Chapter 16: The Lion's Den
The AFAS Trainingscomplex was a temple of glass, steel, and silence. Unlike the chaotic, shouting atmosphere of SV Sloten, the Jong AZ facility operated with the clinical precision of a hospital. There were no parents cheering from the sidelines, no rust on the fences. There was only the hum of the ventilation system and the distant, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of balls hitting the hybrid-grass pitches.
Luuk stood in the reception area, his black kit bag slung over his shoulder. He felt "different." The weekend's Bio-Grind had left his muscles feeling like dense, coiled springs. Every time he shifted his weight, his 95 Balance compensated instantly, making his movements look uncannily smooth, as if he were sliding rather than walking.
[Current Condition: Peak Optimization]
[Neural-Physical Synchronization: 22.4%]
"Van den Berg?"
A man in a sharp navy tracksuit approached. This was Maarten Martens, the head coach of Jong AZ. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a welcoming handshake. He simply looked at Luuk's 183.9cm frame with a skeptical, analytical eye.
"Bram says you're a project," Martens said, his voice flat. "But at this club, we don't have time for 'projects' that can't handle the load. You're fifteen. You're legally a child. My job is to find out if you're a liability to my squad before ten a.m."
"I'm not," Luuk said.
"We'll see. Medical lab first. Then the pitch. If the data says you're soft, you don't even get to put on the boots."
The Performance Lab
The medical wing was filled with equipment that looked more like aerospace engineering tools than sports gear. Luuk was hooked up to a VO2 Max mask, electrodes were taped to his chest, and he was placed on a high-speed treadmill.
For the next hour, they pushed him. The "Beep Test" was replaced by a ramp-protocol that increased the incline and speed every sixty seconds.
Luuk ran. He watched the monitor in his own mind, matching the external data with the internal. He could feel the 66.8 Stamina being pushed to its limit, but every time his heart rate spiked, he used the "Rhythmic Breathing" he'd practiced during his ice baths.
[Stamina: 66.8 -> 67.2 (+0.4)]
In the observation booth, a sports scientist in a white lab coat frowned at his tablet. He tapped Martens on the shoulder.
"Look at the recovery curve, Maarten," the scientist whispered. "His heart rate drops from 190 to 110 in under sixty seconds. That's... that's not right. Even for a kid. His aerobic baseline is average, but his ability to reset is elite. It's like his body is built to handle trauma."
Martens leaned in, his eyes narrowing. "What about the force plates?"
"Squat-jump power is 610 newtons. That's top-tier for a U-19, but he's still behind the seniors in raw explosiveness. But look at the Balance metric. The sensors are showing near-zero sway during the deceleration phase. He's rooted."
Martens didn't respond. He just watched Luuk through the glass. Luuk wasn't looking at the coaches. He was looking at his own feet, his silver-grey eyes cold and focused.
The Changing Room: The Professional Wall
When Luuk entered the Jong AZ locker room, the air changed. This wasn't a room of boys dreaming; it was a room of men working.
Daan Visser, the 21-year-old captain and center-back, was taping his ankles. He was a mountain of a man—188cm, 88kg of functional, professional muscle. He looked at Luuk as if he were a stray cat that had wandered into a kitchen.
"You're the kid Bram was raving about?" Daan asked, his Dutch directness cutting through the room.
"Luuk," he replied, opening his locker.
"Listen, Luuk. This is the Eerste Divisie. On Friday night, we play against guys who will break your ribs to keep their win bonus. If you're here for a 'trial experience,' go back to the academy. If you're on this pitch, I'm going to treat you like a professional. And a professional doesn't get a pass because he's fifteen."
The other players—midfielders like Mo El Hamdi and wingers like Jasper de Wit—didn't laugh. They just watched. In this world, the hierarchy was determined by the ball.
The Rondo: Circle of Death
"Rondo! Two in the middle! One touch only!" Martens shouted as the squad stepped onto Pitch 4.
The "Rondo" was the heartbeat of Dutch football. Six players in a circle, two in the middle trying to win the ball. For the pros, it was a game of speed and humiliation.
Luuk was placed in the middle with a reserve midfielder.
Daan Visser had the ball. He didn't look at Luuk. He fired a pass to Mo El Hamdi that was so fast it whistled across the grass. Mo flicked it instantly to Jasper. The ball was moving at a velocity Luuk had never seen at SV Sloten. It was a blur of neon green and white.
Luuk's 84.0 Anticipation kicked in. He saw the "Vectors." He saw that Mo was leaning slightly to his left, preparing a disguised pass to the far side.
Luuk didn't chase the ball. He stepped into the lane.
Thwack.
The ball hit Luuk's boot. But he didn't just block it. He used his 100 Ball Feel to absorb the 80km/h velocity. The ball didn't bounce away; it died under his foot, perfectly still.
The circle went silent for a micro-second.
"Nice trap, kid," Mo muttered, genuinely surprised. "Now move it."
Luuk flicked the ball back into the circle and stayed in the middle. He did it again. And again. Every time they tried to "ping" the ball past him, his Spatial Awareness allowed him to calculate the intercept point. He wasn't running more; he was running less.
[Spatial Awareness: 78.4 -> 78.8 (+0.4)]
Daan Visser's jaw tightened. He didn't like being read by a teenager. On the next rotation, Daan was in the middle, and Luuk was in the circle.
Mo fired a pass to Luuk—a "hospital pass," aimed slightly behind him and filled with enough power to make him stumble. Daan Visser saw his opening. He lunged, a 6'2" professional frame coming at Luuk like a freight train, intending to "clean him out" and take the ball.
It was the Collision.
Luuk didn't move away. He didn't jump. He dropped his center of gravity, anchoring his 95 Balance into the turf. He used his newly upgraded 60.5 Strength to brace his shoulder.
CRACK.
The sound of the impact echoed across the pitch.
Daan Visser hit Luuk's shoulder. To everyone's shock, Luuk didn't fly off the pitch. He swayed for a fraction of a second, his boots digging into the hybrid grass, and then he pushed back.
Daan, caught off-guard by the "density" of the boy, stumbled backward, his heels catching in the turf as he went down on one knee.
Luuk didn't even look at the captain. He killed the ball with his laces, turned, and fired a crisp, 15-yard pass to the opposite side of the circle.
[Strength: 60.5 -> 60.8 (+0.3) — High-Load Adaptation]
Martens, watching from the sideline, stopped his stopwatch. He looked at his assistant.
"Did you see that?" the assistant whispered. "Visser just bounced off him. The kid's an anchor."
"His touch is super" Martens said, his voice low. "But his balance is what's going to keep him alive. He's not a kid. He's a biological outlier."
The Small Step
The session continued for another hour. Luuk didn't score any wonder-goals. He didn't do any step-overs. He simply played with a cold, mechanical efficiency. Every pass was perfect. Every touch was "dead." Every time a pro tried to bully him physically, he used his Axis to pivot and leave them behind.
By the end of the session, the Jong AZ players were looking at Luuk differently. They didn't see a mascot anymore. They saw a threat.
Daan Visser walked over to Luuk as they were heading back to the lockers. He was sweating, a grass stain on his knee from where he'd fallen. He looked at Luuk for a long time, then reached out and gave a short, sharp nod.
"You're not soft," Daan said. "But that was just a rondo. On Friday, we play Den Bosch. They won't just hit your shoulder. They'll go for your throat."
"I'll be ready," Luuk said.
[SYSTEM LOG: TRIAL DAY 1 COMPLETE]
[I. Physical Attributes]
Stamina: 67.2 (+0.4)
Strength: 60.8 (+0.3)
Balance: 95 (Legacy)
[II. Technical & Sense]
Spatial Awareness: 78.8 (+0.4)
Tactical IQ: 73.5 (+0.4)
Composure: 93 (+1)
[III. Growth Velocity]
Height: 183.9cm
Neural Lag: 7.5% (Decreasing)
Luuk sat on the bench, peeling off his sweat-soaked jersey. He could feel the "Elastic Debt" starting to settle in his shins and lower back. The intensity of a pro session was five times higher than the U-19s. Every fiber of his being was screaming for rest.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of water. He wasn't thinking about the praise or the fact that he'd knocked down the captain. He was already calculating the Strength he would need to survive the Den Bosch defenders on Friday.
"I need more weight," he whispered to the empty locker.
The Ghost hadn't just entered the den. He had started to build his own throne.
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A/N: Huge news! We just hit 10k views AND got recommended in Potential Scarlett! As a new author, this is honestly crazy!. Huge thanks to everyone reading—I'll keep the high-effort chapters coming. Let's keep this momentum going!