Rain hammered against the rusted metal stands of the Accra Sports Stadium, turning the pitch into a swamp of thick, red clay.
Cold droplets stung seventeen-year-old Noah Mensah's eyes as he blinked through the downpour, his lungs screaming for oxygen.
Ahead of him, the ball skidded across the slick grass, splashing a wave of brown water into the air.
Noah chased it, his heartbeat drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs as his worn-out boots struggled for traction.
Plastic strips held his left sole together, a desperate makeshift repair that was currently dissolving in the mud.
"Run, you useless stick!" a voice bellowed from the touchline.
Charles Boateng, the chief scout of the Rising Stars Academy, stood under a massive black umbrella, his gold rings catching the dim afternoon light.
Beside him, several assistant coaches nodded in agreement, their clipboards protected by plastic sheets.
Noah ignored the insults, focusing entirely on the ball as he managed to shield it with his lean, underdeveloped frame.
Using his low center of gravity, he executed a sharp turn, leaving his marker sliding uselessly into the mud.
Space opened up in front of the penalty box, a brief window of opportunity to shoot or assist.
"Pass it, garbage!" yelled Kwesi Appiah, the academy's golden boy, who was sprinting down the wing.
Ignoring the demand, Noah spotted a gap in the bottom corner of the goal and swung his foot to strike.
Before his boot could make contact, a massive force crashed into his side like a runaway truck.
Kwesi had abandoned his run, launching himself into a vicious, late tackle that sent Noah flying through the air.
Noah hit the ground hard, sliding yards through the filthy water before his momentum finally stopped.
Pain flared in his hip and shoulder, a burning sensation that made him gasp for breath as he lay flat on his back.
No whistle blew.
Instead, the referee—one of the academy's junior coaches—simply waved his hands for play to continue.
"Get up, Mensah!" Kwesi laughed, jogging past Noah and spitting a glob of phlegm onto the grass near his head. "This isn't a place for babies who cry when they get touched."
Lying there in the mud, Noah stared up at the grey, weeping sky.
Memories of his mother flashed through his mind, her tired hands smelling of dried tilapia and raw spices from the Makola market.
She had skipped meals for six months just to buy him these boots, believing in his dream with a fierce, quiet devotion.
Every muscle in his body ached, but the thought of returning home to tell her he had failed was far more painful than any physical injury.
Dragging his aching body out of the puddle, Noah wiped a mixture of grit and saliva from his chin.
He forced himself to his feet, his muscles trembling from exhaustion and the bitter cold of the Accra rain.
For three hours, he had run himself ragged, trying to prove that his vision and passing could overcome his lack of physical bulk.
None of the scouts cared about vision.
Scouts wanted giants who could be sold to European clubs for millions based on physical raw data alone.
A sharp, double whistle suddenly pierced the air, signaling the end of the final trial match.
"Bring it in, everyone! Gather around the bench!" Boateng's voice boomed across the empty stadium.
Shuffling slowly, Noah joined the circle of shivering teenage hopefuls, his hands resting on his knees as he tried to stop his legs from shaking.
Most of the boys were built like sprinters, their muscles defined and their postures confident.
Noah stood among them like a ghost, thin and pale under his dark skin, his ribs visible beneath his soaked training bib.
Boateng stepped forward, his eyes scanning the lineup with a mixture of boredom and supreme authority.
He held a stack of registration slips in his hand, the physical proof of who would be offered an academy contract and who would return to the slums.
"Most of you showed today why you belong in the streets," Boateng began, his voice dripping with condescension.
He flipped through the papers, tossing several of them into a plastic bin at his feet.
"But a few of you have potential."
Noah's heart hammered in his chest, a desperate spark of hope flickering in his mind despite his disastrous physical performance.
He had created three clear-cut chances.
Surely, a scout of Boateng's experience would recognize the intelligence behind those plays.
"Noah Mensah," Boateng said, pulling a slip from the middle of the stack.
Noah stepped forward, his breath catching in his throat as he looked at the scout. "Yes, sir."
Boateng stared at him, his gaze running down Noah's thin frame before landing on his torn, taped boots.
"You have decent vision, Mensah," the scout said, a cruel smile touching the corners of his lips.
Noah's heart soared for a fraction of a second, his chest expanding with sudden relief.
"But vision is useless when you have the body of a starving child," Boateng continued, his tone turning ice-cold.
Snatching the registration slip with both hands, the chief scout ripped the paper clean down the middle.
He tore it again, and then again, until the pieces were nothing but tiny scraps.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Boateng tossed the white remnants into the red mud at Noah's feet.
"You are a talentless dreamer, boy," Boateng sneered, stepping closer so Noah could smell the cheap gin on his breath.
"Go home. Find a shop to sweep. You will never make it in football."
Such words felt like physical blows, knocking the wind out of Noah's lungs more effectively than Kwesi's tackle.
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, hot and shameful, but he forced himself to stare at the wet scraps of paper dissolving in the dirt.
Laughter erupted from the surrounding trialists, led by Kwesi, who shook his head in mock pity.
"I told you, stick," Kwesi whispered, leaning in as the group began to disperse.
"You don't belong on the same pitch as me."
Noah didn't answer.
His legs finally gave out, and he collapsed onto his knees, his hands sinking into the freezing red clay.
Sinking deep into the mire, his fingers clawed at the earth, clutching the mud as a wave of suffocating worthlessness washed over him.
Everything he had worked for, every sacrifice his mother had made to buy him those cheap boots, was gone.
He was seventeen, rejected, and branded a failure in front of everyone who mattered.
Rain poured down in sheets, washing the red mud over his knuckles as he stared blankly at the ground.
Darkness threatened to cloud his vision, a heavy, numbing despair that made him want to lie down and never get up.
Suddenly, a sharp, digital beep echoed inside his skull, loud enough to make him flinch.
Humming softly, a bright blue light flashed across his vision, reflecting off the puddles around his knees.
He blinked rapidly, thinking the exhaustion was finally causing him to hallucinate.
Instead of fading, the light coalesced into a sharp, holographic interface floating directly in front of his face.
[Legacy Collection System Initialization: 100% Complete.]
[Host identified: Noah Mensah. Age: 17. Status: Unregistered Amateur.]
[System Objective: Construct the ultimate footballing specimen through tactical acquisition.]
"What... what is this?" Noah muttered, his voice shaking as he looked around to see if anyone else was watching.
None of the coaches or players noticed.
Most of them were busy walking toward the locker rooms, laughing and talking about the upcoming season.
To them, Noah was just a broken boy crying in the rain.
[Rule 1: After every official match, the host can permanently copy one physical attribute, skill, or trait from any opponent on the pitch.]
[Rule 2: Only one attribute can be chosen per match. All other unselected attributes from that match will be permanently deleted from the collection pool.]
[Rule 3: Stolen attributes will integrate seamlessly into the host's body, bypass training limitations, and evolve with use.]
Noah's breath hitched as he read the words floating in the air.
A digital tally of the players on the field suddenly appeared on the right side of his vision, listing their names and key attributes in bright green text.
His eyes immediately locked onto one name at the top of the list: Kwesi Appiah.
[Kwesi Appiah - Attributes Available for Collection:]
[- Physical: Explosive Acceleration (Grade B+)]
[- Physical: Raw Strength (Grade B)]
[- Skill: Power Striking (Grade C+)]
Noah felt a sudden surge of heat rush through his veins, replacing the freezing chill of the rain.
This was real.
A divine power was offering him a chance to steal the very things that had made his rivals look down on him.
Clutching a handful of wet red clay, Noah realized his entire existence was about to change.
He didn't have to be the weak, talentless dreamer anymore.
He could build himself into a monster.
Just as Noah stands up, the system interface flashes blood-red with a warning: 'First collection opportunity expiring in 120 seconds. Target: Charles Boateng\'s prized prodigy, Kwesi Appiah.'