The cold German wind sliced through Vihaan Singh's jacket as he sat hunched on a rusting bench outside Schalke 04's youth training ground. His fingers, stiff with cold, curled into the thin fabric of his tracksuit pants. His breath fogged the air, but it wasn't the weather that made his heart pound.
It was fear.
He knew what was coming.
Inside the office just beyond the glass, Coach Müller—stern, stocky, and notoriously blunt—flipped through a stack of evaluation reports. Vihaan's name was somewhere in there. Not in bold. Not circled. Just… there. A name on the list of kids who hadn't made the cut.
Once upon a time, Schalke's academy had been hallowed ground—legends like Neuer and Özil had walked these halls. But that was before. Before the club was forced down into Bundesliga 2. Before budget cuts turned dreams into numbers.
And Vihaan? He was a liability. A number that didn't add up.
Too short to hold the midfield. Too weak to hold off a defender. Not fast enough to chase the ball. Not smart enough to read the game. Just 5'5", fifty kilos soaking wet. All bone and breath and burning desire that didn't seem to get him anywhere.
No goals. No assists. No highlights.
Just a name.
He shut his eyes, trying to hold back the frustration. Every day for the last year he'd trained until his legs gave out—first to arrive, last to leave—and yet, it never translated onto the pitch. Others shone. He faded.
He'd feared this moment. Maybe part of him had always known it would come.
And still—he wanted it. More than anything.
The door creaked open. Coach Müller stood there, clipboard in hand.
"Vihaan, komm rein."
His legs moved on their own. Cold and heavy.
The office smelled of cheap coffee and damp carpet. The coach didn't look up as Vihaan entered. Just slid a single sheet of paper across the table.
"You know why you're here."
Vihaan nodded.
Müller exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Your progress has stalled. The club's in no position to carry players who don't develop."
A pause.
"I'll be straight with you. If things don't change by season's end, we're letting you go."
Vihaan blinked. A flicker of something passed through him—shock, maybe. Or relief. At least he wasn't being cut. Not yet.
Müller finally met his eyes. "You have three months. Show me you belong."
Vihaan nodded again, the weight of the paper in front of him far heavier than it looked.
The meeting was over.
Outside, the black Toyota Corolla waited by the curb. The engine idled. His mother, wrapped in a thick shawl, stood leaning against the hood, arms folded tightly across her chest.
She took one look at him and frowned.
"Kya hua, beta?"
He didn't answer. Just got in the car.
She slid into the driver's seat, adjusted the mirror, and sighed. "Football, football, football. Is this what life is now? If you studied even half as hard—"
He stared out the window. Streetlights smeared gold across the glass.
"You're not eating enough," she muttered. "So thin. I told you—drink milk. But no, who drinks milk when Messi doesn't, right?"
That made him chuckle, just a little. His mom didn't understand football, not really. But she understood him.
"What did he say?" she asked softly.
"He's giving me until the end of the season."
A beat of silence.
"Then make it count," she said.
Home was a small third-floor apartment in Gelsenkirchen. Old parquet floors. A faint smell of turmeric and fresh bread. Familiar warmth.
His father looked up from his dinner as they walked in. "You're late," he said, then caught Vihaan's face. He didn't ask. Just passed him a plate.
Arjun, his older brother, was already halfway through a second helping of sabzi. "Coach give you the axe yet?"
Vihaan didn't answer. Arjun grinned, but there was understanding behind the tease. He'd been through the same grind once—chasing football before switching to sports management.
Suddenly, a small blur tackled Vihaan from the side.
"Bhaiyaaaa! Did you score?"
His ten-year-old sister, Riya, clung to him like a koala. Her eyes sparkled with admiration.
"Bhaiya's gonna be better than Ronaldo," she declared.
He smiled and ruffled her hair. If only belief could be transferred like that.
Dinner passed in the blur of conversation. Arjun cracked jokes. Their father asked about school. Riya argued about who the best striker in the world was.
But Vihaan barely spoke. His mind was a thousand miles away.
That night, as he lay in bed, the quiet was deafening. He stared at the ceiling, replaying Müller's words. Three months.
Was he chasing a ghost?
His hands trembled as he pressed them to his face.
"I'm not good enough," he whispered. "Maybe I never was."
Then—ding.
A sharp sound, almost electronic, echoed through his skull. He sat up. The room blurred. The air shimmered.
And then it appeared.
A faint, glowing screen hovered in front of him. Blue. Minimalist. Almost unreal.
[INFINITE POTENTIAL SYSTEM ACTIVATED]Welcome, Vihaan Singh.
His eyes widened.
Words faded in and out. Stats began appearing.
[PLAYER PROFILE]Name: Vihaan SinghAge: 15Position: UndeclaredOverall Rating: 42Potential: ???
Physical:Pace: 51Stamina: 45Strength: 39Jumping: 41
Technical:Dribbling: 46Passing: 48Shooting: 40Defending: 36
Mental:Vision: 43Composure: 39Awareness: 42Work Rate: 55
"Forty-two?" he muttered. "That's... barely above Sunday league."
Before despair could set in, another message appeared.
[Starter Pack Unlocked]You have received:– Basic Stats View– 1 Conditioning Pill (+5 Stamina)– 1 Growth Pill (Physical Enhancement)– +20 Free Stat Points
Vihaan stared at the screen. His pulse thundered.
He didn't understand what this was—or why it had appeared—but one thing was clear.
A second chance had arrived.
And he wasn't going to waste it.