The stars shifted in their courses.
Time marched on to September 11th, marking the conclusion of the international break. As David Qin finished a grueling session of dribbling drills, a familiar mechanical voice chimed in his mind.
[System: Host template synchronization has reached 70%. Green Field System functions are now officially unlocked!]
[Skill: Ethereal Ball Control (75%)]
[Skill: Dribbling Technique (69%)]
[Skill: 3D Spatial Awareness (67%)]
[Skill: Devil's Finesse Shot (52%)]
[...]
[Points: 3]
David stared at the floating fluorescent screen, which now displayed a wealth of information previously hidden from him. He observed closely—every skill listed represented the absolute peak of Ronaldinho's technical prime. This meant he could now focus his extra training on specific techniques and monitor his progress via a tangible status bar.
In this world, people often work without knowing where they stand, or if success is even possible. If everyone had a progress bar, far more people would likely persevere. There is something intoxicating about receiving immediate feedback for one's efforts; it creates a powerful cycle of motivation.
As for the purpose of the points, he hadn't quite puzzled that out yet.
"Kevin, you're back! Do you want to—"
David caught sight of Kevin De Bruyne and started to invite him to train, but he stopped short when he saw the look on the Belgian's face. De Bruyne looked gaunt, his expression grim. He wasn't the type of man to take his frustrations out on his friends, so he forced a tight, pained smile.
"Sorry, David. I'm a bit exhausted today. I think I'll head back and rest."
"Fair enough," David replied, sensing the weight on the other man's shoulders. He offered a sincere smile. "But I've heard that keeping things bottled up is a good way to break. If you don't mind, I'm a decent listener. How about a couple of drinks at that Irish pub?"
During his month in Wolfsburg, David had explored the area around the training ground. A few days prior, he had discovered an Irish pub tucked away in a corner of Schillerstrasse. It served as a haunt for the Wolfsburg Ultras, but on non-match days, it was quiet, usually occupied only by the owner.
"Well... alright. Just a quick one," De Bruyne said after a long hesitation. He felt pushed to the brink. If he didn't find an outlet for the pressure soon, he feared he might actually suffer a breakdown.
David grinned, packed up his gear, and after a quick shower, led De Bruyne toward the pub.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Scott. A Pilsner for me, please." David spoke to the old man behind the counter before turning to his teammate. "What'll it be, Kevin? Beer or whiskey?"
"The same," De Bruyne muttered, pulling out a stool and sinking into it.
Old Scott, his hair and beard a snowy white, looked at them without a flicker of surprise. He had been born in Berlin in 1946, just as World War II was ending and VfL Wolfsburg was being founded several hundred kilometers away. He eventually moved to the city to work in the main Volkswagen plant. After decades of labor, he had retired to open this pub. He had seen countless Wolfsburg players come and go, stars and benchwarmers alike. The arrival of two current players didn't faze him in the slightest.
"Drink slow, young men," Scott said as he placed the beers on the bar, his voice heavy with the weight of his own untold stories. "Life is long. There isn't a hurdle you can't clear if you keep moving."
"Thanks," De Bruyne nodded, taking a sip.
David raised an eyebrow and glanced at the television mounted on the wall. It was showing highlights from the match against Frankfurt in late August. Just then, the screen showed David leaving his opponent for dead with a 'Flip-Flap.' Hearing the German commentator's ecstatic roar of "GOAL!", David took a long, satisfying draught of his beer. While professional athletes were expected to be disciplined, beer was, in a very loose sense, a carbohydrate. An occasional glass wouldn't hurt.
Beside him, De Bruyne drank in silence. It wasn't until the highlight reel finished that he finally spoke.
"I saw Thibaut while I was with the national team," he began slowly. "I thought I wouldn't let it bother me anymore, but the truth is, every time I see him, I remember that disgusting business."
De Bruyne rubbed his temples. The last two years had been a gauntlet of pain. First, there was the betrayal involving his then-girlfriend and his international teammate, Thibaut Courtois. If the reporters at The Sun hadn't been so thorough, he might still be in the dark. Then came Mourinho's cold dismissal: "Zero goals and one assist. Is this the limit of your quality?"
That sentence had seen him exiled from Chelsea to the Bundesliga, robbing him of the chance to prove his worth in the Premier League. Looking back at his young life, it seemed defined by a single word: rejection. Rejected by his foster family, rejected by his girlfriend, rejected by his manager. It left him with a desperate, frantic need to prove himself. Those past agonies sat like a heavy weight on his brow, tormenting him late into the night.
"I haven't gone through what you have, so I don't have the right to lecture you," David said, his voice tinged with a quiet melancholy. Having crossed over from another world, he often felt an island of isolation that words couldn't describe. "But I think a man has to look forward. What's the point in dwelling on it? It just eats you from the inside."
David paused, then looked his friend in the eye. "Kevin, heaven only helps those who refuse to give up on themselves. And I believe you have value that shines like gold." He let out a small laugh and shook his head. "But listen to me, preaching to you at only sixteen."
"What? You're only sixteen?"
Scott, the owner, practically bolted upright, nearly throwing out his back in the process. In Germany, the legal drinking age for spirits is eighteen, and while beer is lower, he had already served David several glasses on previous visits. He had assumed David was older because of his mature demeanor and professional composure. He realized he'd been played.
"Wait, Mr. Scott, I misremembered! I had a birthday just a few days ago—I'm seventeen now!" David explained quickly. In his previous life, he had been nearly thirty, and his adult mindset often made him forget his current physical age.
"Let me see some ID," Scott said, donning his reading glasses, his voice thick with suspicion.
"I don't have it on me! But I can prove it another way!" David quickly pulled up the Transfermarkt website on his phone, found his profile with his date of birth, and slid the phone across the counter.
"You little brat! You weren't of age a few days ago. Don't think you can pull a fast one on me just because I'm old!" Scott grumbled.
"Haha! Well, we've got training! Gotta go!" Seeing he couldn't talk his way out of it, David slapped five euros on the bar and dragged a bewildered De Bruyne toward the door.
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