Coach Emile stood in the ter of the huddle, his pyers gathered around him. He took a deep breath before addressing them.

  "I 't bme you, boys. You gave everything to e back from behind and almost won it. The defense, midfield, and attack were all strong—that’s why we mao equalize." He paused, looking around at their tired, disappointed faces. "But that st-minute goal... that was on me. I pushed you all forward without thinking about proteg our defehat mistake is mine."

  The pyers looked up, their expressions shifting slightly.

  "But this is a lesson for all of us," Emile tinued, his voice firm. "We’ll learn from it, aime, we won’t make the same mistake. Heads up, boys! We’re not eliminated. I don’t want to see sad faces. Losing is part of football. What matters is how you stand back up and fight harder the ime."

  Slowly, the pyers straighteheir backs, the fire of determination repg their initial disappoi.

  As Coach Emile turo leave, he stopped beside Marcel, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Don’t bme yourself. It was a team mistake, and you pyed well in the sed half. Keep pying like that, and you'll have a bright future."

  Marodded, still processing the words. He wasn’t pletely over the loss, but the disappoi fueled something inside him—he would e back stronger.

  After ging out of his kit, he stepped outside, where his mother was waiting for him. She hadn’t been able to watch the game, but she had e to pick him up.

  ……

  ……

  Marcel walked toward his mother’s car, his head hanging low. Despite the coach’s encement, the sting of his first defeat lingered. He knew even the best pyers in the world had lost matches, and that this was just a youth tour, but none of that made it hurt any less. He had never realized just how petitive he was until now.

  He ched his fists. He o py better in the match. He o win.

  "Marcel!"

  He barely registered his mother’s voice, his thoughts still tangled in frustration.

  If even the greatest pyers lost, then he would just have to make sure he lost as little as possible in his career. He would—

  "Marcel!"

  The loud honk of a passing car snapped him out of his thoughts. He jerked his head up, stepping back just in time to avoid walking straight into the road.

  "Marcel!" Frane shouted, exasperation and in her voice. "Do you want to get hit by a car?! I've been calling you over and over! What's wrong with you?"

  "Sorry, Mom," Marcel muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Frane sighed, gng at his downcast expression. "How was the match? Did you win?"

  Marcel kept his head down and mumbled, "We lost."

  Frane didn’t hear him at first, but one look at his face told her everything. She reached out, pulling him into a f embrace.

  "It's okay, sweetheart," she said, gently rubbing his back. "You'll do better match."

  She pulled away slightly and looked at him. "This is just a small setback. From what I uand, you're not eliminated yet, right? That means you still have a ce to win the whole tour."

  Marodded slightly but said nothing.

  The ride home was silent. Fraried saying a few more words of encement, but she could tell her son wasn’t in the mood to talk. She let him be, knowing he ime to process the loss on his own.

  Ba his room, Marcel y on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind was restless.

  Maybe he should have used his special boost.

  A defensive boost would have been perfe a match like that. It wasn’t even a temporary skill—it erma increase.

  But if he started relying on the system now, at the youth level, wouldn’t he just bee depe on it?

  He wao py football before the system ever appeared. If it had never shown up, he would still have chased his dream. He o prove that he could succeed without relying on it.

  That settled it.

  For the rest of the tour, he wouldn’t use the system—no matter how difficult things got.

  Befoing to sleep, he opened his interfae st time.

  [Elite Boost System]

  Level: 1 (10/500 XP)

  Name: Mardonga

  Date of Birth: 17 May 2000 (14 years old)

  Height: 168 cm

  Weight: 64 kg

  Positio Winger / Right Winger

  Special Boosts:

  Bronze Boost: Defensive Cohesion +5% (One slot avaible)

  Lottery Tickets: 0

  Pyer Attributes

  Market: Locked

  Points: 21

  Marcel stared at the glowing s of his system, his eyes sing over his updated stats. His points had increased, and his XP had gone up slightly.

  He frowned. Something didn’t add up.

  Last time, when he had two goals and two assists, he had gained four points and two XP for the goals, and two points and two XP for the assists. That meant each goal was worth two points and one XP, and each assist gave him one point and one XP.

  But this time, he had only scored ond assisted ohat should have been three points and two XP.

  So why did he receive five points and three XP?

  "Tricera, why did I receive more rewards than what I actually tributed? Are you saying I got rewarded just for losing? That doesn’t make sense, does it?"

  The system’s voice responded in its usual calm tone.

  "Your rewards depend on the level of your oppo pared to your team. If you are the favorite to win and lose, you will receive no points or XP. However, if you are the underdog and the match is closely tested, you may still earn rewards. The gap in skill level determihe amount of XP and points awarded."

  Marcel processed that information. It made sense. Dragons FC wasn’t supposed to win against Brasseries Academy. They were one of the best youth teams in the try, ahey had pushed them to the limit, almost stealing a victory.

  "This system is desigo reward effort, not just results," Tricera added.

  Effort. Not just winning.

  Marcel exhaled slowly, letting the idea settle. He still hated losing, but at least he khat as long as he pyed well, he wouldn’t walk away empty-handed.

  Still, this wasn’t enough. He didn’t want just "effort"—he wao win.

  He closed the system and turned onto his side, staring at the dim glow of his bedroom wall. His hands ched into fists uhe b.

  match, he had to win. No matter what.

  ……

  ……

  The match against de Yaoundé had been as difficult as predicted. The first half ended in a goalless draw, with both teams creating opportunities but failing to vert. The game was a relentless bad-forth battle, as her Dragons For Yaoundé preferred to hold onto possession for long.

  The pace was intense, with every duel fought fiercely. Pyers lunged into challenges, bodies g as tackles flew in. It was the kind of game where skill alone wasn't enough—physicality pyed just as big a role.

  Marcel, as expected, was a nightmare for Yaoundé’s defenders. Each time he touched the ball, he drew immediate pressure. No single defender could stop him one-on-one, so they resorted to a different tactic—fouling him whenever he looked dangerous. In the first half alone, Marcel had been brought down five times, each challenge rougher tha.

  Yaoundé’s pyers had made him their primary target, their game pn simple: rough him up and disrupt his rhythm. The referee had already brandished four yellow cards against their team, all for fouls on Marcel. Yet, despite the repeated punishment, Marcel endured, refusing to back down.

  By halftime, his patience was wearing thin. He was never oo pin, but this time, frustration had begun to creep in. These weren’t pyers his age—some were owo, or even three years older than him. The differen physicality arent, but he wasn’t about to let that intimidate him.

  In the locker room, Coach Emile could sehe tension in his team.

  “You’re pying well, boys,” he said, his voice carrying authority. “We’re just missing a bit of luck. The goal will e if we stay focused.”

  He then turned his attention to Marcel. “Calm down. Don’t let them get to you. That’s exactly what they want. They know they ’t stop you fairly, so they’ll try to rattle you, frustrate you, and make you lose trol. Let them keep fouling you—eventually, they’ll see red. That’s all the proof you hat they ’t handle you.”

  Marcel took a deep breath and he coach was right. If they kept pying like this, Yaoundé would eventually punish themselves.

  The sed half began with even more iy. Dragons FC responded in kind, pying with mgression. They too received yellow cards—three of their pyers were now booked—but they refused to be pushed around.

  Ih minute, Marcel found himself on the left wing with two Yaoundé defenders closing iopped abruptly, standing over the ball, shifting his weight as if preparing to make a move. His feet danced around the ball, exeg quick, deliberate feints without toug it.

  The defenders hesitated. Marcel smirked. They’re waiting for me to it first.

  Then, with a sudden movement, he pushed the ball outward, toward the fnk. Both defenders reacted instantly, stepping in that dire—only for Marcel to cut inside sharply, exeg a reverse estico, squeeziween them.

  He was in the box now, eyes locked on goal. He he ball forward, setting up a shot—

  CRASH!

  A defender lunged in recklessly, his tackle catg Marcel’s legs instead of the ball. Marcel stumbled forward, losing bance, crashing onto the ground.

  Fweeeeeee!!!

  The referee’s whistle cut through the chaos. He immediately poio the penalty spot.

  Despite winning the foul, Marcel had had enough. He sprang to his feet and shoved the defender who had tackled him.

  The pyer fell to the ground, rolling theatrically, clutg his face as if he had been struck.

  Marcel gred at him in disbelief.

  “Stand up, little wimp!” he barked, his voice ced with anger. “I barely touched you pared to what you all did to me this whole match!”

  He took a step forward, fists ched, but Jean was already there, blog him.

  “Marcel, stop,” Jean said firmly, gripping his shoulders. “They’re baiting you into a red card. Don’t give them what they want.”

  By now, Yaoundé’s pyers had surrounded Marcel, but Dragons FC’s squad was quick to step in, f a protective barrier.

  Fweeeeeee! Fweeeeeeeeeee!!!!

  The referee blew his whistle repeatedly, f his way between the pyers to prevent aion.

  He firmed the penalty and turo the defender who itted the foul, brandishing a yellow card—and then a red. The defender had already been booked earlier. Yaoundé was down to ten men.

  Then, the referee turoward Marcel. “Calm down,” he warned before reag into his pocket. A yellow card for Marcel.

  Mararrowed his eyes, feeling a sense of injustice. After all those fouls on me, I get booked for a tiny push?

  He exhaled sharply, gring at the referee. As he walked away, he flicked his hand dismissively over his shoulder, muttering under his breath.

  The referee shook his head with an amused smirk. “Kids these days…” he muttered. Theurned his attention back to the penalty taker.

  Dragons FC’s striker stepped up to the spot, pg the ball down, hands on his hips, staring at it ily.

  Fweeeee!!!

  The referee signaled for the shot.

  The striker took a deep breath, took a short run-up, and struck the ball ly—sending the keeper the wrong way.

  GOAL!

  0-1! Dragons FC had finally broken the deadlock.

  The Yaoundé pyers smmed their fists on the ground in frustration, while Marcel and his teammates ran to the goal scorer, celebrating.

  For the remainder of the match, Yaoundé parked the bus, choosing to sit deep and absorb pressure rather than push for an equalizer. With a man down, they couldn’t risk leaving gaps at the back. Dragons F the other hand, chose not to overit. They had learned from their st mato unnecessary risks.

  The referee blew for full time.

  0-1!

  Dragons FC had secured the victory, finishing the group stage with two wins, o, and six points, advang to the semi-finals of the Brasseries Tour.

  As the team celebrated, Marcel stood there, breathing heavily, still feeling the aches of the tless fouls he had suffered.

  Jean patted him on the back. “You good?”

  Marcel exhaled. “Yeah. But I swear, I’ve never been kicked this mu my life.”

  Jean chuckled. “Wele to Cameroonian football.”

  Coach Emile approached them, g his hands. “Good job, boys. We pyed smart this time. That’s how you win matches. We’re not dohough—the semi-finals are .”

  Marcel’s lips curled into a determined smirk.

  This tour wasn’t over. If anything, it was just beginning.

  ......

  ......

  The sun hung low over the training ground ons FC, casting long shadows as the pyers gathered around Coach Emile, who stood at the ter, arms crossed, surveying his team with a look of pride. The air was still heavy from the iy of the tour, but today wasn’t for training—it was fnition.

  The boys stood in a tight semi-circle, sweat still ging to their skin from their warm-down session. Some had their hands on their hips, others stretched absentmindedly, but all were listening ily.

  Coach Emile cleared his throat before speaking. "Boys, before anything else, I want to say gratutions." His voice carried the weight of a man who had seen tless pyers e and go, but right now, there was genuine pride behind it. "You made it out of a group that had both Brasseries Academy and Yaoundé. That is not an easy feat."

  There were nods, a few murmurs of agreement, but no one spoke.

  "Yes, we lost against Brasseries Academy. But o does not define us. What defines us is the way we respohe way we fought back against Yaoundé, refused to be intimidated, and took trol when it mattered. That’s what I want you to remember."

  His gaze swept across them, pausing momentarily on some of the key pyers who had stepped up—Jean, who had been a wall in defehe striker, who had scored the decisive penalty; and, of course, Marcel, whose ability to ge a game was now undeniable.

  "Now, we are in the semi-finals against Kadji Sports Academy. Two games away from the championship." His voice hardened slightly, the warmth repced with something sterner. "We did not fight this hard just to get here. Now that we’re in this position, I expect you to give everything you have left. There is no reason we ’t win this tour."

  A few of the pyers exged looks, the determination in their eyes reigniting.

  "A me tell you something else." Coach Emile paused for effect, allowing tension to build. "This tour isn’t just about lifting a trophy. From this point forward, there will be eyes on you. Scouts from the national team. Scouts from the first team. They will be watg closely."

  Silence.

  "If you prove yourself here, there is a real ce that some of you could be called up to represent Cameroon in the U-17 Afri Championship qualifiers against Ghana this September." His gaze flickered over them, letting the weight of his words sink in. "And if you do well there, who knows? You might even make it to the main petitio February."

  A ripple of excitement coursed through the squad. The idea of wearing the national jersey—of pying for Cameroon—was something many of them had dreamed of sihey first kicked a ball.

  Marcel ched his fists slightly, his heart beating a little faster. The national team? That was his goal since beginning this tour. Sure, he wao go pro, but representing Cameroon? That was the first step in achieving his dream.

  Coach Emile cpped his hands together, breaking the moment. "So noart from the trophy, you have another reason to push yourselves to the limit." His lips curled into a smirk. "No one remembers the pyers who stopped at the semi-finals. But everyone remembers the champions."

  That final statement hit hard.

  "Now go home, rest. Recover properly. Because ime we meet, we prepare for war."

  The team let out a collective "Yes, Coach!", their voices firm and filled with purpose.

  As they began dispersing, small versations sparked between teammates—whispers about Kadji Sports Academy, about the national team, about what could be . Marcel, however, lingered for a moment, watg Coach Emile as he walked toward the toue.

  There was no doubt in his mind anymore. This was bigger than just oour.

  This was the start of something much greater.