My system allows me to copy talents

That evening, after Shun had left to find dinner, Hiro sat alone in his room.

His leg ached. His body was tired. But his mind was clearer than it had been in weeks.

He thought about Shun’s words.

You’ve always been strong. But even you have limits.

He had never allowed himself to acknowledge those limits. Not in his first life. Not in this one. He had always been the one who carried everyone else. The one who made the impossible happen.

The one who never broke.

He looked at his leg—wrapped, bandaged, but healing.

He reached out to the system.

[Passive Skill: Adaptive Recovery - Active.]

[Recovery rate: 24%. Mental clarity: High. Emotional stability: Stable.]

[Progress: Positive.]

He smiled.

**** ****

The rain hadn’t stopped for days.

Yang stood at the window of his apartment, watching the grey sky bleed into the grey sea. The fjords stretched beyond the city, their jagged silhouettes swallowed by mist. It was beautiful in a bleak, unforgiving way—the kind of landscape that demanded resilience.

He had been back in Norway for three weeks now. Back to training. Back to the rhythm of professional football. Back to pretending he was okay.

But he wasn’t.

The therapy sessions continued—twice a week, every week. Dr. Elara Vance had become a constant presence in his life, a steady voice in the chaos of his mind. She didn’t offer easy answers. She didn’t tell him to forgive himself. She just asked questions, and listened, and waited.

Slowly, painfully, he had started to talk.

About his father. About his mother. About Jae-won—the friend he had abandoned. About the guilt that had consumed him, the nightmares that still woke him in cold sweats, the hatred he had received from strangers who didn’t know his name but knew what he had done.

And about Hiro.

”I don’t even know if he’ll play again,” Yang had said in their last session. ”And if he doesn’t—if I ended his career—then what? What am I supposed to do with that?”

Dr. Vance had paused. Then she said something that stuck with him:

”You don’t have to know yet. But you do have to live. Not for him. Not for anyone else. For yourself.”

He hadn’t known how to respond to that.

That evening, Yang received a call from an unknown number.

He almost didn’t answer. He had been ignoring calls for weeks—agents, journalists, well-wishers who didn’t understand that their words felt like knives. But something made him pick up.

”Hello?”

Silence.

Then, a voice he hadn’t heard in years.

”Min-hyeok.”

Yang’s blood ran cold.

”Jae-won?”

A pause.

”It’s been a while.”

Yang’s hand trembled. He sat down on the edge of his bed, his heart pounding.

”How did you—”

”I saw the news. The tackle. The injury.” Jae-won’s voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—something Yang couldn’t quite read. ”I recognized the look on your face. In the photos. I know that look.”

Yang closed his eyes.

”I’m sorry.”

”I know.”

”I should have called. I should have—”

”You should have done a lot of things.” Jae-won’s voice wasn’t angry but rather tired. ”But you didn’t. And I’ve spent a long time being angry about that.”

Yang couldn’t speak.

”I’m not calling to make you feel worse,” Jae-won continued. ”I’m calling because I know what you’re going through. I’ve been there. The guilt. The self-hatred. The feeling that you’ve destroyed something you can never fix.”

Yang’s throat tightened.

”How did you—”

”Get through it?” Jae-won let out a humorless laugh. ”I didn’t. Not at first. I spiraled. I pushed everyone away. I almost... I almost did something I couldn’t take back.”

Yang’s breath caught.

”But I’m still here,” Jae-won said quietly. ”And so are you.”

Silence stretched between them.

”I don’t know if Hiro will forgive you,” Jae-won continued. ”I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive yourself. But I do know this: you can’t change what happened. You can only decide what happens next.”

Yang wiped his eyes. He hadn’t realized he was crying.

”Why are you telling me this?”

”Because no one told me.” Jae-won’s voice softened. ”Because I had to figure it out alone. And I don’t want you to go through that.”

Yang couldn’t speak.

”I’m not saying I forgive you,” Jae-won said. ”Not yet. But I’m saying... I understand. And maybe that’s enough for now.”

The call ended.

Yang sat in the silence, his phone clutched in his hand, tears streaming down his face.

He didn’t know if he was alright. But for the first time in weeks, he felt something other than guilt.

He felt hope.

That same evening, somewhere in Madrid.

Hiro sat in his rehabilitation room, scrolling through his phone.

His leg was propped up on a cushion, the bandages fresh from the day’s therapy. The pain had become manageable now. Though a dull ache still throbbed instead of a sharp sting. Progress was slow, but it was still progress.

He had received a message from Sumire earlier: I’m coming to visit next weekend. Don’t argue.

He smiled. He wasn’t going to argue.

Then his phone buzzed again.

A message from an unknown number.

He opened it.

”Hiro. I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Park Jae-won. I was at the youth match between Korea and Japan. The one where you destroyed us. I was the one who... I was the one who introduced Yang to football. I just wanted to say—I’m sorry. For what he did. I know it doesn’t change anything. But I’m sorry.”

Hiro stared at the message.

He remembered that youth match. He remembered everything about it. The way the Korean team had crumbled. The way their hopes had shattered. The way one boy—the one with the fastest legs, the one with desperation in his eyes—had watched his dreams die.

He had never learned that boy’s name.

Now he knew.

He typed back:

”Thank you for reaching out. What happened wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just... football. I’m recovering. I’ll be back. Tell Yang I said that.”

He paused.

Then he added:

”And tell him I don’t blame him. I never did.”

He sent the message.

Then he set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.

Just as he said, he didn’t blame Yang for his condition.