Chapter 1: The Zero-Momentum Birthday
The morning of March 10, 2023, didn't feel like a beginning. It felt like a funeral.
Luuk van den Berg lay motionless in his bed, staring at the grey light filtering through the thin curtains of his room. At 183 centimeters, he was already too long for the mattress, his feet dangling off the edge—a metaphor, he thought, for his entire life. He was a boy who didn't quite fit anywhere.
He was fifteen today. In the Netherlands, this was the "Age of Selection." For the scouts at the big clubs, a fifteen-year-old was no longer a child with "potential"; they were a product that was either ready for the shelf or ready for the bin.
Two days ago, FC Utrecht had thrown him in the bin.
The email was still glowing on his nightstand, a digital scar. "Technical ceiling reached... mobility issues..." They didn't need to say more. The implication was clear: he was a body without a future.
He sat up, rubbing his face. His midnight black hair was a mess, and in the mirror, his silver-grey eyes looked like dull coins. He didn't feel like a "birthday boy." He felt like a ghost haunting his own life.
He walked into the kitchen, the floorboards cold against his bare feet. His father, Hendrik, was there, the smell of burnt coffee and diesel fuel clinging to his heavy work jacket. Since Luuk's mother had passed, the apartment had become a place of functional silence. They didn't do birthdays. They did survival.
"I left a loaf of bread on the counter," Hendrik said, his voice gravelly from years of shouting over the roar of the Rotterdam docks. He didn't look up from his mug. "And there's twenty euros. Get yourself a new pair of school shoes. Those ones you wear to training are falling apart."
"I'm going to the cage first," Luuk said.
Hendrik finally looked at him. His eyes were full of a weary, painful kindness. "Luuk... the Utrecht trial. Maybe it's a sign. You've got my frame. You're built for the docks, for the heavy lifting. There's no shame in it."
"I'm not a docker, Dad," Luuk said, his voice trembling with a sudden, sharp edge.
"None of us wanted to be," Hendrik replied softly. "Happy birthday, son."
The door clicked shut, leaving Luuk alone. He grabbed his ball—a scuffed, patched-up thing—and headed out into the biting Amsterdam wind.
He walked to the Cruyff Court, a concrete cage tucked between rows of brick apartments. He needed to feel the ball. He needed to prove the world wrong, even if it was only to himself. He began to juggle, but his body felt heavy, his movements uncoordinated.
One, two, three— the ball hit his shin and skittered away.
He retrieved the ball and gripped the cold chain-link fence. The envy burned in his chest—envy for the kids born with the natural "snap" in their muscles, the ones who moved like silk.
If I just had the talent, he thought, his knuckles turning white. If I could just work harder than anyone else without my body breaking. Give me the tools to grind, and I'll never stop.
As the thought echoed in his mind, the world suddenly glitched.
A high-pitched, crystalline chime rang in his ears, so sharp it made his teeth ache. Luuk fell to his knees, clutching his head as a flood of neon blue light drowned out the grey morning.
[Status Screen Initialized]
[User: Luuk van den Berg]
[Age: 15 | Birthday: March 10]
[Current Year: 2023]
Luuk scrambled backward, gasping. A translucent pane of glass shimmered in his vision.
[Inherited Talent Suite: Loaded]
[Source: Nagi Seishiro — 100% Synchronization]
[Source: Isagi Yoichi — LOCKED (Requirement: Vision Stat 70+)]
--- [PHYSICAL & TECHNICAL ANALYSIS] ---
[I. Physical Attributes]
Pace: 62/100 | Acceleration: 58/100 | Agility: 48/100
Stamina: 60/100 | Strength: 55/100 | Balance: 95/100 (Synced)
[II. Technical Attributes]
Ball Control: 100/100 (MAX) | Ball Feel: 100/100 (MAX)
Dribbling: 52/100 | Passing: 55/100 | Shooting: 50/100
[III. Biological Passives]
Eternal Peak: Physical decline is 100x slower than the gifted baseline.
Hyper-Recovery: Recovery protocols (stretching, nutrition, sleep) are 100x more effective when executed via Status Screen guidance.
Luuk stared at the '100/100' next to Ball Control. He didn't understand the names, but he felt a strange, magnetic pull toward the ball.
He kicked the ball against the wall—hard. It hissed back. His body reacted instantly. His right leg shot up, his foot becoming as soft as a feather cushion. The ball hit his instep and simply... stopped. Zero momentum.
"What...?"
He flicked it up. Heel, shoulder, chest, toe. It was a haunting perfection.
[Training Protocol Available: Efficiency 100%]
[Current Objective: Raise Agility and Acceleration]
Luuk didn't celebrate. He looked at the numbers. He knew that 48 Agility was his anchor. The talent gave him the touch, but his body was the cage holding it back.
"If the recovery is 100 times more effective..." Luuk whispered, "then I can break myself and rebuild by noon."
He didn't go looking for a club. He didn't go looking for help. He started the grind.
For the next four hours, Luuk turned the concrete cage into a laboratory of pain. He performed plyometric jumps—explosive, bone-jarring leaps onto the concrete ledges. He did "suicide sprints," his 183cm frame lunging into turns that made his joints burn.
When his muscles finally seized, the Screen flickered.
[Initiate Recovery Protocol: Active Stretching & Neural Flush]
Luuk followed the prompts. The Screen highlighted exactly which muscle fibers to stretch and at what angle. As he moved, he felt a cooling sensation. Five minutes of guided, precision stretching felt like an hour of professional deep-tissue work. The lactic acid didn't just fade; it was systematically flushed.
[Recovery Complete. Muscle Fatigue: 0%. Neural Readiness: 100%]
"Again," Luuk hissed.
He did it again. And again. He squeezed a week's worth of high-intensity training into one morning. By the time the clock hit noon, the Screen updated.
[Physical Stat Update]
Acceleration: 58 -> 59
Agility: 48 -> 50
A small note appeared below:
[Note: Stat difficulty increases exponentially. Progress from 50 to 60 will require 4x more effort than 40 to 50.]
Luuk stood in the center of the cage, drenched in sweat. His heart was steady, his mind sharp. He looked at his hands, then at the ball. He could feel that he was slightly faster, slightly more "snappy" in his turns. He was beginning to fit into his own 183cm frame.
He wasn't finished. He didn't want to just be "better." He wanted to be the best in history.
"One more set," he whispered to the empty cage. "One more."
He didn't see the world around him anymore. He only saw the ball, the blue lines of the Status Screen, and the long, hard road to Peak.