The sun was still low when Amani stepped onto the dew-slick grass, his breath curling in the chilly air. Beneath his training jersey, his muscles still ached from the Future Cup's constant reminders of both triumph and toil. Yet his mind hummed with anticipation. He wasn't here for an easy recovery session. He was here to push the boundaries again.
Coach Pronk's voice cracked across the field like a whip.
"Five v five! Quick rotations! Two-touch limit!"
Amani joined his teammates in a small-sided game. He kept the strobe glasses tucked away in his bag for the moment, preferring, at least for this warm-up, to rely on the familiar comfort of full vision.
A throw-in came his way. Instinct took over: he feinted left, glanced once at the defenders, and snapped a pass straight through a sliver of space that seemed impossibly narrow. Malik, hovering on the opposite flank, collected it fluidly, took a single touch, and then fired the ball into the top corner. The net rippled.
A whoop of admiration rose from the small group, and a teammate clapped him on the back.
"There he is, the Future Cup MVP!"
Coach Pronk offered a faint smirk of approval. "We can't complain when the kid's on form," he muttered.
Then, just as Amani jogged back into position, he felt that distinct pulse in his peripheral vision, a subtle dimming, like someone had turned the lights down a notch.
***
<< SYSTEM ALERT: OVER-RELIANCE ON VISUAL INPUT >>
<< INITIATE STROBE PROTOCOL. >>
***
He froze, exhaling. Already, the System was reminding him: comfort wasn't the goal.
By midday, the session had intensified. Coach Pronk had them playing continuous 5v5 matches, with fresh players subbing in every few minutes. The crisp day had warmed; sweat slicked Amani's hair to his forehead. Steeling himself, he finally pulled out the strobe glasses. The tinted lenses caught the sun, reflecting an iridescent gleam, as if announcing their presence.
He set them over his eyes. Instantly, the world began to flicker; on, off, on, off each blink splitting his vision into stuttering frames. After half a minute, he lifted them, fighting a wave of nausea.
Maybe I can manage without them…
***
<< MISSION REJECTION PENALTY: 48-HOUR SYSTEM LOCK >>
***
A bright lance of pain shot through his temple, and a wave of dizziness followed. The message was clear: if he removed the glasses now, the System would punish him by freezing its enhancements altogether no further growth, no deeper skills. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing the urge to curse.
"Fine," he muttered under his breath. "Let's suffer."
Another small-sided match kicked off. This time, the strobe effect butchered his timing. A routine bounce veered out of reach. A simple first touch rolled off his boot like he'd never juggled a ball in his life. Then, attempting to outrun Malik, the field flickered out entirely and he crashed face-first into a wet patch of mud.
Laughter erupted around him. Even Malik, standing off to the side, couldn't hide a grin. "Cyborg's busted! Someone call Dr. Saris!"
Assistant Coach De Vries calmly took notes, his expression unreadable. Pronk folded his arms, muttering, "What is that boy doing…?"
A few minutes later, Dr. Saris, the academy's sports physician, stormed onto the field, anger etched into his features.
"Which one of you authorized Formula 1-grade strobes for a sixteen-year-old?" he snapped, voice echoing.
Coach Pronk shrugged. "Not me."
De Vries sighed. "He brought them on his own. We're… letting him experiment."
Saris turned, gaze falling on Amani, who was still half-caked in mud, chest heaving. The boy lifted his head defiantly, refusing to let a flush of embarrassment show.
The doctor's anger softened, replaced by reluctant respect. "He's really trying to learn something, isn't he?"
Pronk offered no reply, only a measured look. Sometimes, dedication demanded madness.
The locker room erupted in rowdy banter the moment Amani trudged inside, caked in mud from head to toe. Tijmen, towel slung over his shoulder like a cape, flailed his arms in exaggerated horror. "Dude, you almost slid straight into the sprinkler system! I swear I heard it scream for mercy."
Across the bench, Amrabat let out a wheezing laugh as he rummaged through his duffel bag. "You should've worn a crash helmet! I was about two seconds away from calling the groundskeeper to turn off the water so you wouldn't drown."
A small pack of teammates erupted in cackles, shoulders jostling in that half-friendly, half-roasting way they did whenever someone made a ridiculous slip-up. Malik sauntered over, a grin stretched across his face so wide it nearly reached his ears. "Man, that strobe routine was like a disco on steroids. I kept waiting for the bass drop, and neon lights figured the team DJ was about to start spinning tracks!"
Amani, trying to rub a stubborn clump of dried turf from his cheek, mustered a smirk. "I'm not wearing these glasses for fun, you know. I'm trying to level up my game."
Malik made an exaggerated show of tipping an invisible hat."Oh, pardon me, Mr. Strobe Master, leveling up like he's in some real-life video game."
Snorts of laughter broke out again. Amani's gaze flickered to the grimy mirror above the rust-stained sink. His reflection stared back, looking more like a swamp creature than a Future Cup MVP. Seeing himself in such a state sent a jolt of something bittersweet through him: he was proud to be pushing his limits, but it sure didn't look cool. It also didn't go with his haircut.
He straightened, meeting Malik's eyes with quiet resolve. "Laugh all you want. I'll find my rhythm, and when I do, you'll be the ones dancing to it."
He waggled his eyebrows in a mock challenge, which earned a few scattered snickers. Malik feigned a gasp. "Ooh, big words for a guy whose first touch just took a dirt nap!"
But there was a spark of admiration in Malik's grin, and Amani could feel it. Beneath the jabs and laughter, they knew he was onto something just crazy enough to work. And if it meant stumbling through the mud a few times, then so be it. Amani Hamadi was ready to waltz through the flicker until the game itself bowed to his new vision.
When the rest of the squad had cleared out, Amani remained. The late afternoon sun cast elongated shadows across the pitch. Cones were scattered, a few equipment bags tossed near the sideline, and a lone trash bin stood where the assistant coaches had left it an impromptu target.
Once more, the glasses went on. The strobe flicker returned, fracturing his vision into a harsh mosaic. He could almost feel the System overlay creeping in: data from the morning's failures painting ghostly red arcs and silhouettes, reminding him of every botched pass and every clumsy misread.
***
<< INITIATE AUDIO ANALYSIS >>
***
He inhaled, focusing on the ambient noise. A door hinge squeaking somewhere… a pigeon fluttering near the stands… the faint hum of traffic beyond the fences… Attempt after attempt, he flung passes across the box, trying to guide them into the trash bin's open maw.
Attempt #12: The ball ricocheted wide. He cursed, then paused. Wait… right before I passed, I recalled Amrabat's grunt from earlier… He replayed the memory, trying to isolate the moment he lost concentration.
Attempt #19: He listened for any echo or shift in balance. His own boots squeaked in a distinct pattern, reminding him of how Niels, one of his bigger teammates, pivoted. But he overcorrected, sending the ball skimming past the bin.
On the 20th attempt, he merged everything: the faint shift in his own footwork, the mental picture of the field, the sense of a defender's position from memory. He feinted right, flicked the ball left, and watched it roll precisely into the bin with a resounding THUNK.
For a heartbeat, disbelief froze him. Then euphoria cascaded through his veins.
***
<< ATTEMPT 20: SUCCESS >>
<< SCANNING DURING VISUAL LOSS CONFIRMED. >>
***
Sweat dripped down his temples, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He crouched, hands braced on his knees, gulping in air. This was the glimpse of payoff he'd craved.
The stadium's floodlights hummed to life, illuminating the training ground with bright artificial glare. Coach Pronk emerged from the far entrance, clipboard tucked beneath his arm. His eyes narrowed in mild disapproval when he spotted Amani standing alone at the center circle. The boy's posture was tense, the strobe glasses perched firmly on his face. A half-full bucket of balls sat at his feet like a faithful companion.
"You'll wreck your knees before tomorrow," Pronk said, his flat tone concealing a grudging hint of respect.
Amani rose, breathing heavily. "Ten passes. Press me."
Pronk's whistle cut through the evening air. A few groundskeepers who'd been gathering stray cones turned their heads. To Amani's surprise, Nabil, a first-team winger with a reputation for lightning pace, also strolled over, eager to shake off some rust after rehabbing an ankle tweak.
And guarding the far goal was none other than Rob Van Dijk, the forty-three-year-old second-choice senior keeper and newly minted goalkeeper coach for the academy.
"Press him," Pronk ordered. "No mercy."
The two groundskeepers joined Nabil and another older academy player, effectively forming a four-man press. Rob Van Dijk lingered near the box, arms folded, watchful. The flickering strobe sequence intensified as Amani twisted the dial on the glasses, bracing for the chaos.
In the first flicker of light, he saw Nabil's wide stance and recognized the man's signature quick burst. The next blink was darkness. Then, half a second later light again he glimpsed a groundskeeper advancing from the left. Blackout. Light. Blackout.
Amani drew in a breath, listening for shuffling feet, picking up the short, raspy breaths of the defenders. Then in one fleeting flash, he flicked the ball wide, recalling a move he'd learned watching Malik quick, purposeful, like a hinge snapping shut.
First pass: He played a crisp one-two to the nearest cone, controlling it on the return as if it were a teammate. Nabil tried to close him down, but Amani slipped past on instinct.
Second pass: He spun away from two converging groundskeepers, losing the ball momentarily in the darkness but recovering just in time to toe-poke it to safety. It skittered dangerously close to the sideline, yet stayed in play.
Third, fourth, fifth… each pass battered Amani's senses. The strobe effect made it feel like he was in a slow-motion stop-start film reel. He had to rely on footstep counts, the rasp of someone's breath, a faint grunt of exertion.
Rob Van Dijk called out from the goal, offering pointers in his gravelly voice: "Watch your angles, kid don't forget your pivot!" Amani barely registered the advice; his mind was locked on the swirl of defenders. Nabil tested him twice with rapid presses, forcing him to pivot blind.
By the time he reached the tenth pass, Amani's lungs were on fire, and his shirt clung to him like a second skin. A strong body, one of the groundskeepers lunged in, but Amani sensed him in the final flicker. He spun, hooking the ball behind his back. For an instant, time stretched: darkness swallowed his vision, but the movement felt right.
He heard the soft thud of the ball settling on grass behind him, safe from the outstretched foot. When light returned, the pass had found open space and Rob Van Dijk calmly scooped it up in his gloves, nodding in approval.
Exhaustion finally set in, and Amani half-collapsed against the center-circle marker, hands propped on his hips. He sucked in deep gulps of air. Of the ten passes, three had been near-perfect, five acceptable, and two fumbled into messy recoveries. For someone effectively training in half-second bursts of sight, it felt like he'd pulled off a minor miracle.
Coach Pronk strode over, arms folded. "You're using the blackouts to listen," he acknowledged with a curt nod. "Good." He tossed Amani a water bottle with a flick of his wrist. "But you look ridiculous."
Amani's weary grin surfaced as he snagged the bottle out of midair. "I'll take ridiculous," he gasped, "if it means learning to see without seeing."
Somewhere behind them, Nabil and the groundskeepers peeled away, bantering about the kid with the blinking lenses. Rob Van Dijk lingered a moment longer, regarding Amani with a mix of curiosity and respect. Then, with a final clap of his gloves, the veteran keeper turned and headed back to the bench.
Amani wiped sweat from his brow, heart still thudding. He could feel the System's silent hum, like an invisible referee tallying every success and failure. Ridiculous or not, he'd proven one thing tonight: if he could withstand the pitch-black intervals of those strobe glasses, he might just discover a whole new level to his game.
Late that night, or rather, in the early hours of morning, Amani sat upright in his cramped dorm bed. His head throbbed as if tiny hammers struck behind his eyes. Beneath the flickering glow of a bedside lamp, he pressed a tissue to his nose red smears dotted the white paper. His stomach twisted in alarm, but he forced down panic. Overexertion, that was all.
He checked the corner of his vision, where the System's interface lingered, dim but insistent.
***
<< 62 HOURS REMAINING >>
<< PHASE 1 COMPLETION: 38% >>
***
Only a little more than a third done, with two and a half days to go. He pressed his palm to his forehead, blinking away the ache. A quiet dread mingled with a fierce determination. Could I endure this pace physically and mentally for another 62 hours?
He flopped back onto his pillow, letting out a shaky breath. Even now, he felt the faint presence of The Black Box skill, like a patient observer, waiting for him to push further. In the hush of the night, he could almost sense it pulling him onward.
A wry smile curved his lips as he closed his eyes. "Then let's play chess," he whispered to the empty room, as though daring the System to make its next move.
The strobing lights may have taken their toll, but the promise of mastering them was too powerful to ignore. He would keep going blood, sweat, mud, and all until this new way of seeing became second nature. For the sake of the boy who dreamed of rewriting the game's geometry, no sacrifice felt too great.
***
Any Kind of Engagement is appreciated.