My system allows me to copy talents

The path was closing.

Hiro could see it happening in real time. The converging defenders, the shrinking angles, and the window that existed briefly. He could see all of it.

Had it been someone else, they would have acted on it.

The logical move was to either shoot or pass, and every coaching manual ever written said the same thing: when you have a chance, take it.

However, he acted otherwise.

He didn’t capitalize on the chance that presented itself. His feet slowed down, almost as if he were hesitating.

However, that wasn’t the case.

In the stands, the crowd felt it before they understood it.

That collective inhale — twenty thousand people breathing in at the same time. Something that only happens when something has gone wrong.

Or when something impossible is about to go right.

Murmurs rippled through the red-and-white section.

”Why isn’t he shooting?”

”He’s lost it—”

”No, look—”

”What is he doing?”

On the pitch, nobody was more confused than the defenders themselves.

One of them, the closest to Hiro, a tall, broad-shouldered giant of a man who had faced across three different leagues and prided himself on reading situations before they fully developed, found himself unable to see through this youth before him.

He could see the path.

Hence, he expected the youth to capitalize on the path that had opened up.

However, contrary to his expectations, Hiro slowed down instead.

Just as he was pondering, something caught his attention. His teammate. The other defender. He overcommitted.

Even before the supposed tackle, he had stretched his legs wide, almost as if he were preparing to block the shot that never came.

In that state, it was almost impossible to stop himself.

The crash was inevitable.

Even if he stopped here, the other person would still crash into him.

His eyes widened at the realization; his heart raced. He tried to shift his momentum, but it was too late.

From behind, Yang—who had been retreating like a man possessed—witnessed the scene unfold.

He was the youngest player on the pitch, even younger than Hiro himself. Having stretched forward to attack, he had left his position vacant. Even now, he was sprinting back, desperate to redeem himself.

But despite his desperation, Hiro remained far out of reach.

From the earlier sprint to this very moment, Yang had witnessed Hiro’s transition firsthand. The back. The number ten emblazoned on his shirt. He could see it in bold letters, growing more distant with each passing second.

Even now, as Hiro took on two of their excellent defenders, Yang couldn’t detect even a trace of hesitation in his posture. He appeared poised. Confident. Untouchable.

Each step he took seemed calculated—every movement deliberate, every decision premeditated. The closer Yang watched, the more complicated Hiro became.

How can someone calculate all of this in the midst of a match?

The earlier feint. The present pause. The way he moved, the way he acted—it all seemed orchestrated. Like he was reading the game itself, anticipating its flow before it even happened.

Yang knew Hiro had an excellent knack for reading the game. His coach had warned them about it—his ability to see the game like no one else could.

But he hadn’t expected this.

Reacting in fractions of a second.

The realization struck him like a cold wave. His heart sank.

The mere concept that Hiro had been orchestrating the actions of those around him—like a puppet master pulling strings from behind the curtain—seemed so absurd that Yang felt his legs grow weak.

He’s been controlling everything.

And I didn’t even notice.

A bitter truth settled in his chest.

I underestimated him.

Though Hiro’s antics mesmerized him, Yang couldn’t afford to indulge in the fascination for long.

This wasn’t the time to be mesmerized.

This wasn’t the time to be thinking at all.

In this moment, it was more important for him to be there—to defend, to recover, to redeem himself. But just as he resolved to act, something shifted.

Hiro tilted, then shifted his weight in the opposite direction.

One of Yang’s teammates—a defender rushing to intercept—stretched his legs and threw himself forward, lunging to block a shot that never came.

Though others missed it, Yang saw it clearly.

His teammate hadn’t acted on impulse. It was Hiro who had orchestrated his movements—a puppet master pulling invisible strings.

For a moment, Hiro had appeared ready to shoot. His posture screamed. His body had betrayed intent.

But at the last second, he paused. Changed course.

And in that instant, Yang witnessed something flicker across Hiro’s back—the back that had been turned against him.

It seemed to ooze with something primal. Something eerie.

For a split second, Yang saw it—black flames rising from Hiro’s form, alive and writhing like something born straight from the depths of hell itself.

The sight terrified him.

A suffocating pressure pressed down on his chest, weighing on his lungs, stealing his breath.

What... what is that?

His legs felt rooted to the ground.

What am I even looking at?

He failed to comprehend what he was witnessing. But before he could even compose himself, a wave of pressure coursed through him.

Hiro flung his arms wide, his entire body coiling as if preparing to shoot.

The defenders rushing to intercept collided into each other—bodies tangling, momentum betrayed, falling like dominoes.

Ignoring the chaos erupting around him, Hiro steadied himself for his next move.

The scene before Yang unfolded like something ripped from a masterpiece. Two defenders sprawled on the ground, desperation and panic etched across their faces. The goalkeeper, having misjudged Hiro’s intentions, appeared equally rattled—his position a mess, his balance compromised.

If someone had crafted a painting out of this moment, it would have been one of the greatest works of art ever conceived. The composition, the tension, the raw emotion—it was breathtaking.

Yang gasped.

Then Hiro’s flung arms released.

He swung his leg like a warrior cleaving with a sword—fluid, violent, unstoppable. Grass petals erupted beneath his foot, torn from the earth by the sheer force of the strike.

The ball rocketed forward.

Ricochet!

Slam!

It crashed against the post with a sound that echoed through the stadium—a thunderclap that silenced the crowd.

The net trembled.

The ball spun.

And the world held its breath.