My system allows me to copy talents

Just two days after he received the call, Hiro travelled to Japan.

The plane touched down at Narita just after dawn.

Hiro stepped off the aircraft with a single bag over his shoulder, and despite it being a long time since he last set foot in his nation, he was rather calm.

The terminal was quiet, with no fans and no cameras and no media circus. The JFA had arranged a private arrival, a small mercy he hadn’t expected and was deeply grateful for.

A car was waiting for him outside. The driver, a quiet man in his fifties, nodded as Hiro climbed in. ”Welcome home, Takahashi-san.”

”Thank you.”

The car pulled away from the airport, and Hiro watched Tokyo slide past the tinted window, the early light catching on glass and concrete and the long gray ribbon of the expressway.

He hadn’t been back in months. The last time he had stood on Japanese soil, he had been a different person, a player defined by speed and explosiveness and the System.

Now he was something else.

He closed his eyes. Let’s see if they’re ready for the new me.

Japan National Team Training Facility: Saitama

That afternoon, he walked into the facility with his boots in his hand.

It was state-of-the-art, a sprawling complex of pitches and gyms and recovery rooms and tactical theaters, and Hiro had been there many times before. But today felt different. He had barely stepped inside when a familiar voice called out.

”Hiro!”

Shun jogged toward him with a wide grin. ”You’re here.”

”I’m here.”

They embraced, a quick, rough hug that spoke of years of friendship.

”How’s the leg?”

”Better.”

”Better enough to face me in training?”

Hiro smirked. ”Better enough to score on you again.”

Shun laughed. ”We’ll see about that.”

The squad gathered in the main meeting room, and Hiro took a seat near the front, his eyes moving across the faces around him.

Most were familiar, veterans he had played beside for years. Kazuki Yamada, who in three weeks would be wearing the white of Real Madrid against him, gave him a small, friendly nod from across the room.

But there were new faces too, young and hungry players, the next generation.

His gaze stopped on one of them.

A boy, or perhaps a young man now, sat near the back with sharp features, dark hair, and eyes that burned with quiet intensity.

Hiro knew him at once. Ichijo Ryu, the kid from Kawasaki Frontale’s academy who had burst into the first team over the winter and scored his way into this squad, the one who had followed Hiro online for years and had been chasing his shadow ever since.

Ryu met his eyes, and for a moment neither of them moved.

Then Ryu gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Senpai.

Hiro nodded back. Kohai.

Moriyasu, the national team manager, stood at the front of the room.

”Thank you all for coming,” he began. ”This is our final qualifier. We have already secured our place in the World Cup, so this match is about preparation and experimentation. We’ll be trying new formations, new partnerships, and new ideas.”

His eyes rested on Hiro for a moment.

”Some of you are returning after a long absence, and others are here for the first time. Use this match to prove yourselves. Show me what you can do.”

The room nodded.

”We play Vietnam in three days. Until then, we will train.”

Training session: Day one 𝔣𝖗ⅇℯ

The pitch was pristine, with freshly cut grass and crisp white lines and goals that gleamed in the afternoon sun.

Hiro stood in the center circle with the ball at his feet, and Maestro’s Vision came alive. The pitch seemed to transform before his eyes, spaces opening and angles shifting and patterns rising out of the movement around him. He could see all of it.

Ryu is making a run. Shun is off his line. The center-backs are too far apart.

He played the pass, a single effortless ball that split the defense and landed perfectly at Ryu’s feet.

Ryu blinked, and then he ran. He took one touch and then another, driving toward the goal while Shun came off his line to narrow the angle. Ryu shot, and Shun saved, and the ball spun away for a corner.

Ryu stood there breathing hard, staring at the goal. Then he turned to Hiro.

”How did you see that?”

Hiro shrugged. ”I just did.”

”That isn’t an answer.”

”It’s the only one I have.”

Ryu studied him for a long moment, and then a slow smile crossed his face. ”You’re different.”

”I know.”

”I like it.”

Hiro raised an eyebrow. ”You do?”

”Yes.” Ryu’s eyes burned. ”It means I have something to chase.”

Later that evening in the team hotel.

Hiro sat in the dining hall with a plate of rice and grilled fish in front of him. The room was loud with players laughing and joking and winding down after a long day.

Shun sat across the table. ”The kid is good.”

”Ryu?”

”Yeah.” Shun nodded. ”He’s fast, direct, and hungry.”

”He reminds me of someone.”

Shun grinned. ”You?”

”Maybe.”

”He isn’t as good as you were at his age.”

”No one is.”

Shun laughed. ”Humble as always.”

”I’m only being honest.”

Then Hiro saw him.

A figure sat alone at a table near the corner, with dark hair and sharp features and a quiet manner. It was Taki Kurosawa.

Hiro’s breath caught. Is he here?

In his previous life, Taki Kurosawa had been a legend, a goalkeeper of extraordinary talent who had dominated the J-League, then Europe, then the world. But in this timeline, the one Hiro had reshaped without ever meaning to, Kurosawa had faded into obscurity.

Or so he had thought.

Hiro rose and crossed the room, and when he reached the corner table, Kurosawa looked up.

”Takahashi.”

”Kurosawa.”

There was a pause. Then Hiro sat down across from him.

”I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Kurosawa’s expression didn’t change. ”Why not?”

”I thought...” Hiro hesitated. ”I thought you were playing somewhere else.”

”I am.” Kurosawa’s voice was calm. ”Coventry.”

Hiro blinked. ”Coventry?”

”Premier League.” Kurosawa took a sip of water. ”We’re fighting relegation.”

Hiro stared at him. Coventry. A relegation battle. In his previous life, Kurosawa had played for Manchester United. He had won trophies, and he had been hailed as one of the best goalkeepers in the world. Now he was fighting to keep a mid-table club in the league.

This is my fault. I changed the timeline.

”You’re surprised,” Kurosawa observed.

”Yes.”

”Why?”

Hiro didn’t answer.

Kurosawa studied him for a long moment. ”You know something,” he said quietly. ”Something you aren’t telling me.”

Hiro met his gaze. ”I know a lot of things.”

”Then tell me one.”

Hiro was silent for a moment. Then he said, ”You’re better than Coventry.”

Kurosawa blinked. ”What?”

”You’re better than a relegation battle, and better than the bottom half of the Premier League. You’re one of the best keepers I’ve ever seen.”

Kurosawa stared at him. ”You’ve seen me play?”

”Yes.”

”When?”

Hiro paused. In another life. In a timeline that no longer exists.

”I just know,” he said quietly.

Kurosawa was silent for a long moment. Then he said, ”You’re strange, Takahashi.”

”I’ve been told.”

”But I believe you.”

Hiro looked at him. ”Why?”

”Because you don’t lie.” Kurosawa’s eyes were steady. ”I can tell.”

Hiro felt the words settle somewhere uncomfortable. Not quite a lie, he thought, and not quite the truth either.

They sat in silence with the noise of the dining hall washing over them. Then Kurosawa said, ”I want to play in the World Cup.”

”You will.”

”How do you know?”

Hiro smiled. ”I just do.”

Across the room, Shun laughed at something one of the other players had said, loud and easy and unburdened. Hiro’s smile faded a little as he watched him. Only one goalkeeper could start in the World Cup, and he had just made a promise he had no right to make.