Marcel stepped through the front door, his heartbeat still rag from the excitement of the day. The moment he had dreamt about had finally arrived—he had passed the trial. He was officially a pyer fons FC Yaoundé’s U17 team. The thought alo another surge of adrenalihrough his veins.

  He barely took a moment to settle in befrabbing his phone. His father had to hear this. He quickly dialed the number, anticipation bubbling inside him as the line rang.

  “Hello, Dad!” Marcel greeted, uo tain his grin.

  “Marcel? How are you?” His father’s voice came through, warm but carrying the weight of authority, as always.

  “I’m good! What about you?” Marcel replied, his excitement barely cealed. “I just called to tell you—I passed the trial! I’m officially part ons FC Yaoundé’s U17 team now. And I’m going to work my to the first team soon!” His words came in a rush, spilling out in his eagerness.

  His father was silent for a moment, and Marcel could almost picture his serious expression. Then, finally, his father’s deep voice spoke again, steady but firm.

  “Is that true? Well done, son!” There ride in his tone, but it was quickly tempered with caution. “But don’t get too carried away. This is just the beginning. Making the team is ohing, staying there and proving yourself is another. You o stay disciplined. Keep your head down and work harder thahe real jourarts now.”

  Marodded instinctively, even though his father couldn’t see him. The words settled in his chest—a remihat this was just oep forward, not the final destination. “I know, Dad. I’m ready to put in the work.”

  “Good. Now that you're in a team, you have to be more careful. Less time fooling around. And for heaven’s sake, stop pying with the neighborhood kids—one wrong tackle, one bad fall, and your career could be over before it even starts.” His father’s tone greer. “You also o remember your family. Yrandmothers have been asking about you. They call your mother and me all the time, w why you never visit.”

  Marcel chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dad, I love my grandmothers, but you know they only speak Ewondo. It’s tough—I barely uand them.”

  His father let out a deep ugh, a rare but genuine sound. “Ah, the youth of today! Always in Frenever their native tongue. You have to work on that, Marcel. Language is part of who you are. You ’t only think about football—you o uand your roots too.”

  Marcel sighed, knowing his father had a point. “I know, I know. I’ll visit Grandma on Mom’s side tomorrow, and then I’ll see Grandma on your side too. But after that, I won’t have much free time. Training is going to get more intense.”

  “That’s what I want to hear,” his father said, satisfied. “Keep me updated on your progress. And don’t disappoint me, Marcel. You’ve taken the first step—now, you have to keep going.”

  Marcel smiled. “I won’t, Dad. I promise.”

  “Alright then. Good night, son.”

  “Good night, Dad.”

  After ending the call, Marcel leaned back against his pillow, exhaling deeply. His father’s words still echoed in his mind, a mix of praise and warning. He knew his father was right—this was just the beginning.

  But right now, he had something else to check.

  He sat up, eyes sharpening with anticipation. “Tricera, show me my interface.”

  A soft hum filled the room as a holographic s flickered to life in front of him, casting a faint blue glow across the dimly lit space.

  Elite Boost System

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

  Market: [Locked]Points: 0

  Marcel frowned slightly. No XP gaihat meant the trial match wasn’t ted as an official game.

  “Figures,” he muttered. No reward for trial matches.

  But then his gaze nded on something else. The lottery ticket.

  His fingers instinctively twitched. He still hadn’t used it.

  A flicker of curiosity stirred in his chest. What would he get? A boost to his dribbling? His speed? Maybe even something game-ging?

  He took a deep breath. “Tricera, use my lottery ticket.”

  Instantly, the system whirred to life, and in his mind, a virtual wheel appeared, spinning rapidly. The ses fshed by—different boosts, points, upgrades—eae a possibility.

  Marcel’s heart pounded as he watched the wheel slow down.

  ‘Lottery ticket activated. Random bonus sele in progress…’

  The needle hovered, shiftiween two rewards before finally clig into pce.

  gratutions!

  You have received the Team Boost: Defensive Cohesion +5%A description popped up below:

  Your team’s defensive cohesion has improved. Defenders now anticipate opposition moves better, filling gaps and w together to ralize attacks.

  Marcel blinked. ly what he was hoping for.

  “Team defense?” he muttered, rubbing his temple. He had been expeg something personal—something that boosted his own abilities. Not… this.

  For a few seds, disappoi lingered. But then, as he thought about it, he residered.

  This could actually be useful.

  The Académie de Football des Brasseries and de Yaoundé had some of the best youth squads in the try. Even if Marcel pyed brilliantly, he couldn’t carry a team alone. Defetered—especially in crucial matches where a single mistake could cost them everything.

  “I guess this will e in handy,” he murmured.

  The system interface updated.

  Special Boosts:

  Bronze Boost: Defensive Cohesion +5% (One slot avaible)His eyes lingered on the empty boost slot. What would a Silver, Gold, or even Ptinum boost feel like?

  Would he ever unloething truly game-breaking?

  Marcel shook his head, shutting the interface. That was a question for another day. Right now, his focus was clear.

  He had his first official mat a few days.

  And whether he had system buffs or not, he was going to prove himself—with or without help.

  Satisfied, Marcel exhaled and y back, staring at the ceiling. His mind drifted to the match ahead, imagining himself cutting past defenders, sg goals, making an impact.

  A small smirk tugged at his lips.

  He closed his eyes.

  ......

  ......

  The first rays of sunlight crept through the narro in the curtains, casting a golden hue over Marcel’s room. His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he simply y there, feeling the air against his skin.

  Then, the weight of the day ahead settled in his mind. Training. Improvement. Progress.

  Without hesitatiohrew off the thin bedsheet and sat up, rolling his shoulders to shake off the st remnants of sleep. He reached for his phone—5:45 a.m. Perfect timing.

  Marcel got up, stretched his arms, a out a deep breath. It was time to get to work.

  Stepping outside, he was greeted by the crisp, fresh air of the Fouda district. The sky ainted in soft hues of blue and e, the city not yet fully awake. A few vendors were already setting up their stalls, their voices low, while early risers made their way to work.

  Marcel tightened his ces and began his jog.

  His footsteps echoed rhythmically against the quiet pavement, his breathing steady. Each stride felt strong, eaent purposeful. As he ran through familiar streets, he let his mind wander.

  He imagined himself och, gliding past defenders, feeling the weight of the ball at his feet. The roar of an unseen crowd filled his mind, urging him forward.

  The ruhirty minutes, ending back at his home, where sweat g to his skin but satisfa filled his chest. His muscles were warm, his body energized. A good start to the day.

  But he wasn’t do.

  Grabbing his Brazuca ball, he stepped into the courtyard, where the dry ground made for a challenging surface. Perfect for ball trol.

  One hundred juggles. Then two huhree hundred. His feet moved in instinctive rhythms, the ball oug the ground. He transitioned into tricks—an around the world, followed by a double around the world, then a quick reverse step-over into a flick-up.

  Each touch was aension of himself.

  By the time he was done, his heart pounded, but he felt sharper, more in trol than ever.

  Satisfied, he finally headed inside for a quick breakfast.

  After washing up and finishing his meal, Marcel checked the time—almost noon.

  He grabbed his phone a a quick message to Christina saying he was ing to her pce.

  Leaving his apartment, he knocked on the Yamesse family’s doht o his own. The door opened a moment ter, revealing Nicole Yamesse, Christina’s mother.

  "Hello, Marcel," she greeted warmly, stepping aside. "e in, don’t just stand there."

  Marcel grinned. "Merci, Tantine Nicole."

  The living room felt familiar, the rge psma s still mounted on the wall, family photos decorating the space. It smelled of freshly brewed tea and home-cooked food, a f st.

  He greeted Hardy, Christina’s younger brother, with a quick fist bump.

  “Acer bi, where’s your sister?” Marcel asked, crossing his arms. "She knew I was ing, and I see you instead?"

  Hardy shrugged. "She just woke up. Still in her pyjamas."

  Marcel rubbed his forehead in disbelief. "ékié, Chrissy... ns."

  Almost as if she heard him, Christina appeared down the hallway, yawning, her hair still tousled from sleep.

  "Oh, babe! I fot!" she said, voice a mix of guilt and pyfulness. "I until 3 a.m. watg my soap opera. It was so good, I couldn’t stop! I’m sorry!"

  Marcel let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. "You’re unbelievable... Just go get ready. I’ll wait here."

  Christina grinned. "I’ll be quick, promise!" She pecked Marcel on the cheek before rushing back to her room.

  Marcel turo Hardy, shaking his head.

  "Bro, let's talk about the World Cup," Hardy said suddenly, flipping through TV els. "Cameroon is a disaster. Three games, three losses, zero points! And now, Alex Song is making headlines for elbowing Neymar. We’re a ughingstock!"

  Marcel’s jaw tightened. "It’s embarrassing. But holy, who do we have? Eto’o is past his prime. The rest of the squad? Not good enough."

  "I know," Hardy sighed. "But still... it’s sad watg us fall apart."

  Marcel leaned back. His eyes burned with quiet determination.

  "Just wait. Give me two or three more years, and I’ll bring Cameroon back to the top."

  Hardy looked at him, a skeptical.

  "I know you’ve got talent, but bro... you’re no Samuel Eto’o," Hardy muttered. "And even he couldn’t do much for us."

  Marcel smirked, leaning forward.

  "I’ll be better thao’o and eve in the world."

  Hardy burst out ughing.

  "Hahahaha! Abeg, bi, stop making me ugh! Not just the best in Africa, but the best in the world? Focus on being the best in Cameroon first before dreaming that big."

  Marcel grinned. "You’ll see."

  Christina finally reappeared, now properly dressed, looking effortlessly beautiful in a casual outfit. She smiled as she walked up to them.

  "Babe, I know you’ll make it," she said with fidence.

  Hardy sighed dramatically. "Ah, so you’re encing him too?"

  Christina’s eyes softened. "Whether he makes it or not... I’ll be there."

  Hardy gave a pyful shake of his head. "Alright, alright. If both of you believe in him, I guess I’ll just wait and see."

  Marcel stood up, linking arms with Christina as they prepared to leave.

  "Let’s go. We’ve got a whole day ahead."

  Hardy waved zily from the couch. "Enjoy, future Ballon d’Or winner."

  Marcel grinned.

  "Watch me."

  Marcel and Christina stepped out of the apartment, greeted by the inteernoo of Yaoundé. The sun was relentless, casting a golden haze over the Fouda district as the temperature soared. The streets buzzed with life, shopkeepers calling out to passersby, vendors dispying fresh fruit, clothing, aronics. The st of grilled meat and spices filled the air, mingling with the unmistakable aroma of hot asphalt. It ical summer day in the capital.

  They walked side by side toward the main road, their hands occasionally brushing. Marcel sed the street for a taxi, watg as one yellow car after another zipped past, each already filled with passengers. He sighed, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. After a few minutes, a taxi finally slowed down as he raised his hand. The driver rolled down the window, gng at them with mild impatience.

  "1500 FCFA for Mokolo market?" Marcel offered.

  The driver frowned. "1500? No, no. With this heat and traffic, it'll be at least 2000."

  "2000 is too much," Marcel tered. "There's barely any traffic right now."

  The driver shook his head. "If you don’t want to pay, find aaxi. Good luck." Without waiting for a response, he drove off, leaving Marcel standing there, frustrated.

  Christina shrugged beside him. "We’ll find one sooient."

  Aaxi approached, and Marcel stepped forward, determined. "1500 for Mokolo?" he asked again.

  The driver let out a shh. "Are you joking? Mokolo at this hour? 2000, take it or leave it."

  Marcel sighed, already feeling the heat pressing down on him. He tried again with another driver, only to be met with the same response. By the fourth reje, his patience was wearing thin. They had been standing in the scorg sun for almost half an hour.

  Christina pced a hand on his arm and stepped forward, fshing a fident smile as she fgged down the axi. The car came to a stop, and she leaned in toward the window. "2500 FCFA for Mokolo?" she offered casually.

  The driver hesitated before nodding. "Alright, get in."

  Marcel stared at her in disbelief. "2500? Really?"

  Christina grinned. "You wanted a taxi, didn’t you? Problem solved."

  Marcel couldn’t help but ugh as they slid into the backseat. The driver merged into the chaotic traffic, weaviween motorbikes that darted recklessly between cars. What should have been a quick trip turned into a slow, tense crawl through the city’s gridlocked streets. Street vendors walked between the cars, carrying trays of water bottles, fresh fruit, and fried snacks, their voices rising above the bring horns. The Makossa music pying on the radio added a rhythmic backdrop to the madness outside.

  Marcel looked out the window at the vibrant energy of the city—the painted advertisements on worn-down buildings, the children pying football in narrow alleyways, the makeshift market stalls overflowing with colorful fabrid household goods. As they he notorious Rond-Point Nlongkak, the gestion worsehe driver, unfazed, navigated through tight gaps, squeezing past rger cars with practiced ease.

  Despite the swelteri and the endless stop-and-go of traffic, Marcel felt at ease. The rhythmic beat of the music, the fort of Christina beside him, and the familiar sights of the city all blended into something strangely soothing. His thoughts drifted to the mat a few days. It would be his first major test with Dragons FC. He had trained hard for this moment, but now, it was time to prove himself och.

  After nearly forty minutes of slress, Mokolo market finally came into view. The sprawling, chaotic hub was alive with energy, packed with vendors shouting prices, ers haggling, and the stant movement of people navigating the narrow aisles. The smell of fresh produce, grilled fish, and the occasional whiff of inse filled the air. Marcel hahe driver the fare before stepping out into the frenzy.

  The moment they ehe market, Christina’s eyes lit up with excitement. She loved pces like this—the he bargaining, the endless options. Marcel, oher hand, had a specific goal in mind. He needed new socks for training. He had been wearing the same pairs too often, and with the important matches ing up, he needed fresh gear.

  They approached a stall dispying a variety of sportswear. The vendor, a heavyset man with a warm smile, greeted them eagerly. "Football socks? I have the best quality. You want the long ones or short ones?"

  "How much for these three?" Marcel asked, pointing at a set of bd white socks.

  The vendor rubbed his . "4500 FCFA."

  Marcel frowned. "4500? That’s too much. 3000."

  The vendor chuckled, shaking his head. "Look at the quality! These socks will st you a long time. 4500 is fair."

  Marcel sighed, gng at Christina, who simply smirked. "What about 3500?" he tried.

  The vendor hesitated, then finally nodded. "Alright, 4000. Final price."

  Marcel handed over the money, pocketing his new socks. As they moved through the market, Christina waoward a stall selling dresses. Her eyes nded on a flowing blue maxi dress with delicate ce detailing.

  "Marcel, look at this," she said, holding it up against her frame. "It’s beautiful, isn’t it?"

  Marcel grinned. "You want to try and haggle for it?"

  She nodded, stepping up to the vendor. "How much for this dress?"

  "10,000 FCFA," the woman behind the stall replied smoothly. "Handmade ce, very good quality."

  Christiated, then looked at Marcel. "10,000 is a bit much, right?"

  Marcel crossed his arms. "Definitely. Try 6000."

  Christina took a deep breath. "6000?" she asked with a polite smile.

  The vendhed. "No, no, impossible. 8000."

  "7000?" Christina tered.

  The vendor paused before finally relenting. "Alright, 7000. But that’s a bargain."

  Christina beamed as she handed over the money, holding the dress close as they tihrough the market. Marcel watched her excitement with amusement. She was happy, and that was enough for him.

  After another hour of expl, pig up a few small tris and clothes, they decided it was time to move on. They hailed aaxi, heading toward Marcel’s paternal grandmother’s house in Nkolfoulou.

  The farther they traveled from the city, the more the ndscape ged. The crete jungle gave way to lush greenery, the chaotic streets repced by quiet dirt roads. The jourook forty-five minutes before they finally arrived at a modest house tucked beh the shade of a rge mango tree. Sitting on a wooden stool in the courtyard, an elderly woman, her skihered with age but her eyes still sharp, looked up as Marcel stepped out of the car.

  "Mbombo!" she called out, her voice warm and full of love. She stood with the help of her wooden stick, embrag Marcel tightly.

  Marcel grinned. "Grandma, it’s good to see you."

  She pulled back, studying his face before nodding approvingly. "You look strong. Have you beeing well?"

  Marcel chuckled. "I try."

  He introduced Christina, who greeted his grandmother respectfully. They sat uhe tree, talking about family, life, and football. His grandmother listened ily as Marcel told her about his trial and his eam, her eyes lighting up with pride. She spoke in Ewondo, her words ced with wisdom, reminding him to stay humble and to never fet his roots.

  After receiving her blessings, they made their way to Mbal 2, where his maternal grandmother lived. The visit was just as warm, filled with stories of childhood and ughter. Marcel felt a deep sense of pea these moments, surrounded by family, reminded of where he came from.

  As they finally headed home, the sky had begun to darken, the city winding down. Walking Christina to her door, Marcel smiled as she held up the bag carrying her new dress.

  "Thanks for today," she said softly. "And for the dress."

  Marcel shrugged. "You liked it. That’s enough reason for me."

  She chuckled. "You’re too sweet."

  They shared a small, gentle kiss before she slipped inside. Marcel lingered for a moment, watg her disappear before turning toward his own home.

  ......

  ......

  Three days before the crucial match against Union Doua U17, Dragons FC Yaoundé U17 held their final interaining session at the Ngoa Ekélé military stadium. The te afternoon sun bore dowlessly, casting long shadows across the dusty pitch, but the heat did little to sap the energy of the young pyers. The session was crucial, despite Union Doua being sidered the weakest team in the group.

  Marcel stood o Jean-Pierre Mvondo, the team's t tral defender and the captain of the team, as they went through a series of stretches and fast sprints during warm-up. The heat pressed down on them, but Marcel was locked in, focused on preparing himself for what he knew would be a pivotal match. His first real test since joining Dragons FC roag, and he was determio prove he deserved his spot.

  The session kicked off with oouch passing drills, a rhythm-driven exercise desigo sharpen the pyers’ speed and prearcel thrived in these sequences, his touches , his movements fluid. His quick reas and ability to anticipate the pass made him stand out even among his more experieeammates.

  Ohe warm-up cluded, Emile directed the team into fitness drills, setting up es for acceleration and dire-ge exercises. Marcel, ever agile, weaved between them, his dribbling skills naturally ing into py. He khat his ability to create spad break past defenders would be crucial, especially when ing off the bench.

  After the fitness work, the training shifted to tactical exercises. Emile split the team into smaller groups, each fog on different aspects of the game. Jean-Pierre Mvondo joihe defenders, practig aerial duels and long throw-ins. Marcel, meanwhile, ced with the attag group, fog on quick ter-attacks. His role was to transition swiftly from defeo attack, colleg the ball deep and bursting forward, looking to either beat his marker or deliver a quick pass.

  The instrus were clear: swift transitions aal sharpness in key moments. Even though Marcel knew he wouldn’t start, his ce would e. As a winger, his speed and ball trol would be essential in breaking down Union Doua’s defense.

  The session culminated in a fast-paced six-a-side match, emphasizing ter-attag py—winning the ball back quickly and transitioning to offense in a matter of seds. Marcel often found himself leading these transitions, exploiting spad sending crosses into the box. His fidence grew with every touch, knowing that his preparation would soon pay off.

  As the sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow over the stadium, Coach Emile gathered the pyers in a semicircle on the grass. Sweat dripped from their faces, but all eyes were locked oactical board in front of them.

  “We’ll py 4-3-3,” Emile began, his voice firm. “Union Doua U17 is a team we beat, but we have to be smart.”

  He drew their formation on the board, detailing each pyer's role. The strategy for the first half emphasized patiend discipline.

  “We’re going to sit deep,” Emile tinued. “Let them e at us. Once we win the ball, we py long. We’ll leave one or two pyers up front for the ter-attack, and the wingers o drop back to help in defense.”

  Marcel watched closely, following every movement of Emile’s marker on the board. He saw the strategy unfold—Jean-Pierre, as the tral defender, would py a key role in ung quick ters with long balls to the forwards.

  “Jean-Pierre, you and the defense o move fast,” Emile instructed. “A quiterception, then unch the ball to the winger or forward. Union Doua will push hard, and that’s whe them.”

  Marcel knew he wouldn’t start, but he uood the importance of the pn. The team had to remain disciplined and wait for the right moment to strike.

  Emile then turoward him with a knowing smile. “You’ll start on the bench,” he said, but Marcel sehat his moment would e soon enough. “We’re ging our approa the sed half.”

  With his finger, Emile traew lines on the board, outlining a mgressive game pn.

  “When you e on, we press high. Win the ball back as quickly as possible and hit them with a fast transition. Marcel, you’ll be the key to speeding up the game.”

  Marcel’s heart raced as Emile expihe sed-half strategy. The high press would allow them tain possession quickly, and his speed would be critical in breaking through Union Doua’s defensive lines.

  “You’ll have a lot of freedom out there,” Emile added. “When you get the ball, the attag midfielder, right-winger, aer-forward will all make forward runs. They’ll create space for you to either cross or cut inside and take a shot. It’ll be up to you.”

  The pyers sat in silence, abs the pn. Marcel’s excitement alpable. The prospect of being at the ter of the team’s attack fueled his determination. His eyes glimmered with anticipation—this was his ce to shine.

  Emile cpped his hands together. “That’s all for today. Get some rest, and in three days, we’ll show Union Doua what Dragons FC is made of.”