The day came wrapped in silence.
No crowd.
No chants.
Just the hum of wind brushing the academy's pristine pitch and the faint squeak of boots on grass.
This wasn't yesterday's noise-filled spectacle — this was business.
The real trial.
Fifteen boys stood on one side of the field, all wearing neutral white kits.
Fifteen on the other, in black.
We weren't teammates today — we were competitors.
A handful of men in suits stood near the touchline.
I recognized one of them immediately — the Lagos Academy director himself. But the others? Their presence was quieter… heavier. A few whispers said one was from the NFF youth scouting division. Another rumor floated around that an English scout from Arsenal's satellite program might be in attendance.
My pulse jumped when I heard that.
Arsenal.
My dream.
My reason.
---
Pre-Match
We were split into two squads.
I was in white, playing attacking midfielder again — my natural spot, my sanctuary.
Coach Bello gathered us near the center circle.
> "This is it, boys," he said, eyes sweeping across us. "No second chances. The closed trials decide everything. Play smart. Play together. And most of all — play like you belong here."
Then his gaze landed on me for a moment longer than the others.
A silent message.
I understood it clearly.
This was my chance to prove I wasn't just a lucky trialist — I was the real deal.
The whistle blew.
---
Kickoff
The first five minutes felt like a blur.
No one wanted to make the first mistake.
The midfield was a war zone — tackles, interceptions, bodies colliding.
Every touch had to be perfect.
I stayed central, hovering between the lines, scanning constantly. The System flickered faintly in my vision — a translucent overlay that marked my teammates' positions like faint blue silhouettes.
> ⚙️ Tactical Awareness Map: Active
I used it sparingly. Too much reliance, and I'd lose focus.
Black team pressed high. Their captain, a stocky midfielder named Damilola, barked orders like a general.
> "Press him! Don't give that Benin boy space!"
So they already knew me.
Good.
The ball came to my feet — crisp pass from Tobi, who'd made it into the same side.
I turned sharply, shielding against Damilola's shoulder.
He was strong, but I was quicker.
A faint touch. A spin.
Gone.
I drove forward.
Musa was already making a run on the right.
Two defenders tracked him, opening a gap through the center.
I slipped a through ball — curved, precise, timed to perfection.
Kelvin burst in, one touch, and fired.
The keeper saved it — barely — tipping it over the bar.
> "Unlucky!" someone shouted.
The assistant coaches were scribbling notes furiously.
My heart hammered. That was the first real chance of the game, and it came from me.
---
Tension Rising
The next twenty minutes were brutal.
The heat rose, sweat pouring into my eyes, lungs burning.
Every duel felt like it could decide my future.
The black team started targeting me — two men pressing, one shadowing me even off the ball.
I could hear them whispering.
> "Don't give him time, he's their playmaker."
Good. That meant I was doing something right.
Still, frustration crept in. My passes were getting blocked. My runs intercepted. Every second touch brought a shove or a tug.
Then — a crunch.
Damilola's studs raked down my ankle mid-turn.
I stumbled but didn't fall.
Pain exploded up my leg.
The ref's whistle shrieked.
> "Yellow card!"
Damilola just smirked.
> "Welcome to the academy, small boy."
I bit my tongue and limped back into position.
No way I was letting him see weakness.
Inside, though, anger burned like fire.
That's when the System shimmered again — faint but clear.
---
[SYSTEM ALERT]
> Mental Composure Challenge Triggered.
Stay focused under provocation.
Reward: +2 Mentality, +2 Concentration.
---
Challenge accepted.
I took a slow breath, forcing my heartbeat to steady.
When play resumed, I didn't retaliate — I calculated.
Every time Damilola pressed, I used his aggression against him. Quick turns. One-touch layoffs. Sudden switches.
By the 35th minute, he was chasing shadows.
The ball came from Tobi again. I drew Damilola in, faked left, then chipped a soft pass over his leg — right into Musa's path.
Musa squared it low into the box. Kelvin dummied.
I arrived late, like a ghost.
One touch. Left foot.
Bang.
Bottom corner.
> "YES!" I screamed, fists in the air.
1–0.
The white team exploded in celebration. Even Coach Bello cracked a grin.
Damilola just stared at me, chest heaving, pride wounded.
I didn't say a word. I just jogged back to midfield.
But inside? My soul was shouting.
---
Halftime
We sat under the shade of a small tent, gulping down water.
My ankle still throbbed, but I didn't care.
Coach Bello approached, lowering his clipboard.
> "Oyas."
"Sir?"
"You're showing control. Keep it. Second half — I want you dictating the rhythm. Be the brain."
I nodded.
> "Yes, sir."
As he walked away, one of the assistant coaches whispered something to the man in the suit beside him. The man — the one rumored to be the foreign scout — looked directly at me.
A chill ran down my spine.
---
Second Half
The Pressure Mounts
They came harder after the break.
Damilola switched tactics — less pressing, more traps.
They tried isolating me by cutting passing lanes, forcing me to drop deeper.
But I adjusted.
If they blocked the short routes, I'd stretch the play.
A long diagonal ball to Musa.
A chipped lob to Kelvin.
Each touch bought us time, territory, momentum.
Then, the moment.
70th minute.
We lost the ball near midfield. Black countered fast — three against two.
Tobi lunged for a tackle but missed. Their striker raced free.
I sprinted back, lungs burning.
Every instinct screamed, not here, not now.
He shot — low and hard.
I slid in just in time, deflecting it wide with my boot.
The ball ricocheted forward, and suddenly I was leading the break.
One touch, two touches — space opening.
Musa was gone again down the right. I sent the ball soaring perfectly into his stride.
He cut inside. Kelvin was screaming for it.
I made my run.
Musa faked a pass to Kelvin — then squared it back to me instead.
One step.
Curl.
Top corner.
2–0.
The whistle blew for full time moments later.
We'd won.
But more importantly — I had led.
---
The players were dismissed to the sidelines as the coaches gathered their notes. My body felt like it had been through a furnace, but my spirit? It was flying.
As we were lining up, the academy director stepped forward, microphone in hand.
> "Good work today, boys. Some of you have shown great promise."
He paused, scanning us slowly.
> "And some… have shown something more."
Then his gaze locked onto me.
> "Joseph Oyas. Step forward."
Every heartbeat thundered in my chest.
I stepped out of the line.
> "Your performance in these trials has caught attention beyond our academy," he continued. "You've been recommended to join the Lagos National Youth Elite Team — effective immediately."
Gasps rippled through the players.
I froze.
The Elite Team. That was the feeder side for international youth tournaments.
My vision blurred for a second — not from the System this time, but from raw disbelief.
Coach Bello clapped my shoulder.
> "You earned it, boy."
The man in the suit approached — the rumored Arsenal representative. He didn't say anything, just offered me a firm handshake and a small card.
> "Keep working," he said quietly, his accent unmistakably British. "Talent's one thing. Mindset's another. Don't lose either."
Then he walked away.
---
[SYSTEM UPDATE]
> ⚙️ Quest Completed: "Prove You Belong"
Rewards:
+3 Passing
+3 Vision
+2 Leadership
🎖️ New Quest Unlocked:
"National Dreams" – Represent your academy at the Elite Youth Tournament.
---
I stood there in the middle of the pitch as the sun began to set over Lagos.
The wind carried faint echoes of the crowd that once roared my name yesterday.
But this… this silence?
It was louder.
Heavier.
Real.
Because today, I wasn't just a kid from Benin City chasing a dream.
Today — I had taken my first step into the world of professionals.
And somewhere deep in my chest, a voice whispered softly:
> "From the streets… to the stars."