My system allows me to copy talents

Yang couldn’t bring himself to respond. He continued gasping for air, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. Having pushed himself to the brink of collapse, even keeping his consciousness felt like a battle.

Those words didn’t bring respite. Instead, they grated against him.

What was this old man even talking about?

”This is the fifth time this week we’ve done this extra training.” The coach’s voice carried no anger—only concern. ”Though I want to commend your seriousness toward the sport, I’ll have to remind you again: rest is just as important.”

The old man crouched down, settling into a squat beside the prone youth.

”There isn’t a need for me to show up here. I could just force you to sit out.” He paused, letting the words hang. ”But the team needs you. And I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

Though his breathing had stabilized somewhat, Yang didn’t respond. He didn’t even turn to look at the old man.

But he understood.

The coach didn’t mean harm. He was just looking out for him.

Yet understanding didn’t mean agreeing.

How could he rest when his limbs could still move? When there was still fuel left to burn?

He hadn’t traveled across the world to Europe to be mediocre.

He hadn’t left his family, his home, his everything—just to settle for good enough.

If he wanted to achieve something great, he had to push himself to the brink of destruction.

Dreams require sacrifice.

Sensing the teen’s unresponsiveness, the old man let out a slow, weary sigh.

”I know you want to prove yourself.” His voice softened. ”But if you continue at this rate, you’ll wither before you can even show what you’re capable of.”

He paused, his gaze drifting toward the far end of the pitch—toward the goalposts standing silent in the rain.

”I’ve seen a lot of people like you.” A beat of silence. ”Driven. Motivated. Hungry.”

He turned back to Yang.

”But obsession alone isn’t enough to be the best.”

Isn’t obsession enough?

Yang’s lips curled—a scoff he couldn’t suppress, though no words escaped.

”It’s the main ingredient.” The coach’s tone remained calm, measured. ”But it isn’t the sole ingredient.”

Yang lay there, rain streaming down his face, soaking into his skin. His mind churned with silent defiance.

What load of bullshit.

How could anyone become the best without surpassing their limits? Without breaking themselves apart and rebuilding stronger?

Rest? Moderation? Balance?

Those were words for people who were content with second place.

Yang’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t say a word.

But his silence screamed louder than any argument ever could.

The old man could see through his defiance. The stubborn set of his jaw, the silent fire smoldering behind those rain-soaked eyes.

But he didn’t want to break this teen with the harshness of the world. Not yet. Not like this.

So he refrained from speaking further.

Instead, he shifted the conversation.

”Listen, Yang.” His voice carried a new weight—solemn, deliberate. ”We’re facing the Devil of Madrid next week.”

Yang’s breath caught—barely perceptible, but the old man noticed.

”From what I can tell, he isn’t someone to be underestimated.” The coach’s gaze hardened. ”He didn’t win the Golden Ball for nothing. We’ll need your pace if we want to win this match.”

The old man turned to face him fully, his sapphire eyes boring into the youth’s prone form.

Just at the mention of the next match, an image surfaced in Yang’s mind. The image was vivid, uninviting, and suffocating.

Though he had never faced that man in person, he had witnessed the brilliance and terror firsthand.

The youth match between Korea and Japan.

The stands roaring with anticipation.

Then the ghastly silence.

The respected seniors, their faces twisted in devastation. The team that was supposed to be the next Golden Generation had crumbled, shattered, reduced to rubble before the talent of a single individual.

One player had dismantled everything they had built and had made them look like children playing against a god.

To that opponent, it was just another match. Another victory. Another statistic.

But to Yang? It was a scar etched into his soul.

He doubted the Devil even remembered him. Why would he? Yang had been nothing more than a substitute that day—watching from the sidelines, helpless, useless, powerless.

But Yang remembered.

He remembered every second. Every goal. Every look of despair on his seniors’ faces. The weight of their crushed dreams pressing down on his shoulders.

This match wasn’t just another fixture.

It was redemption.

A chance to pay the debt he owed.

”On paper, our side is considered the weakest.” The coach’s voice pulled him back to the present. ”But football isn’t played on paper. We’ll show them our spirit, our resolve.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

”However, without you, it’s going to be hard.”

The old man stood slowly, his joints protesting the movement. He looked down at the rain-soaked youth sprawled before him.

He looked fragile yet unbroken, exhausted yet still burning.

”So, kid...” His tone softened, almost pleading. ”Don’t injure yourself.”

He turned to leave, but his final words hung in the air like a benediction.

”The team needs you.”

Yang lay there, rain cascading over his face, his heart pounding against his ribs.

The team needs you.

The words echoed in his skull.

But so did another image—one he couldn’t shake.

The Devil of Madrid.

That face. That smile. That effortless, devastating brilliance.

Yang’s fists clenched against the wet grass.

’This time, I won’t be watching from the sidelines. This time, I’ll force you to remember.’ Yang thought with his teeth gritted.

Though he knew his side was weaker. Just as mentioned before, on paper his side was the weaker one.

However, star players don’t guarantee victory either.

Real Madrid had built a team of superstars, assembling the finest players across the globe. They were like the Avengers of football.

But those so-called Galacticos failed against the talents of La Masia.

So, just because the other team had several world-class players in their squad didn’t mean they were guaranteed success.

”Takahashi Hiro...,” He muttered with his teeth gritted, ”Wait for me. We will meet soon.”