My system allows me to copy talents

The pain would become a companion for the next couple of weeks. He knew it. But unlike before, he didn’t panic. He just accepted his fate.

He looked at his phone.

There was a message from Ishikawa: Uncle and Aunty arrived safely?

Hiro smiled. Yes. Mom brought food and started dissing the hospital food. As for Dad, he looked completely fine.

Sumire replied almost instantly: That’s very much like Uncle.

Hiro laughed. You’ve only met him once.

Once was enough. He’s terrifying, but I respect him.

Terrifying?

He looks like a yakuza boss who retired to raise a child.

Hiro laughed again—a real, full laugh that echoed in the quiet room. He hadn’t laughed like that in days.

He couldn’t help but recall his father’s face. Except for his gaze that’s somewhat intimidating to look at, there are no other features that make him look like a Yakuza. Hence, he couldn’t help but attempt to picture him as a Yakuza.

However, as he tried to picture such an image of his father, he couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

A nerdy yakuza, perhaps... Hiro responded. But I’ll make sure to tell him about it... hahaha....

Please don’t.

He set the phone down and leaned back against the pillows. The ceiling was the same as before, but somehow it felt less oppressive now.

His family was close. Sumire was close. Shun was coming soon.

Thinking about them, something in his chest loosened like a knot of some sort.

The next morning, Hiro began physical therapy.

His therapist was a woman in her forties named Elena, with short grey hair and a no-nonsense attitude that reminded him of his mother. She had worked with dozens of injured athletes—footballers, runners, even a few tennis players.

”This will hurt,” she warned him. ”It will hurt a lot. But pain is not the enemy. It’s a signal. You need to learn the difference between pain that means ’stop’ and pain that means ’work.’”

Hiro nodded. ”I understand.”

She raised an eyebrow. ”You say that now. Let’s see if you say it after.”

The exercises began.

They started simple—movements of the ankle, small flexes to keep the blood flowing. Then gentle stretches, the kind that made his leg feel like it was being pulled apart. Then resistance bands, slow and methodical.

He gritted his teeth. Sweat formed on his brow.

Pain means work. Pain means work. Pain means work.

He repeated it like a mantra.

Elena watched him closely. ”You’re doing well,” she said. ”Most patients stop before this point.”

”Most patients don’t have the World Cup in a year.”

Considering his situation, he had given up on club football for the year. He just wanted to make it back on the field before the World Cup.

She smiled—a rare occurrence. ”Good answer.”

By the end of the session, he was exhausted. His leg throbbed. His body felt like it had been wrung dry.

But he had done it.

He had taken the first step.

Later that evening, his phone buzzed.

A video message from Shun.

Hiro opened it. Shun’s face filled the screen, wearing his Real Sociedad training kit. Behind him, the pitch stretched under the evening sky.

”Hey,” Shun said. ”I know I’m not there yet. But I wanted you to see this.”

He stepped back, and the camera showed a small training session—just a few cones, a ball, and a goal.

”I’m working on my distribution. You know, for when you finally get back and start asking for those ridiculous through-balls.”

Hiro laughed.

Shun stepped forward again, his expression softening. ”I’ll be there in a week. But until then—stay strong, Hiro. You’ve got this.”

He waved. The video ended.

Hiro stared at the screen for a long moment.

Ridiculous through-balls.

He smiled.

What do you mean by ridiculous through-balls? You’re a keeper to begin with...

**** ****

Shun arrived on a Thursday.

Hiro had been counting the days. Not because he was lonely, but because his parents had stayed for a full week, and Sumire visited every evening after her work calls.

But there was something about Shun’s presence that was different. Shun had known him before the fame, before the Golden Ball. He had known him when they were just two kids chasing a ball on a pitch in Kawasaki.

When the door opened, Shun walked in with all the confidence of a man who had just flown across Spain and somehow still looked like he had stepped out of a magazine—if that magazine was about ”Goalkeepers Who Could Also Model But Choose Not To.”

”You look terrible,” Shun said, setting down a large bag. ”And not the good kind of terrible. The ’I’ve been lying in bed feeling sorry for myself’ kind of terrible.”

Hiro laughed. ”It’s good to see you too, Shun.”

”I mean it. You’ve lost weight. Your face is pale. You look like a ghost who decided to haunt a hospital instead of a castle.” Shun crossed the room and pulled Hiro into a firm embrace. ”But I’m glad you’re alive.”

”Me too.”

Shun pulled back and studied him. ”Seriously though. Are you eating? Sleeping? Or are you just lying here staring at the ceiling having existential crises?”

”A bit of both.”

”Typical.” Shun shook his head. ”I told you this would happen. I told you when you suggested I join La Liga that you’d find some way to make everything about you. First you score against me in our first match—”

”I scored twice.”

”—and now you get injured just so I have to fly across the country to visit you. Selfish.”

Hiro laughed a real, full laugh that echoed through the room.

”How’s Real Sociedad treating you?” ℴ

”Good.” Shun’s expression softened, the playful edge fading. ”Really good. The defense is solid. The coaching staff knows what they’re doing. And the fans—” He paused. ”The fans are incredible. I’ve never felt so wanted.”

Hiro nodded. ”I told you it was the right move.”

”You did.” Shun sat in the chair beside the bed. ”And you were right. I still can’t believe you scored twice against me, though. I had that second shot covered.”