The moment Coach walked away and the system notification faded into the air, I couldn't move.
My boots were planted in the grass, heart thundering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The academy field had gone quiet around me—players heading to the showers, balls being collected, cones being stacked—but I stood frozen, staring at the phantom-blue text that had disappeared a moment ago.
New Quest Activated: "Prove Dominance – Tactical Identity."
Prove dominance?
In this academy?
Against players who had been groomed, polished, trained, fed, and raised in professional settings while I was juggling football with fetching water and beating NEPA outages just to practice?
I exhaled slowly.
"Joseph! You dey stand like scarecrow, come commot from field!" one of the keepers joked as he passed.
I smiled weakly, forcing my legs to move, but my mind stayed locked inside the System's silent room.
This wasn't like the previous quests.
This one wasn't about raw improvement.
It wasn't a drill or a test.
It was a statement.
A challenge to everything and everyone around me.
A demand.
Develop a signature tactical identity. Show clear separation from your peers. Lead without being told. Influence the shape of the pitch.
It sounded like a job description written for a star.
But I wasn't one. Not yet.
I walked off the pitch, boots sinking into the grass, sweat drying cold on my back as dusk swept in over the academy. The campus lights flicked on one by one—soft yellow halos glowing against the deepening night.
Chinedu jogged over to me from behind. "Guy, why you dey walk like you owe EFCC money? You no see say training don finish?"
I snorted. "System matter."
He blinked. "Again?"
"Again."
He whistled low. "Tell me later. If I no run go shower now, my whole body go smell like dead fish."
He sprinted off, but his words barely registered.
There was a hum inside me—like an engine starting. A vibration under my skin. A sense that something was shifting, and I wasn't ready for it.
I pushed open the door to the locker room.
Instant noise.
Laughter. Teasing. Water splashing. The metallic clatter of lockers slamming. The air smelled of sweat, detergent, and eucalyptus from someone's spray. Conversations overlapped like chaotic music.
"Darius, your pass today be like traffic light—e no dey move!"
"Shut up joor, your own dribbling be like goat wey no chop since yesterday!"
I barely listened, moving to my locker.
My head was buzzing—thoughts overlapping like tangled wires.
System quests never came without reason.
The timing was intentional.
The academy was entering a competitive cycle soon: internal ranking matches, director evaluations, scout visits.
And me?
A boy from Benin with worn-out boots and a system interface that felt too powerful for someone like me?
I inhaled and licked my lips.
Tactical identity.
It sounded simple on paper.
But what did it mean?
A way of playing that defined you.
A style the team felt when you stepped on the ball.
A rhythm, a signature, a presence.
Something that turned heads.
Something that forced opponents to adapt.
For an attacking midfielder like me…
It was everything.
I showered quickly, swallowing back the building dread. Warm water washed away the dirt, but not the pressure. When I finally stepped out into the corridor, night had already drowned the sky. A cool wind cut through the silence outside, carrying the smell of wet earth and trimmed grass.
I walked slowly across the campus back to the dormitory villa. My mind replayed the simulation battle with Darius, the way he'd scowled after losing the final duel. The way Coach Daniel watched me differently now—not as a newcomer, but as a variable, something unpredictable.
Something dangerous.
I entered the dorm hall and climbed the stairs to the second floor where the youth squad slept. Chinedu was sprawled on his bed already, towel wrapped around his waist, rubbing cream into his legs like a man prepping for surgery.
"Guy, abeg no vex—explain wetin that system throw give you," he said without looking up.
I fell onto my bed with a heavy sigh.
"A quest."
"Another one?"
I nodded.
"What e talk?"
"That I should… prove tactical dominance."
Chinedu froze mid-rub. Then slowly turned toward me.
"Dominance?"
"Yeah."
He blinked once. Twice. "Joseph, no be small thing be that o. That one no be like, 'run ten laps' or 'do 200 passes.' That one na… na leadership quest."
I swallowed. "I guessed as much."
Chinedu scoffed. "Guy. Why your system dey behave like coach wey dey on steroids?"
I laughed despite the pressure inside me.
He leaned back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. "But… if anybody fit do am, na you."
"Why you think so?"
He shrugged casually. "Because you no dey fear ball. You no dey fear pressure. Even when you dey nervous, you dey try look like say you no dey nervous. And most importantly—you dey think pass all of us."
I looked at him, surprised.
Chinedu was many things—chaotic, intentionally unserious, constantly hungry—but he wasn't stupid. Not by a long stretch.
He pointed a finger at me. "Don't dull. You hear me? This academy fit drown person if he no get identity."
I nodded slowly.
After he went silent, I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes. The room drifted into quiet—soft snores from down the hall, someone's music playing faintly through headphones, the distant hum of the academy generator.
I drifted into thought.
What was my tactical identity?
I'd grown up watching Okocha dance on sand.
I admired Özil's passes like spells being cast.
I felt the electricity of Saka's smooth acceleration.
I studied De Bruyne like scripture.
But me?
What was Joseph Oyas?
A dribbler?
A passer?
A controller?
A creator?
The system chimed suddenly.
[System Notification: Tactical Identity Analyzer Available]
[Would you like to begin assessment?]
My heart skipped.
I hesitated. "Yes."
The world around me blurred—silent, then still.
I was transported into the System's tactical chamber.
It wasn't like the usual training simulation.
This one was… elegant.
Dark space stretched infinitely, illuminated only by glowing geometry—circles, grids, shifting lines. It looked like the inside of a giant tactical board.
A voice echoed—not robotic, but neutral and deep.
"Analyzing host's natural instincts…"
A ghostly version of me appeared on the pitch. Then opponents—faceless players—spawned around him.
"Scanning decisions from previous matches…"
Scenes played.
My first academy trial.
The Lagos friendly.
Training drills.
The duel with Darius.
Every movement I made was highlighted—bright white for brilliance, dull gray for passivity, red for mistakes.
"Processing host's preferred tendencies…"
Stat lines appeared in the air like floating equations.
• tendency to drift right
• preferred double-touch acceleration
• early release passing lane detection
• late-entry box infiltration
• high spatial awareness
• instinctive diagonal attacking patterns
Then more:
• moderate risk appetite
• irregular dribbling rhythm
• unpredictable tempo variance
• strong neural map adaptation
My chest tightened.
The screen shifted, and the System posed a question:
"Would host like to view recommended tactical identities?"
"Yes," I whispered.
Four glowing pathways materialized before me.
---
1. The Orchestrator
A cerebral playmaker.
Control tempo.
Dictate flow.
Become the heartbeat of the team.
---
2. The Shadow Linebreaker
Silent movement.
Arrive where defenders don't expect.
Destroy structure from within.
---
3. The Chaos Conductor
Unpredictability weaponized.
Change rhythm.
Create instability.
Break systems.
---
4. The Precision Striker-Creator Hybrid
Shoot.
Create.
Directly influence scorelines.
A finisher disguised as a midfielder.
---
Each one glowed differently, humming with potential.
My breath hitched.
The System spoke again:
"Host must choose an identity pathway. This will shape long-term development."
My spine prickled.
This wasn't a temporary buff.
This wasn't a skill-tree adjustment.
This was a declaration of who Joseph Oyas would become.
I stared at the glowing options as if my entire future lay inside them.
Maybe it did.
I stepped forward—but before I reached the choices, the System said:
"Warning: Failure to develop tactical identity within 30 days will result in loss of potential rank."
My stomach tightened. "What?!"
"Clock starts when host exits this chamber."
Thirty days?
Thirty?!
That wasn't a grace period.
That was a countdown.
"No pressure at all," I muttered.
My pulse hammered.
I looked again at the four options.
Each one felt right.
Each one felt wrong.
Which was me?
Who was I becoming?
The System hummed like it was reading my thoughts.
"Host may continue observing. Tactical Identity Selection does not need to be immediate."
Relief washed through me like cold water.
A breath escaped my lips. "Thank God."
But the tension remained.
As the chamber began to fade, returning me to my dim dorm room, the final line of text floated before my eyes:
[Quest Timer Started: 30 Days Remaining]
[Build. Define. Dominate.]
I opened my eyes.
The night was silent.
Everyone was asleep.
But me?
I felt wide awake.
And for the first time…
Afraid.
Excited.
Determined.
All at once.
My journey wasn't just beginning anymore.
It was accelerating.