The m sun stretched over the rooftops of Fouda, casting warm golden hues over the waking neighborhood. The streets slowly stirred to life—womeing up their market stalls, the st of fresh bread mixing with the occasional burst of roasted pntains. Motorbikes weaved between taxis, their engines r as students in crisp uniforms hurried toward school, some on foot, others squeezed into packed buses.

  Ihe Ndonga household, Marcel was running te.

  "Marcel! Hurry up, the driver is waiting!" Frane's voice rang from the hallway, firm yet ed. "It's already 6:30! Eat something before you go. How you be te on the day of your BEPC maths exam?"

  "I'm ing, Mum!" Marcel called back, hopping on one foot as he stuffed himself into his school shoes. He grabbed his schoolbag, slung it over one shoulder, and rushed toward the kit.

  Fraood by the doorway, arms crossed, her sharp eyes sing him like a final check before he left the house. Dressed in a bright kaba, her long braids fallily over her shoulders, she looked posed.

  "Eat something," she reminded him, her tone softer now. "You o trate."

  Marcel grabbed a piece of baguette and a carton of juice, wolfing them down in record time. He knew better than tue—his mother was right, as always.

  Outside, their bck RAV4 was idling in the driveway, Uncle Sylvain behind the wheel, patiently waiting.

  "Uncle Sylvai's go!" Marcel said, slipping into the back seat.

  With a nod, Sylvain started the car and pulled onto the road.

  The streets of Yaoundé were already alive with movement. Street vendors arranged fresh fruit i piles, smoke curled from roadside grills, and the air carried the distinct blend of fried dough, gasoline, and damp earth—a familiar st Marcel barely registered anymore.

  He leaned against the window, watg the city blur past. They passed small boutiques, roadside tailors, and the usual spots where men sat idly on benches, discussing football and politics. A few schoolkids, running te just like him, darted between cars, making risky dashes across the street.

  After twenty mihey arrived at Collège de Retraite. The school's tall blue gates stood firm, already surrounded by clusters of students. Some flipped through their notes in a st-minute panic, while others tried to mask their nerves with lighthearted jokes.

  "See you ter, Uncle Sylvain," Marcel said as he stepped out.

  "Good luck, Marcel."

  Marcel adjusted his bag and headed inside, weaving through the crowd. He spotted familiar faces—some students sat quietly on benches, deep in st-minute revision, while others paced around, reg formus uheir breath. The usual pre-exam tension was thi the air.

  Climbing the stairs to Css 3e A, he ehe room and found his usual spot—third row, sed bench. He set his bag down, pulled out his maths materials, and took a deep breath.

  "Ready for this?"

  Marcel turo see Jordan and Dimitri, his two closest friends, sliding into their seats beside him.

  Jordan, always the joker, smirked. "Just another day, right?"

  Dimitri, ever the level-headed one, shook his head. "It's maths, not magic. Just stay calm, and we'll be fine."

  They had been through everything together—schoolyard fights, endless football debates, and just st month, they had woercss 3e Tour. Marcel, named best pymaker, had thrived feeding assists to Jordan, who finished as top scorer. Football had always been their escape from the pressure of school, but today, there was no pitch to run on—only numbers, equations, and a tig clock.

  Their versation was cut short as the invigitors ehe casual murmurs in the room died instantly. A heavy siletled over the , the weight of the exam sinking into everyone's bones.

  Exam papers were passed down the rows.

  Marcel gripped his pen, took a deep breath, and focused.

  ...

  The hours dragged on as one exam followed another. By the time the final bell rang, Marcel exhaled deeply, his fingers sore from gripping his pen for so long. The long, exhausting day was finally over.

  As he stepped out of the , he spotted Jordan and Dimitri waiting outside, their expressions a mix of relief and mild frustration.

  "That maths exam was something else," Jordan groaned, rolling his shoulders as if he’d been physically beaten by the equations.

  "You mean those equations from hell?" Dimitri muttered, rubbing his temples.

  Marcel chuckled, though his mind lingered on a few tricky questions. "At least it's over. No point stressing about it now."

  The three of them fell into step, heading toward the school gates. Their versation bounced from one subject to another—Maths, History, English—all of them trying not to overanalyze their answers.

  Outside, Uncle Sylvain leaned against the bck RAV4, sipping from a chilled gss of Foléré, the deep red hibiscus drink catg the afternoon sunlight.

  "Someone looks rexed," Marcel teased, stepping up to the car.

  Sylvain smirked, lifting the gss slightly. "It's you who should be rexed now. Exams are over."

  Marodded, finally feeling the weight of the day start to lift. He and his friends exged a few moodbyes before climbing into the car, their usual post-exam banter filling the air.

  The drive home was familiar—the warm breeze from the half-open window, the sounds of Yaoundé shifting from the m rush to the more rexed rhythm of afternoon life. The city pulsed with energy. Vendors sat by their stalls, calling out to passersby, while taxis honked impatiently, weaving through the streets.

  Soon, they pulled up outside Le Normalien, the pce that was more than just a restaurant to Marcel—it was like home.

  The green-tiled roof gleamed uhe sun, framed by ly trimmed hedges and the swaying leaves of tall palm trees. The deep green sign above the entrance bore the name i cursive:

  Le Normalien.

  The moment Marcel stepped out of the car, the air ged.

  The rich aromas of Ndolé, Poulet DG, and grilled pntains filled his senses, instantly awakening his appetite. No matter how stressful the day had been, the smell of home-cooked food had a way of making things better.

  Instead of heading through the frorahey slipped past the reception and walked toward the back—the heartbeat of the restaurant.

  The kit was alive with movement.

  Chefs darted between stations, their hands moving with practiced ease. The sizzle of hot oil, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the bubbling of simmering sauces created a f symphony. It ce of trolled chaos, yet everything worked in harmony.

  Through the half-open door of her office, Fraood in deep versation with a supplier, pen in hand, nodding occasionally.

  But the moment she spotted them, her expression softened.

  "Finished already?" she asked, stepping out.

  Marcel grinned, feeling lighter now. "Yeah, and I think I did well."

  Frane’s eyes, always sharp, studied him for a moment before a proud smile touched her lips. "I knew you would." She patted his shoulder before turning to Jordan and Sylvain, aowledging them with a nod.

  They made their way to their usual table, tucked away in a quieter se of the restaurant. It had practically bee theirs over the years—a pce where they had shared tless meals, celebrated small victories, aed football for hours.

  Without needing to ask, they headed to the kit, grabbing ptes of steaming food before settling in.

  ......

  The meal at Le Normalien had been lively. Marcel, Jordan, and Sylvain ughed over their ptes, rehashing the day’s exams, teasing each other over wrong answers, and discussing uping football matches. Frahough busy with work, had made sure to sit with them for a bit, quiet encement.

  But even as Marcel ate, something lingered in the back of his mind.

  His mother had called him over after the meal, her expression unreadable. "We’ll talk whe home," she had said. And now, as the car pulled into their driveway, Marcel felt a subtle weight settle in his chest.

  The house was quiet wheepped in. Frane walked ahead, setting down her purse, while Marcel kicked off his shoes and stretched. It had been a long day, but something about her tone earlier kept him alert.

  “Sit,” Frane said simply, taking a seat across from him in the living room.

  Marcel sank into the couch. The air felt different tonight.

  Frane folded her hands together, her tone calm but firm. "Marcel, we o talk."

  He sat up straight, heart pig up pace.

  "I've been speaking with your father about your football ambitions for months now," she tinued. "We both know that making it as a footballer is not easy, but we've seen how serious you are. That’s why we’ve decided to support you."

  Marcel’s breath caught. His hands ched unsciously. Did she just say what he thought she said?

  "For real?" he blurted out, leaning forward. "Thank you, Mom! Thank you!"

  Frane raised a hand, signaling him to hold on. "Don’t get too excited just yet," she warned.

  Marcel froze.

  "Your father pulled some strings and paid a lot tister you for a trial with Dragons FC Yaoundé. But this opportunity es with ditions."

  He swallowed hard. ditions?

  "In two weeks, you'll py a trial match to prove yourself," Frane tinued. "If you don’t perform well enough, that’ll be the end of football as a career. No sed ces. You o prepare seriously."

  A rush of emotions hit Marcel all at once. Excitement. Pressure. Determination. Two weeks. That was all he had.

  "I'll train hard. I'll be ready," he said, voice steady—but inside, his mind was rag.

  Frane’s expression softened, but her tone remained serious. "Starting tomorrow, you’ll have a trainer w with you. He’s going to push you hard for the wo weeks. You have to take this seriously. Your father has done a lot to make this happen. Don’t let him down."

  Don’t let him down.

  Marcel felt the weight of those words settle over him. His father, all the way in France, had dohis for him.

  "I won’t, Mom. I promise," he said. "I’m going to work harder than ever. I’ll be like Cristiano Ronaldo."

  Frane sighed, shaking her head with a faint smile. "Let’s start with passing this trial first before you start talking about parisons with legends."

  Marodded, though in his head, he was already imagining it—a stadium r, thousands ting his name.

  Then, as the excitement dimmed slightly, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

  "Will Dad be able to e baeroon this year?"

  Frane’s smile faded slightly. "No," she said gently. "He signed a new tract with his pany. He won’t be batil year. But you call him tomorrow and tell him everything."

  Marodded again, this time with a more trolled expression. "Alright. I’ll call him. I want to talk to him about this."

  They talked a little more before Marcel finally excused himself, heading to his room.

  That night, Marcel y on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind couldn’t rest.

  His trial was in two weeks.

  Two weeks to prove himself.

  Two weeks to ge everything.

  He o focus—but before that, he o unwind.

  Grabbing his PS4 troller, he started a mat FIFA 14, losing himself in the game.

  Later, he switched oV to watch a repy of Cameroon vs. Mexico from the 2014 World Cup. The game had ended in a frustrating 1-0 loss.

  As he watched, frustration built inside him. Missed ces. Poor finishing. A ck of sharpness in the final third.

  "This shouldn’t have happened," he muttered, shaking his head. His hands ched into fists. "One day, I’ll make sure we don’t lose like this. I’ll train harder than ever. I’ll help Cameroon win the World Cup."

  At that moment, something strange happened.

  Ding!

  A sharp sound echoed in his mind.

  System activation…Synization with host Mardonga…Initializing…Wele, Marcel, to the Elite Boost System.

  Marcel’s eyes widened. His body stiffened. Suddenly, a floating s appeared right in front of him.

  "What the—!" He jolted backward, nearly hitting the wall.

  His heart pounded. Was he dreaming? Halluating?

  The s was still there, h in midair.

  Before he could process it, his door swung open.

  "Marcel!" Frane’s voice was sharp with . "Why are you shouting? What’s wrong?"

  Marcel’s head soward her. She didn’t see it.

  His pulse raced. What the hell was happening?

  "Marcel, I’m talking to you!" Fraepped closer, worry turning into frustration. "What happened?"

  Marcel scrambled to find an excuse. "Uh… it’s nothing, Mom," he said quickly. "I was watg a horror movie on my phone, and something scared me."

  Fra out a long breath, rubbiemples. "You screamed like that… over a movie?"

  She clicked her tongue. "You’re 14, Marcel. Don’t scare me like that."

  "Sorry, Mom," he said, f a sheepish smile.

  Frane gave him o unimpressed look before walking out.

  As soon as she left, Marcel exhaled deeply and turned back to the floating s.

  Marcel stared at the floating s, frozen in pce. His mind raced, trying to find a logical expnation, but nothing made sense.

  "This isn't real," he muttered under his breath.

  Yet the s remained. H. Glowing faintly in the dimly lit room.

  Then, a smooth, posed voice echoed directly into his thoughts.

  I am Tricera, the AI that will assist you in utilizing the Elite Boost System.

  Marcel flinched. He whipped his head around, sing his room as if expeg someoo be hiding in a er.

  Nothing.

  His breathing quied. "Who said that?" he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

  I am the system AI, Tricera. I exist to help you bee the greatest football pyer in history.

  Marcel’s throat went dry. Greatest in history? What kind of nonsense was this?

  His instincts told him to shut his eyes, to shake his head, to snap out of whatever dream this was. But when he opehem again, the s was still there.

  Still glowing.

  Still waiting.

  Taking a shaky breath, Marcel hesitantly reached out, his fingers moving toward the text. If this was a dream, he o prove it.

  The moment his fiips brushed the glowing interface—

  Ding!

  The s respoo his touch, flipping to a new se instantly.

  Marcel jerked his hand back. His heart pounded.

  This was real.

  Or at least, it wasn’t going away.

  For the few minutes, Marcel listened in stunned silence as Tricera expihe system.

  The Elite Boost System is a development tool that enhances your football abilities. It tracks progress, provides boosts, and accelerates yrowth as a pyer. But remember—football is a team sport. No system repce hard work, intelligence, and teamwork.

  "So… you’re saying this thing make me better than Messi? Than Ronaldo?" Marcel finally found his voice.

  That depeirely on you.

  Marcel’s eyes narrowed. "Wait… why me? Why did I get this?"

  A pause.

  Then, the answer came.

  You weren’t really chosen for any particur reason.

  Marcel blinked. "What?"

  You got lucky. The system didn’t pick you because you’re special or the most talented. It could have goo anyone. You just happeo be in the right pce at the right time.

  Marcel stared at the s, trying to process the words.

  So, no propheo destiny? Just… luck?

  The InterfaveiledThe s shifted again.

  Elite Boost System

  Level: 1 (0/500 XP)Name: MardongaDate of Birth: 17 May 2000 (14 years old)Height: 168 cmWeight: 64 kgPositio Winger / Right WingerSpecial Boosts: wo slots avaible)Lottery Tickets: 1

  Pyer AttributesMarket: LockedPoints: 0

  Marcel exhaled, his ill on edge.

  "Okay… so what does all this mean?"

  You are at Level 1. This gives you access to basic Bronze Boosts—small, temporary improvements in matches.

  XP (Experience Points) are gaihrough matches, trophies, and awards. Tougher games earn more XP.

  Points are given based on performance—goals, assists, overall impact. These points be used in the Market… but right now, the Market is locked. You must join a professional team to unlock it.

  Finally, you have a lottery ticket. This be used to win a random boost or extra points.

  Marcel absorbed the information slowly.

  So, this wasn’t some cheat code. He couldn’t just unlock god-tier abilities ht. He still had to earhing.

  Marcel then clicked ohe pyer attributes se.

  Pace: 73Dribbling: 82Shooting: 58Passing: 62Teique: 67Vision: 55posure: 55Agility: 75Fir: 80Bance: 62Deaking: 55Physical: 56Defending: 20Tactical Awareness: 50

  Overall: Developing Talent – Great potential but needs improvement in several areas.

  Marcel frowned, sing the numbers.

  His dribbling and fir were solid, which made sense. His pace retty good for his age. But the rest weren't really impressive.

  "So… based on this, do you think I’ll be ready for my trial mat two weeks?"

  With your current attributes, you’re already ahead of most youth pyers in Cameroon. But staying here won’t challenge you much.

  Marcel raised an eyebrow. "I’m already at that level?"

  Yes, but true growth requires tougher petition.

  Marcel leaned back, thinking.

  His mother’s words from earlier came ba.

  "Your father has done a lot to make this happen. Don’t let him down."

  He ched his fists.

  "I still want to win at least a trophy here in Cameroon before I think about going to Europe," he admitted.

  You develop here, but it will take longer. In Europe, the petition is far tougher that means higher rewards for victories.

  Tricera paused.

  But let’s focus on the present. You have a trial mat two weeks. Get some rest. Recovery is just as important as training.

  Marcel checked the time—10:30 PM.

  He y down, staring at the ceiling.

  His journey was just beginning.