Valen's eyelids fluttered. Something felt off. He didn't know why, but the sensation of his body being awake clashed with the overwhelming grogginess in his mind. His eyelids twitched again. The fact that they could move at all sank him into a deeper pool of confusion.
He was alive.
That did not feel right. He had no clear memory of what had happened, but he could draw a rough conclusion. He remembered the lightning. He remembered the searing white flash and the deafening sound that followed. He remembered the numbness. He remembered thinking, in those last few seconds, that it was over. One did not come back from that. Not really.
So why was his body responding?
While his thoughts were circling in that chaos, his eyelids finally peeled open. It was difficult. His eyes squinted at the brightness that poured in, and he winced instinctively. His retinas burned for a moment, needing time to adjust.
Once the discomfort passed, he blinked and scanned his surroundings.
It was his room.
He stared at the ceiling for a while, then slowly shifted his gaze from one side of the room to the other. His eyes landed on the familiar walls, the dull grey paint, the wooden wardrobe in the corner, and the mess of clothes scattered near the laundry basket. The sheets felt like his own. The chair near the window was the same. The fan above him creaked slightly with every rotation.
He pushed himself up and looked around again. Posters lined the walls. Not new ones. Posters of Zlatan Ibrahimovic, Jose Mourinho, Marcus Rashford, and Jude Bellingham. They were all there, plastered around the large framed images of Messi and Ronaldo in the center. He remembered all of them. He remembered putting them up as a kid, convincing himself every day that one day he would be like them.
But something was wrong. He had thrown those posters out. He remembered doing it. A few months ago, when Birmingham City released him. That moment had crushed whatever dreams he had left. He was realistic about it. The release was the final confirmation that football had closed its door on him. He was not getting another shot. He remembered tearing the posters off the walls and tossing them in the bin, one after the other. He even remembered the silence in the room after that.
So why were they back?
His eyes shifted to the right side of the room, where a single framed jersey hung above his desk. It was Jobe Bellingham's. He had trained with Jobe for a while back in the academy. Nothing serious. They were not particularly close, but there was enough mutual respect. When Jobe made his debut for the senior team, Valen had asked for a jersey. Jobe had given it without hesitation, and Valen had joked that he was investing in his stocks early. Now Jobe was at Sunderland, playing every week and on the verge of a big transfer. Valen, on the other hand, had been released and was struggling to figure out what to do next.
Valen closed his eyes. Everything around him felt off.
Then the sound came.
A sharp digital ping echoed in his head.
[Ding! System restoration complete]
[Host has fully been healed of effects from both ACL injuries]
[Downloading new stats!]
[Downloading Host's Stats]
[Name: Valen Alarcon]
[Age: 17]
[Preferred foot: Right]
[Weak-foot: A+]
[Club: Birmingham City U-18]
[Attributes:]
[Speed: B]
[Acceleration: B+]
[Pace: B+]
[Dribbling: C]
[Shooting: B-]
[Passing: C]
[Control: A-]
[Crossing: C]
[Overall Player Rating: 61]
[Overall Player Potential: 79 (upgradable)]
[Skills: Stepovers
[Titles: Nil]
[Awards: Nil]
Valen's mouth dropped open slightly. He stared at the floating text in front of him.
It was real.
The system. It was real.
His heart began to race. He read through the lines again, slowly this time. The stats were better than anything he remembered having before. And the injuries. It said they had been healed. Completely. That alone shook him. Two ACL injuries had taken him out of contention. One was already a nightmare, but two back-to-back had destroyed his chances. Even when he trained, he never moved the same. There was always tightness in his knee, stiffness in his turn, hesitation in his movement. Clubs saw it. Coaches saw it. He saw it.
But now?
He looked down at his knees. They felt… fine. Normal. He touched them, then stood up from his bed carefully. No pain. No discomfort. He tried bending them. No strain. He squatted, then stood back up. No resistance. No ache. His hands started trembling as the realization began to take root.
He was healthy. Fully.
He pinched himself. Once. Then again. The sting confirmed it. This was real.
A light knock came on the door, and it creaked open.
His mom stepped in, peering inside with a neutral expression. She looked tired, her hair loosely tied up and a handbag slung over her shoulder. She smiled lightly when she saw him.
"Oh, you're awake," she said. "Get up then. You have to get ready for training."
Valen blinked. "Training?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, training. You've got practice this morning. I didn't cook, so just grab some cereal. And please don't be late. I don't want your coach calling me again. I think he's been trying to flirt with me and I'm not in the mood to deal with that."
Valen just stared at her.
He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. Slowly, he asked, "What day is it?"
She paused and gave him a strange look. "Thursday. Why?"
He shook his head. "Nothing."
"Good. I've got work in thirty minutes. Get dressed."
She walked out, leaving the door slightly open.
Valen sat down on the edge of his bed. His mind was spinning. He needed answers. Something was not adding up. He reached for his phone on the table and pressed the power button. The screen came to life.
10th August 2024.
His chest tightened.
That was a week before the Professional Development League started. He remembered the date clearly because the season opener had been against Hull City's U18s. He remembered streaming watching the game from the sidelines having not made the squad. The coach had opted to take a random from the U16s rather than have him in the squad list.
Now he had time. He had a week. And if the system was real, and the calendar was real, then somehow, in some way that made no logical sense, he had gone back.
He was seventeen again.
He stared at the floor for a long moment. Then something cracked inside him. A small laugh escaped. Then another. And another. The laughter built until he was shaking. Not from joy. From disbelief. From the weight of what it all meant.
All his life he had worked for one thing. He never had the raw talent that others had, but he put in the hours. He studied the game. He trained in the cold. He played through pain. And yet every time he reached a step closer to the dream, something pulled him back. Injuries. Rejections. Setbacks. The release from Birmingham had been the final blow. It broke him.
Now he had another shot.
He exhaled slowly, wiping the corners of his eyes. He was not going to waste it.
This system, whatever it was, had given him a second chance. A clean slate. The path was no longer blocked. He could walk it again. Properly. With knowledge of what came next. With the stats and health to do it right.
He was not going to chase the dream anymore. He was going to take it and make it his own. There was no other option.
He stood up, went to the closet, and pulled out his training gear.
There was work to do.