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Chapter 10: Volume 1, - 10: The Football Ascension System

Chapter 10: Volume 1, Chapter 10: The Football Ascension System

The luminescent blue rectangle remained suspended in the freezing fog, hovering three inches above the gravel. The text didn’t flicker. It didn’t waver.

Rayan scrambled backwards on his hands, his boots kicking up loose stones until his spine struck the rough base of the concrete wall. His breath came out in sharp, terrified gasps. He closed his left eye, then his right, pressing his eyelids shut until dark-purple spots danced across his vision.

’I’ve finally broken my brain,’ he thought, his chest tightening with cold, visceral panic. ’Tavares was right. The morning runs, the school suspension, the one thousand touches... my nervous system is short-circuiting. I’m having a stroke.’

He opened his eyes. The screen was still there.

When he shifted his gaze towards the equipment shed, the blue border glided smoothly across his field of vision, maintaining the exact same distance from his face. It didn’t belong to the wall. Somehow, it was attached to his vision.

A new line of text began to form, accompanied by a faint internal chime that vibrated behind his temples.

[Football Ascension Interface initialising...]

[Scanning biometric signature...]

[User identified: Rayan Duarte El Mansouri.]

"Stop it," Rayan whispered, his voice cracking as he pressed his palms against his ears. "Get out of my head."

The screen expanded, separating into a clean, minimalist dashboard that displayed a limited breakdown of his identity.

[PLAYER PROFILE — LIMITED ACCESS]

Name: Rayan Duarte El Mansouri

Age: 15

Nationality: Portuguese / Moroccan

Primary Position: Left Winger (LW)

Secondary Position: Central Attacking Midfielder (CAM)

Club Status: Sporting CP U16

Squad Role: Reserve

Disciplinary Status: Formal Warning

Beneath his personal information, a large translucent wheel appeared. It was coloured a dull metallic grey. The colour of unpolished zinc. In the centre of the wheel, two numbers stood out in a bold, uncompromising font.

[CURRENT PLAYER ASSESSMENT]

Overall Ability: 42/100

Development Classification: Academy-Level Prospect

Current Projection: Below Sporting Retention Standard

Rayan’s breath hitched. ’Forty-two.’ The number felt like a physical slap across his face. Sporting’s reports normally separated players into technical, tactical, physical and psychological categories rather than reducing them to one number, but this looked exactly like the attribute sheets from the football games Joca played after school. A forty-two overall wasn’t a future professional. It was a player who barely belonged in an elite academy.

The interface didn’t spare his feelings. A vertical list of attributes expanded downwards, detailing the precise architecture of his failure.

[PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES]

Pace: 55

Acceleration: 58

Stamina: 49

Strength: 43

[TECHNICAL ATTRIBUTES]

Dribbling: 41

Ball Control: 38

Passing: 44

Shooting: 39

Weak Foot Proficiency: 1.5 Stars

[MENTAL ATTRIBUTES]

Composure: 36

Decision-Making: 35

Professionalism: 31

Defensive Awareness: 28

"Thirty-eight ball control?" Rayan shouted into the fog, his voice rising with defensive fury. "I just completed one thousand controlled touches against that wall! I’m in Sporting’s academy! My acceleration is at least an eighty!"

The blue light shifted, the attribute list minimising to make room for a block of clean, clinical text.

[Notice: Current attributes are calculated using demonstrated real-world performance, neuromuscular efficiency under pressure and technical consistency during competitive conditions.]

[Current acceleration performance is restricted by a fourteen-percent mechanical deficit in the left talocrural joint caused by incomplete rehabilitation.]

Rayan stared at the word talocrural. He didn’t know what it meant, but he understood the reference to his left side. His ankle. The interface knew about the stiffness he had been hiding from the physiotherapists.

"What are you?" Rayan whispered, his hands slowly dropping from his ears as he watched the screen hover in the damp air. "Are you some kind of AI? Did the club install something inside the tracking vests?"

[The Football Ascension System is an objective player-development interface.]

[The system does not guarantee team selection, professional contracts, physical health or match victory.]

[The system cannot alter external reality.]

[Primary functions include measuring user development, generating optimised training objectives and distributing earned rewards following the completion of verified football achievements.]

Rayan raised a trembling hand, his scraped knuckles stinging as he extended his index finger. He reached out and tried to touch the edge of the blue rectangle. His finger passed straight through the light, meeting nothing but cold evening fog. The screen didn’t distort. It remained fixed within his field of vision.

"Can you make my first touch better?" Rayan asked aloud, desperation entering his voice. "If I complete another thousand touches right now, will my ball control increase?"

[Query rejected.]

[The system does not distribute unearned attributes.]

[Technical security requires structured adaptation, effective repetition and verified performance improvement.]

"What does that mean?" Rayan snapped. "Speak normally!"

The system didn’t answer. The screen remained motionless, displaying his forty-two overall like a permanent indictment.

"Rayan!"

A sharp voice broke through the silence of the training ground.

Rayan violently jerked his head around, his heart leaping into his throat. The blue screen instantly vanished from his vision, leaving nothing but the grey, swirling fog and the dark silhouette of the equipment shed.

Coach João Tavares was standing ten metres away, his keys clinking loudly in his hand and his heavy winter coat zipped to his chin. He had returned from the administrative building, his brow furrowed as he stared at Rayan, who was still sitting in the gravel with his back pressed against the concrete wall.

"Who are you talking to?" Tavares asked, his dark eyes scanning the empty perimeter fence before returning to the boy. "The final shuttle leaves in seven minutes, Rayan. Why are you still sitting on the ground?"

Rayan scrambled to his feet, his muscles screaming in protest and his bleeding heels burning inside his boots. He wiped the dirt from his palms onto his shorts, his chest heaving. "Nobody, Coach. I was just... I became dizzy after the touches. I sat down for a second and lost track of the time."

Tavares walked closer, his eyes lingering on the scuffed training balls scattered across the dirt, then on the dark stain spreading behind Rayan’s right heel. He released a long, heavy sigh that became a thick cloud of white vapour.

"Dizziness is a sign that your body has nothing left to give, Rayan. It is telling you to stop," Tavares said, his voice settling into the quiet, clinical tone that cut deeper than shouting. "Reckless work doesn’t save careers. It shortens them. Collect the balls and get your bag. If you miss the shuttle, the club will have to arrange separate transport and notify your mother. I will also have to add another note to your disciplinary file."

"Yes, Coach," Rayan muttered.

He gathered the balls with clumsy, shaking fingers, his eyes repeatedly darting towards the empty space in front of his face. The screen was gone. The world was normal again. Cold, damp and hostile. He slung the heavy bag over his shoulder and limped down the gravel path, his mind spinning between the reality of the release list and the impossible blue interface.

The smell of vinegar and boiled onions hung heavily in the kitchen when Rayan finally pushed open the apartment door at 20:30.

Sofia didn’t yell. She didn’t look up from the small basin of warm water she had placed on the floor beside the sofa. She was still dressed in the neat blouse and dark trousers she wore to the clinic, although her cardigan had been discarded over the back of a chair. Her face was pale and lined with the fatigue of a long shift.

"Sit," she said simply.

Rayan dropped his kit bag beside the door and sat on the edge of the worn sofa. He pulled off his right boot with a sharp wince, the fabric of his sock stuck to his heel where the blood had dried and hardened against the material.

Sofia leaned forward, her fingers surprisingly gentle despite her stern expression, and slowly peeled the sock away from the raw, torn flesh. She dipped a clean cloth into the warm water mixed with antiseptic and began washing the gravel from his skin. The sting was immediate and agonising, making Rayan grip the cushions until his knuckles clicked.

"You stayed behind alone after the rest of the squad left," Sofia said, her voice quiet, rhythmic and burdened by disappointment. "The academy security office called because you had not checked out with the others. Do you think this is what support looks like, Rayan? Leaving your mother to wonder whether you are injured somewhere because you cannot accept a warning?"

"I was just training, Mum," Rayan whispered, staring down at her neatly maintained dark hair. "I had to finish the touches. Tavares said I’m on the provisional list. If I don’t improve by the twenty-fourth of February, they are going to recommend releasing me."

"And if they release you, you will still be my son," Sofia said, looking up, her eyes shining with sudden, fierce intensity. "You will still need to eat. You will still need an education. You think your father’s grand speeches will replace the skin on your feet when these wounds become infected? You are destroying yourself for an academy that could replace you tomorrow without changing anything except the name on a form."

Rayan opened his mouth to reply. The words rested on the tip of his tongue: ’Mum, I saw a screen. It knows about my ankle. It has a plan.’

But as he looked around the small kitchen. At the electricity bill waiting beneath a magnet on the fridge, at Leonor’s closed bedroom door and at his mother’s tired, worn hands. He realised how completely insane it would sound. If he told her about the system, she wouldn’t see a lifeline. She would see a fifteen-year-old boy who had finally broken under the pressure, a boy who needed medical help rather than a new pair of football boots.

"I’m sorry," he muttered, looking down at his feet. "I won’t miss the shuttle again."

Sofia didn’t answer. She finished wrapping his heel in clean white gauze, secured the edges with professional precision and stood with the basin. "The soup is on the stove. Eat it and go to bed. You have school in the morning."

The bedroom was pitch-black, the only sound the faint hum of traffic moving along the distant motorway. Rayan lay flat on his back, his legs elevated on a pillow to relieve the throbbing pressure in his heels. The gauze felt stiff and thick against his skin.

He stared at the dark ceiling for a long time, the silence of the apartment pressing down against his chest.

"Interface," he whispered into the darkness. "Open."

Nothing happened. The shadows remained unchanged.

"Player profile," he tried again, his voice slightly louder. "Football Ascension System, activate."

A sharp electric-blue line sliced through the darkness. Rayan flinched, his heart instantly accelerating as the transparent dashboard appeared exactly twelve inches above his chest. Despite its luminous appearance, it cast no light across the room.

[FOOTBALL ASCENSION SYSTEM]

Interface Stage: Academy Interface

Current Mode: Foundation

User: Rayan Duarte El Mansouri

Overall Ability: 42

Full Player Profile: Locked

A flashing red icon appeared in the upper-right corner of the screen, shaped like a small stylised padlock. Beneath it, a heavy block of text began scrolling upwards.

[System Alert: User environment demonstrates critical instability.]

[Behavioural discipline and physical recovery are currently insufficient to support sustained technical development.]

[Initiating structural stabilisation protocol...]

[Major Mission Generated: Thirty-Day Foundation Challenge.]

Rayan raised himself slightly, leaning on his elbows as his eyes scanned the details locking into place.

[MAJOR MISSION: THIRTY-DAY FOUNDATION CHALLENGE]

Objective 1:

Complete one hundred percent of assigned daily physical and technical training programmes.

Objective 2:

Receive zero additional disciplinary suspensions from secondary school or academy administration.

Objective 3:

Raise the next academic assessment average by a minimum of two points on the twenty-point grading scale.

Objective 4:

Maintain minimum daily recovery requirements:

- At least 7.5 hours of tracked sleep

- Completion of assigned mobility routine

- Compliance with system recovery warnings

[REWARDS UPON COMPLETION]

- Five Permanent Attribute Points

- Full Player Profile Access

- Advanced Trait and Scouting Metrics

- Academy Interface Development Functions

[PENALTY UPON FAILURE]

- Foundation functions locked for ninety days

- Advanced training optimisation unavailable during lockout

Rayan studied the conditions. ’Two points in school.’ That meant passing Senhora Santos’s mathematics assessments. It meant completing the history portfolios with Inês without falling asleep over the pages. And the training programmes. If they were anything like the one thousand touches, his body would be destroyed before the month ended.

Then his eyes settled on the reward. ’Five permanent attribute points.’ If he invested those points into ball control or composure, he wouldn’t be a forty-two anymore. He would possess something objective. Improvement that the system itself recognised as real. He wouldn’t have to depend on Karim’s vague promises or Sofia’s grim realism. He would have a measurement that belonged entirely to him.

"If I fail," Rayan whispered towards the screen, "does that mean Sporting releases me?"

[The system does not control club decisions.]

[However, current predictive modelling indicates an eighty-nine-point-four-percent probability that the user will be placed on Sporting CP’s provisional release list on 24 February if foundational metrics remain unchanged.]

The calculation was clear. The system wasn’t a cheat code. It was a mirror. And right now, the mirror was telling him that his only choice was to run directly into the fire.

Rayan inhaled deeply, the blue interface reflected inside his dark eyes. He reached out, his taped finger hovering over the glowing button marked [ACCEPT] at the bottom of the challenge screen.

"Accept," he said clearly.

The button turned bright white, and a resonant metallic chime echoed inside his head as the interface began to minimise. The scrolling figures vanished, leaving only a small countdown timer floating in the corner of his vision.

[Mission Accepted.]

[Current Progress: Day 0 of 30.]

[Notice: First foundational training programme scheduled for 05:45 tomorrow morning.]

[Initial Programme: Left-ankle joint mobilisation and low-intensity technical-security training.]

[Preparation required. Sleep immediately.]

The screen dissolved into dark pixels, leaving the room cold and black once more. Rayan lowered himself onto the pillow, his heart hammering against his ribs in a steady, relentless rhythm. He looked at the digital clock on his bedside table. 21:42. He had eight hours and three minutes before the programme began, and for the first time in his life, he knew exactly what he was running towards.