Isokinetic Medical Center, Bologna.Thursday Morning. 09:00 AM.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
The MRI machine sounded like a construction site inside a coffin. Rio Valdes lay perfectly still, staring at the white plastic ceiling just inches from his nose.
He tried to breathe deeply, but his body rebelled. Every inhalation sent a sharp, electric jolt radiating from his right hip socket down to his knee. The adrenaline of Tuesday night—the roar of the crowd, the fear of Noah Lami, the miracle goal—was gone.
Now, there was only the cold reality of physics.
When the machine finally slid him out, the silence in the room was deafening. Dr. Marco Ricci, the head of Bologna's medical team, was staring at a monitor. He didn't look angry. He looked horrified.
"Sit up slowly," Ricci said, not turning around.
Rio swung his legs over the side of the table. He gritted his teeth to stop a groan escaping his lips. A red system warning flashed in his peripheral vision: [Pain Receptors Overloaded. Right Hip Structural Integrity: 88%].
Dr. Ricci turned the screen toward Rio. It showed a 3D render of a human hip joint.
"Do you know what this is?" Ricci asked, pointing to a web of white lines cracking the socket.
"A bruise?" Rio asked hopefully.
"No," Ricci said grimly. "These are micro-fractures on the acetabular rim. Basically, the bone that holds your leg in place is cracking."
Ricci took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Rio, I've been a sports doctor for thirty years. I've only seen this injury in two types of people: victims of high-speed car crashes, and martial artists who kicked a concrete wall. You generated so much torque in that 'snap shot' of yours that your muscles almost ripped the bone apart."
The Verdict.
The room went cold. Rio pulled his shirt back on, his movements stiff and careful.
"Can I play on Sunday against Lecce?" Rio asked.
Ricci laughed. A dry, humorless laugh.
"Play? Rio, if you sprint today, that rim might shatter. If it shatters, you need surgery. Titanium screws. Six months in a wheelchair. Career over."
Rio's heart skipped a beat. Six months.
That would mean missing the entire Champions League group stage. It would mean failing the objectives. It would mean death by System penalty.
"I can't stop," Rio whispered, gripping the edge of the bed. "We have Liverpool in twelve days."
Ricci slammed his hand on the desk. "You are not listening! Your body is a Ferrari engine inside a Fiat chassis! You have the power to break walls, but your bones are made of glass!"
Rio looked at the doctor, desperation burning in his eyes. "Then fix me. Patch me up for twelve days. I will sit out the Lecce game. I will sit out training. But I must play against Liverpool."
Ricci stared at the young captain. He saw the madness in Rio's eyes. The same madness that made him chip the keeper in the 94th minute.
"Ten days," Ricci negotiated, his voice low. "Absolute rest. Cryotherapy twice a day. No running. No touching a ball. If the inflammation goes down by 50%, I will clear you for Liverpool with pain injections."
Ricci leaned in close, his face inches from Rio's. "But you are forbidden from using that 'Mirage Strike' again until your bone density improves. Do you understand?"
Rio nodded slowly. "Deal."
Rio's Apartment.Thursday Night.
Rio sat on his couch in the dark. His phone was buzzing relentlessly on the table. Notifications lit up the room—his follower count had surpassed five million, and Tyler Stone was messaging him about a specialized boot deal with Nike called 'The Ghost'.
The world thought he was on top of the world. The "Mirage Strike" had gone viral. Kids in Tokyo, London, and Rio de Janeiro were trying to replicate the "zero-backlift" shot in their backyards. But the creator of the shot was sitting in the dark with an ice pack strapped to his hip, unable to walk to the kitchen without limping.
Rio waved his hand to open the System Interface. The blue holographic screen materialized in the darkness.
He checked his Status Window. His name, Rio Valdes, sat above a countdown that read 536 Days. Below that, the Physical State indicator flashed a warning: Damaged (Hip Micro-fractures). His stats were a cruel contradiction. His Shooting was S-Grade thanks to the Mirage Strike, and his Dribbling was A-Grade with Elastic Hips. But the bottom line mocked him. His Physique was stuck at C+, with a flashing red tag that read: CRITICAL WEAKNESS.
He had spent all his lifespan buying legendary skills—The Cannon, Omniscient Trap, Mirage Strike. He had built a weapon of mass destruction, but he forgot to reinforce the launchpad.
He navigated to the Item Shop and filtered for "Recovery".
Two options appeared. The first was a Standard Health Potion, costing 20 Days. The description stated it would accentuate natural healing by only 20%. It wasn't enough.
The second option made his breath hitch. The Phoenix Bone Elixir. It promised to instantly heal fractures and increase bone density. But the price tag was a death sentence: 300 Days.
Rio stared at the number. Almost a year of life.
If he bought it, he would drop to 236 Days. Less than a year to live. The fear of death was a cold hand gripping his throat.
"Too expensive," Rio muttered, closing the window. "I have to heal the human way."
Casteldebole Training Ground.Friday Morning.
The team was training for the Lecce match. The mood was high, the sounds of laughter and ball impacts drifting through the air. But Rio wasn't on the pitch.
He was in the gym, watching through the glass window. Coach Italiano had banned him from the grass. "Don't even look at the ball," the coach had said.
From the gym, Rio saw Adrian Vance sitting in his wheelchair on the sidelines, holding his tablet. Adrian looked up, his eyes locking onto Rio in the window. The analyst spun his wheelchair around and rolled toward the gym entrance.
Adrian entered a moment later. The sound of his electric wheelchair motor was the only noise in the room.
"Data doesn't lie," Adrian said, skipping the pleasantries. "Your hip rotation velocity during the goal was 1,400 degrees per second. The human limit is usually 900."
Rio was doing light stretching on a mat. "So?"
"So, you're breaking the game engine," Adrian said, tapping his screen. "Noah Lami predicted you would shoot because he assumed human limits. You broke the limit, so you broke his prediction. But you also broke yourself."
Adrian turned his tablet to show Rio a graph full of spikes and red zones. "If you use the Mirage Strike again with your current muscle mass, you have a 40% chance of dislocating your hip instantly."
"Thanks for the encouragement, Adrian," Rio grunted, switching legs.
"However," Adrian adjusted his glasses, a glint of calculation in his eyes. "If we modify your technique... if you engage your core obliques before the hip snap... we can distribute the recoil. It will reduce the shot power by 5%, but it reduces the stress on the bone by 30%."
Rio stopped stretching. He looked up at the cripple genius. "You can teach me that?"
"I can simulate it," Adrian smiled, a rare, terrifying smile that matched his intellect. "But you can't practice it physically for ten days. You have to practice it in your mind. Visualization training."
The Mental Cage.One Week Later.
For seven days, Rio didn't move.
He lay on his bed. Eyes closed. The room was silent, but inside his head, the roar of Anfield was deafening.
In the darkness of his mind, he was on the pitch. He saw Virgil van Dijk towering over him. He saw Alisson Becker guarding the net. He visualized the ball coming to his feet.
Core tight. Obliques engaged. Snap.
He felt the phantom movement. He felt the phantom pain.
System Notification: Mental Proficiency increased. Mirage Strike (Modified) mastery: 15%...
He did it a thousand times a day. He sweated in his bed, his muscles twitching with microscopic movements as he rewired his neural pathways. The pain in his hip was fading. The ice packs were working. The inflammation was subsiding.
But the clock was ticking louder than his heartbeat.
Countdown to Liverpool Match: 4 Days.
Rio opened his eyes. He stood up slowly. He rotated his hip. No pain.
He walked to the window. The sun was setting over Bologna, casting long shadows across the red rooftops. The storm was coming. The Red Army of Jurgen Klopp was coming to Italy.
And Rio Valdes was ready to break himself one last time.