early.
The dorm alarm went off at 4:45 a.m., blaring like a siren. My whole body ached from yesterday's drills. My calves burned, my back felt like wood. But the second I heard the whistle outside, my instincts kicked in. Lagos didn't wait for anyone.
"Joseph, move now!" someone yelled. It was Kunle's voice.
I rolled off the bunk, half-asleep, pulling on my training jersey. The floor was cold beneath my feet. A few boys were already gone. Others scrambled, groaning and cursing under their breath.
Outside, the pitch looked like a dream caught between night and dawn — fog rising, dew sparkling on the grass, floodlights humming softly. The smell of wet soil mixed with sweat and ambition.
Coach Ibrahim's voice cut through it all.
"Five laps around the field. Then shuttle runs. Go!"
We ran. And we ran.
By the second lap, the Lagos boys were already pulling away. By the fourth, my lungs were begging for mercy. By the fifth, I stopped hearing anything except the pounding of my heartbeat.
But quitting wasn't an option.
Not here. Not now.
> "Keep moving," the System's voice urged.
"You don't stop until your spirit stops."
I clenched my teeth. "Then I'm not stopping."
---
After laps came cone drills, passing, press resistance — endless repetition. Sweat drenched my jersey. My body screamed for rest, but the coaches never said "rest." They said, "Next."
The academy's motto was painted on a board near the gate:
> "Talent brings you in. Discipline keeps you here."
I repeated those words every time my legs trembled.
During shooting drills, Kunle stepped up first — smooth, confident.
Top corner.
Again.
Again.
When my turn came, I missed the first shot wide. My second was decent, but my third barely lifted off the ground. Laughter echoed from behind.
"Village boy still learning!" someone joked.
I didn't look back. I just took another shot. And another. Until one found the back of the net. The sound — thwack! — silenced them for a second. That one sound kept me alive through the rest of training.
> "Accuracy +1. Mental Fortitude +2."
I smiled weakly. Even the smallest progress mattered.
---
By evening, exhaustion sat heavy on my bones. The dorm buzzed with noise — some boys playing FIFA on a console, others teasing or bragging about who'd impressed the coaches. I sat quietly at my bunk, scrolling through the old messages on my phone.
Mum had sent one that morning:
> "Remember, my son. God go bless your leg. Play with heart."
I stared at the screen until my vision blurred.
Ayo hadn't texted since I left Benin. Probably busy, or maybe just giving me space. Still, I missed him.
Kunle walked by, towel draped over his shoulder. He glanced at my phone. "Missing home?"
"Yeah," I admitted.
He nodded slowly. "We all do, at first."
I looked up, surprised. It was the first time he'd spoken without sarcasm.
"You played well today," he said. "Don't listen when they mock you. Everyone gets tested here."
"Even you?"
He chuckled. "Especially me." Then he walked away.
For the first time, I saw him not as a rival, but as someone who'd fought the same battle I was fighting now.
> "Allies are forged in struggle," the System whispered.
I smiled faintly. "Then I guess we're getting there."
---
MIDWEEK
By Wednesday, the drills became harder. The coaches started pairing us up for one-on-one tests — dribbling, defending, quick passing.
Coach shouted across the pitch, "Joseph and Kunle! Let's see what you've got."
The boys whistled. I swallowed hard.
The whistle blew.
Kunle came at me fast, ball glued to his feet. I moved to block him. He feinted right, then left, lightning quick. I almost lost balance, but somehow recovered, stretching a toe and tapping the ball away.
Cheers erupted.
Before I could breathe, the coach barked, "Switch!"
Now it was my turn.
Kunle pressed hard. I spun, shielded, then cut back. My legs moved like they had minds of their own. I saw an opening and darted forward — one fake, two steps, and a sudden burst past him.
I crossed the finish cone before he could react.
"Good!" Coach shouted. "That's what I want to see!"
Kunle grinned at me. "Not bad, Benin boy."
> "Skill: Close Control +1. Agility +1. Rivalry Meter Updated — Respect Achieved."
I couldn't help but laugh quietly. "Respect achieved," I repeated under my breath.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep. My muscles twitched with pain. My mind was racing. I slipped out quietly and walked to the pitch. The floodlights were off, but the moonlight gave everything a silver hue.
I sat at the center circle, knees up, staring at the stars.
"Do you really think I can do this?" I asked the night sky.
> "You're already doing it."
The voice was warm now — not robotic, not distant. Almost… human.
> "Every day you wake, train, and refuse to quit — you rewrite who you are. One touch at a time."
I closed my eyes, letting the words sink in.
"Then I'll keep writing," I whispered. "Until the world reads my name."
The wind carried my voice away, as if promising to deliver it to the future.
---
Friday's match was different. The academy divided us into two full teams. Scouts were watching from the sidelines — not professional ones, but internal evaluators who decided who'd stay or go after the first month.
Coach called my name for the B team. Kunle was on A.
We lined up. My hands were shaking.
> "Nerves mean you care," the System reminded me. "Turn them into energy."
I nodded, breathing deep.
The whistle blew.
The first few minutes were chaos — tackles flying, passes snapping through the air. Lagos football wasn't just skill; it was war.
I touched the ball once, twice — then lost it to a defender. The sting of failure burned in my chest.
"Focus!" Coach yelled.
I exhaled slowly. The next time the ball came, I didn't rush. I let it come to me, rolled it past the defender, and sent a through pass that split the defense in half. Our striker finished.
"Goal!"
Cheers erupted.
Confidence surged like a heartbeat. My vision sharpened. Every sound — the thud of boots, the call for passes — blended into rhythm. I was in the zone.
By the end, we lost 3–2, but I'd assisted both our goals. When the whistle ended, I was drenched, breathless, and smiling.
Coach approached me after. "You're improving faster than expected. Keep that up."
"Yes, sir."
> "Quest Progress: Survive the First Week — 80% Complete."
---
Saturday morning felt different — lighter. The academy gave us half a day off. Some boys went into the city; others stayed in to rest. I called Mum.
Her voice was full of pride. "My Joseph, how's Lagos?"
"Tough," I said, laughing softly. "But I'm learning."
"Good. Remember — no matter how far ball carry you, don't forget to pray."
"I won't, ma."
After the call, I just sat there smiling.
Later, Kunle joined me outside with a bottle of water. "You survived the first week," he said.
"Barely."
He chuckled. "That's how it starts. By the end of the month, you'll either be stronger or gone."
"Then I'll be stronger."
He looked at me, then nodded. "I believe you."
> "Quest Complete: Survive the First Week."
Reward: +3 Stamina, +1 Confidence, +1 Leadership.
The screen faded from my mind, but the feeling stayed — a warmth spreading through my chest.
Maybe this was what growth felt like — invisible, but undeniable.
---
SUNDAY NIGHT
As the sun sank behind the buildings, the academy glowed orange. Boys played casual pickup games, laughter echoing across the field. I watched from the sidelines, ball resting between my feet.
One week down.
A thousand to go.
> "Every legend starts with a single week they refuse to quit."
I smiled. "Then this is mine."
The wind shifted, carrying the sound of the city — horns, voices, the distant call of life beyond the gates. Lagos felt less intimidating now. It felt like a promise.
I placed my hand over my heart and whispered, "For Benin. For Mum. For me."
And deep inside, I heard the System's calm response:
> "For greatness."