My system allows me to copy talents

He unlocked the door.

Magnus looked up from the small kitchen table. He had let himself in somehow. Yang didn’t bother asking how. The Norwegian veteran sat with a cup of tea that had long gone cold, his pale face illuminated by the dim overhead light.

”You look terrible,” Magnus said.

Yang didn’t respond. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

”How did you get in?”

”I know the landlord.” Magnus shrugged. ”Also, you left your spare key under the mat. Terrible habit.”

Yang almost smiled.

”What do you want?”

Magnus set down the cup. His expression shifted, the usual warmth dimming into something more serious.

”I heard you’ve been skipping meals. Skipping training. Zoning out during sessions.” He paused. ”I’ve been where you are, Yang. Not the same thing, but—close enough.”

Yang slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, his back against the wood.

”I injured him.”

”I know.”

”I might have ended his career.”

”You don’t know that yet.”

Yang laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. ”Does it matter? The intent was there. I wanted to stop him. I wanted to destroy him. And I did.”

Magnus was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood, walked over, and sat down on the floor across from Yang—not above him, not beside him. Across. Eye to eye.

”I’m not going to tell you it’s okay,” Magnus said. ”It’s not. You made a mistake. A bad one. And you’re going to carry that.”

Yang’s jaw tightened.

”But I’m also not going to let you pretend that’s all you are.” Magnus leaned forward. ”I’ve watched you train, Yang. I’ve watched you push yourself harder than anyone on that pitch. I’ve watched you stay late, arrive early, run drills until your legs gave out.”

Yang looked away.

”That’s not the behavior of someone who doesn’t care. That’s the behavior of someone who cares too much.”

”Caring too much got me here.”

”No.” Magnus’s voice was firm. ”Caring too much got you to Europe. Got you onto that pitch. Got you noticed. What got you here—” He tapped Yang’s chest. ”—is that you forgot why you started. You stopped playing for the love of it. You started playing for revenge. For validation. To prove something to someone who isn’t even watching.”

Yang’s breath caught.

”I know about your father,” Magnus said quietly. ”I know about what you saw. What you survived.”

Yang stiffened.

”I didn’t tell anyone. But I see it in you. The way you flinch when someone raises their voice. The way you push yourself like you’re trying to outrun something. I see it because—” Magnus paused. ”Because I used to do the same thing.”

Yang looked up.

”I grew up in a house where silence meant danger,” Magnus continued. ”Where the only way to be safe was to be better. Stronger. Faster. Untouchable. I thought if I could just be good enough at football, I could outrun the noise in my head.”

He smiled, a sad, worn smile.

”Spoiler: you can’t. It follows you. The only thing that helps—the only thing that’s ever helped—is remembering why you loved it in the first place.”

Yang stared at him.

”Why do you love football, Yang?”

The question hung in the air.

Yang opened his mouth, closed it.

Then, softly, he said, ”Because it made me feel like I mattered.”

Magnus nodded slowly.

”That’s a good answer.”

He stood, offering a hand.

”Now come on. You’re going to eat something. Then tomorrow, you’re going to training. Not because you’re ready. Because sitting in this room is killing you faster than any tackle ever could.”

Yang stared at the hand.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then—slowly, shakily—he reached out and took it.

**** ****

The training ground smelled the same.

Grass cut short. Morning dew evaporating under the first light. The faint metallic tang of the goalposts, still wet from the sprinklers that had run through the night.

Yang stood at the edge of the pitch, his boots laced, his kit clean and pressed. He had been standing there for three minutes, unable to take the final step onto the grass.

It was just grass.

It was just a pitch.

It was the same pitch he had trained on a hundred times before—the same one where he had laughed with teammates, cursed at missed chances, celebrated goals that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things but had mattered to him.

And now, it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.

”Min-hyeok.”

He turned.

Magnus stood a few meters away, a ball tucked under his arm. His expression was neutral—not cold, not warm. Just... present.

”You going to stand there all morning?”

Yang didn’t answer.

Magnus shrugged. He dropped the ball to his feet and passed it gently to Yang, a simple, ordinary pass. No power behind it. No expectation.

Yang watched the ball roll toward him. It stopped at his feet.

Just a ball.

Just grass.

Just football.

He bent down and picked it up.

”It’s not going to bite you,” Magnus said.

Yang almost smiled.

He took a breath.

Then, slowly, he set the ball down. He pushed it forward with the inside of his foot. It rolled a few meters, and he jogged after it in a soft, unhurried movement.

The grass felt different under his boots. Softer. More forgiving than he remembered.

Or maybe he had just forgotten what it felt like to move without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Magnus fell into step beside him. They passed between them—to each other, back and forth—without speaking. There was no rhythm to it, no intensity. Just two players passing a ball in the morning light.

One, then another.

Another.

Another.

Yang’s breathing steadied.

His hands stopped trembling.

He didn’t notice the other players arriving, one by one. He didn’t notice the coaches setting up cones. He didn’t notice the way Magnus purposefully kept the passes simple—no pressure, no pace, just the ball and the grass and the morning.

Then one of the younger players, a midfielder from the academy, ran past with a ball and accidentally clipped Yang’s heel.

”Sorry, sorry!” the kid said, already running back.