Chapter 15: The Bio-Mechanical Overclock
The drive back from the SV Sloten grounds was silent. The black business card from Bram van Geel sat on the dashboard of Hendrik's truck, the gold embossed logo of AZ Alkmaar catching the flickering orange of the streetlights. To Hendrik, it was a golden ticket. To Luuk, it was a countdown.
[Current Objective: Survive 'Jong AZ' Trial]
[Status: Physicality Gap - CRITICAL]
Luuk leaned his head against the cold glass of the window. His silver-grey eyes were fixed on his own reflection, but his mind was deep in the data. He had dominated the AFC Amsterdam U-19s, but his 100-rated Ball Sense had already calculated the difference between that pitch and the one he would step on Monday morning.
The Jong AZ players were men. Their bone density was higher, their lung capacity was greater, and their "press" would be a physical assault. With his 56.5 Strength, Luuk wouldn't just be outplayed—he would be physically erased from the game.
"I need to be heavier, Dad," Luuk said, his voice a low rasp.
Hendrik glanced at him, his brow furrowed. "You're fifteen, Luuk. You're already taller than half the seniors. You can't rush nature."
"I have to," Luuk whispered. "Nature is too slow for what I'm doing."
The Saturday Night Break
The moment they reached the apartment, Luuk didn't go to bed. He waited until he heard the heavy, rhythmic snores of his father from the next room. Then, he moved.
He dressed in three layers of sweats, grabbed his bag, and headed back out into the cold North Amsterdam night. He didn't go to a football pitch. He headed for the "Iron Graveyard"—a scrap metal yard near the Noorderpark where the skeletons of old cranes and rusted shipping containers were kept.
He found what he was looking for: a discarded industrial engine block, rusted and weighing well over a hundred kilograms. He didn't have a gym, and he didn't have a trainer. He had the System.
[Initiating Training Protocol: Negative Overload]
[Target: Strength, Acceleration, Bone Density]
Luuk wrapped a thick, frayed tow-rope around his waist and connected it to the engine block. He stood on the cracked asphalt, his 183.9cm frame coiled.
"Go," he hissed to himself.
He exploded forward. The rope snapped taut, the fibers groaning under the tension. The engine block didn't budge. Luuk's boots skidded on the grit, the rubber soles burning. He didn't stop. He pushed until the muscles in his legs felt like they were being shredded by hot wire. He pushed until the capillaries in his eyes began to burst from the internal pressure.
[Warning: Muscle Fiber Tearing at 140% Capacity]
[Status: Systemic Failure Imminent]
He held the tension for sixty seconds of pure, unadulterated agony. This was the "Break." He was intentionally destroying his muscle tissue, pushing it far beyond the point of normal athletic fatigue. A normal player doing this would be crippled for a month.
He did ten sets. By the end, Luuk was crawling on the asphalt, his vomit mixing with the cold rain. He had "broken" the hardware. Now, he had to use the cheat.
The 100x Compression
Luuk limped back into the apartment at 3:00 AM. Every step was a battle against the "Elastic Debt." His quads were vibrating with a dull, feverish heat.
He didn't go to his bed. He went to the bathroom and plugged the tub. He filled it with the coldest water the pipes would provide and dumped in three bags of industrial ice he'd bought from a late-night petrol station.
As he stepped into the ice, his breath left him in a silent scream.
"Initiate... Recovery," he gasped.
[Recovery Protocol: Phase 1 Active]
[100x Efficiency Multiplier: ENGAGED]
This was the secret. To a casual observer, he was just a kid in an ice bath. But inside Luuk's body, a biological miracle was happening. Usually, the body takes 48 to 72 hours to clear the lactic acid and start repairing micro-tears. Under the 100x multiplier, that process was compressed into minutes.
He could feel it—a terrifying, buzzing sensation deep in his bone marrow. It wasn't magic healing; it was his metabolism moving at a speed that made his skin steam in the cold air. The inflammation vanished. The shredded muscle fibers didn't just knit back together; they reinforced themselves with a density that was unnatural for a fifteen-year-old.
After forty minutes, Luuk stepped out of the tub. He didn't feel the "Lag." He felt "Dense."
[Strength: 56.5 -> 58.2 (+1.7)]
Sunday: The Limit of the Human Frame
Sunday was a blur of high-protein intake and calculated violence against his own body. Luuk spent the morning doing Sand-Dune Sprints at the coast, wearing a weighted vest hidden under his hoodie.
He didn't run for form. He ran for "Snap." Every stride was a deliberate attempt to test the limits of his 64.0 Acceleration. He pushed until his heart rate hit 205 beats per minute, then he would drop into the cold North Sea for twenty minutes to trigger another 100x recovery cycle.
By Sunday afternoon, he was back in the "Iron Graveyard." He wasn't dragging the engine block anymore; he was sprinting with it.
"Luuk?"
He froze. Hendrik was standing at the edge of the yard, his hands in his pockets, his face pale. He had followed his son. He watched as Luuk, drenched in sweat and shaking with effort, hauled a weight that a grown dockworker would struggle to move.
"What are you doing to yourself?" Hendrik asked, his voice trembling. "You're going to break. You're just a boy, Luuk. You're going to snap your bones."
Luuk didn't look at his father. He couldn't. If he looked, the "Detective" persona might crack. "I'm not breaking, Dad. I'm building. If I go to Alkmaar tomorrow and I'm weak... everything we've done for the last ten years was for nothing. I won't be a reject again."
Hendrik looked at the raw, red marks the rope had left on Luuk's waist. He didn't see a "system." He saw a boy possessed by a terrifying, singular ego. "Eat," Hendrik finally said, his voice thick. "I bought the extra beef. Just... come home."
Monday: The Arrival
When the sun rose on Monday, Luuk van den Berg was no longer the boy who had played in the park.
He stood in front of the mirror in the early morning light. He looked "longer," his 183.9cm frame now supported by corded, functional muscle that didn't bulge like a bodybuilder's but sat tight against his bones like a predator's.
He stepped onto the scales. He had gained three kilograms of lean mass in forty-eight hours.
[SYSTEM LOG: PRE-TRIAL CALIBRATION]
[I. Physical Attributes]
Pace: 63.4 (+0.5)
Acceleration: 64.0 (+1.8)
Agility: 61.2 (+0.9)
Stamina: 68.2 (+2.3)
Strength: 60.5 (+4.0)
Balance: 95 (Legacy)
[II. Technical Attributes]
Ball Control: 100 (MAX)
Ball Feel: 100 (MAX)
Shooting Technique: 80.2 (TOP)
Luuk pulled on his black training gear. He could feel the power in his legs—a coiled, heavy readiness that made his previous "stiff" movements feel like a distant memory. The "Lag" between his 100-rated mind and his 60-rated body was still there, but the bridge was finally holding.
He walked out of the apartment. Hendrik was waiting in the truck, the engine already idling.
"Ready?" Hendrik asked.
Luuk gripped the strap of his bag. He didn't feel nervous. He felt like a detective who had already solved the case and was just waiting for the suspects to realize they were caught.
"Let's go," Luuk said. "I have a spot to take."
The drive to Alkmaar took forty minutes. As they pulled into the AFAS Trainingscomplex, Luuk saw the gleaming glass buildings, the pristine hybrid-grass pitches, and the professional security.
He stepped out of the truck. The air here was different. It didn't smell like the docks; it smelled like money, status, and the cold, hard reality of professional football.
A group of Jong AZ players—young men in their early twenties with expensive haircuts and professional kits—were walking toward the changing rooms. They laughed and joked, radiating the casual confidence of people who already belonged.
Luuk walked past them. He didn't look at them. He was already scanning their ankles, their centers of gravity, and their stride patterns.
[Target Analysis: Jong AZ Squad]
[Status: Scanning Blind Spots...]
He reached the heavy glass doors of the facility. He placed his hand on the handle.
"Monday," he whispered.
The Ghost had arrived at the doorstep of the Eredivisie. And he hadn't come to trial. He had come to devour.