Chapter 20 — The Personal Grind
The early morning sun had barely touched the edges of the training ground when Luuk stepped onto the turf. The stadium was silent, empty, except for the faint rustle of wind through the nets. Jong AZ's first-teamers wouldn't arrive for hours, and the youth players were still asleep. This was his time—his personal hour.
His boots hit the grass with precise rhythm. Each step was measured, deliberate. Every movement, every pivot, every sprint had a purpose. Today wasn't a trial. It wasn't a match. It was a machine-like dissection of himself.
Luuk pulled his water bottle from his bag, taking a long drink before kneeling down. The familiar flicker of the Status Screen appeared in his vision. He didn't need it to know what to focus on, but it reminded him: every second mattered.
He ran drills that no one else could follow. Cone patterns twisted into complex shapes, mimicking defensive formations he had faced. He repeated passes into nets from awkward angles, striking with both feet, adjusting force, curve, and trajectory. Each shot, each touch, each step fed into the data his body and mind were recording.
After an hour of technical drills, he shifted to physical work. Weighted vests, resistance bands, and explosive plyometrics—training designed specifically for his attributes. With Hyper-Recovery guiding his body, fatigue was a tool, not a barrier. The burn in his legs and lungs wasn't pain—it was feedback.
He paused only briefly to check his footwork in the mirrors near the indoor training hall. His Balance—already phenomenal—was honed further through single-leg squats, lateral jumps, and tightrope drills across narrow beams. Even a small tweak in his posture, the micro-adjustments his body made subconsciously, counted.
As sweat poured down his face, Luuk let his mind wander through tactical scenarios. Anticipation, Spatial Awareness, Vision—these weren't just stats. They were his map, his guide to seeing the game before it unfolded. He simulated defenders, imagined their angles, forced himself to adjust instantly.
Hours passed. He barely noticed. A small crunch echoed as he switched to upper-body resistance work: push-ups, pull-ups, medicine ball throws, and rapid reaction drills. Every motion was logged in the back of his mind, every repetition building muscle memory faster than a normal human could achieve.
By the time the morning sun was high enough to slice through the empty stands, Luuk collapsed onto the turf. Heart hammering, lungs burning, but not broken. The Status Screen appeared again—he had finished the session.
[STATUS SCREEN — POST-PERSONAL TRAINING]
User: Luuk van den Berg
Height: 183.9 cm
Neural-Physical Lag: 6.7%
Spatial Synchronization: 24.7 / 100 → (+2.3)
[PHYSICAL]
Pace: 63.6 → 63.7 (+0.1)
Acceleration: 65.4 → 65.5 (+0.1)
Agility: 61.4 → 61.5 (+0.1)
Stamina: 67.5 → 67.8 (+0.3)
Strength: 63.1 → 63.3 (+0.2)
Balance: 95.0 → 95.1 (+0.1)
Flexibility: 60.0 → 60.1 (+0.1)
Jumping: 65.6 → 65.7 (+0.1)
[TECHNICAL]
Ball Control: 100
Ball Feel: 100
Ball Sense: 100
Dribbling: 74.9 → 75.3 (+0.4)
Short Passing: 64.7 → 65.0 (+0.3)
Long Passing: 58.8 → 59.1 (+0.3)
Shooting (Power): 57.0 → 57.3 (+0.3)
Shooting (Technique): 83.0 → 83.4 (+0.4)
Curve: 52.7 → 52.9 (+0.2)
Weak Foot: 4 Stars
[MENTAL / SENSE]
Spatial Awareness: 80.1 → 80.5 (+0.4)
Anticipation: 85.7 → 86.1 (+0.4)
Tactical IQ: 74.7 → 75.0 (+0.3)
Vision: 71.6 → 72.0 (+0.4)
Composure: 95.5 → 95.7 (+0.2)
Ego: 90.2 → 90.3 (+0.1)
[DEFENSIVE]
Defensive Positioning: 63.8 → 64.0 (+0.2)
Interceptions: 70.3 → 70.5 (+0.2)
Pressing Intelligence: 71.5 → 71.7 (+0.2)
Tackling (Standing): 59.0 → 59.2 (+0.2)
Tackling (Sliding): 42.0
Heading (Defensive): 66.5 → 66.7 (+0.2)
[SYSTEM LOG: PERSONAL TRAINING COMPLETE — ATTRIBUTES UPDATED]
Luuk sat upright, letting the glow of the screen fade. He didn't feel pride. He didn't feel exhaustion. He felt potential. Every increment, every tiny increase, was proof that the grind worked. The body might be human, but his ability to train, recover, and adapt was exceptional.
He gathered his towel and water bottle, stretching slowly. Every movement was precise. Every muscle memory reinforced. Outside, the sun reflected off the empty pitch. The stadium was silent—but it didn't matter.
No one needed to see this. No one needed to know that a fifteen-year-old boy could push a body harder than any professional, and recover faster than any peak athlete.
This was his secret. His advantage. And tomorrow, he would return—ready to push further.
Because the Grind wasn't finished with him. And neither was he.