My system allows me to copy talents

Metropolitano Stadium, Madrid

The stadium was full.

Sixty-eight thousand souls packed into the Metropolitano, their voices a thunderous ocean of red and white. Flags billowed. Banners stretched across the stands. The familiar chants echoed through the night air, shaking the very foundations of the arena.

But something was missing.

The crowd knew it. The players knew it. The world watching on television knew it.

Hiro wasn’t there.

For the first time in two years, Atlético Madrid stepped onto the pitch without their talisman. Without their number ten. Without the man who had dragged them to the summit of Europe and made them believe in the impossible.

The absence hung over the stadium like a storm cloud—heavy, suffocating, and undeniable.

High above the city, in a quiet rehabilitation room.

Hiro sat in his bed, his leg elevated, his eyes fixed on the television screen.

The match was about to begin.

He had been waiting for this moment with a mixture of dread and anticipation. He wanted to see his team win. He wanted to see them prove that they were more than just him—that the machine Diego had built could function without its most vital cog.

But he also knew the truth that it’d be a difficult match.

Fwee!

The match kicked off.

From the first whistle, something was off.

Atlético Madrid moved the ball with their usual precision, their usual patience. Diego’s tactics were being followed to the letter—the defensive shape was compact, the pressing triggers were being executed, the rotations were smooth.

But there was no spark.

No moment of magic. No sudden acceleration that turned defense into attack. No impossible pass that split the opposition in two.

Hiro watched Julian drop deep, searching for the ball. He watched Guiliano make runs into space, only to be ignored. He watched Lee Kang-In—the new signing, the South Korean midfielder who had arrived with so much promise struggle to find his rhythm.

They’re playing safe, Hiro realized. They’re playing like they’re afraid.

On the pitch, Julian felt it too.

He had been Atlético’s second-highest scorer last season. He had scored in the Champions League final. He had proven himself on the biggest stages.

But without Hiro, everything felt harder.

The passes that used to arrive at his feet were now half a second late. The runs he used to make were being read by defenders. The space that used to open up like magic was now clogged, congested, suffocating.

He dropped deeper, demanding the ball.

Guiliano found him with a short pass. Julian turned, scanning the field.

He saw Lee Kang-In making a run. He played the pass—a simple through ball, the kind Hiro would have played with his eyes closed.

But it was intercepted.

Chelsea’s midfielder read it easily, stepping in front of Lee and launching a counter.

Julian cursed under his breath.

That’s not good enough.

In the stands, the crowd grew restless.

They had expected a statement. A performance that would prove Atlético Madrid was still the team to beat even without their star.

Instead, they were watching a team that looked... ordinary.

The chants faltered. The energy dipped.

Then—a single voice from the ultras section.

”HIRO!”

It was joined by another.

”HIRO!”

Then another.

Within seconds, the entire stadium was chanting his name. Sixty-eight thousand voices, rising in unison, calling out to their fallen king.

”HI-RO! HI-RO! HI-RO!”

The sound echoed through the night, shaking the walls of the Metropolitano.

On the pitch, the players heard it.

Julian’s chest tightened.

Guiliano looked toward the stands, his expression unreadable.

Lee Kang-In, the newcomer, felt a shiver run down his spine. His transfer had been finalized long before the transfer window had closed. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

However, he had injured himself and was undergoing treatment. Hence, he couldn’t attend the matches sooner.

In the rehabilitation room, Hiro watched.

His throat tightened.

The camera panned across the stands, capturing the sea of red and white, the banners raised high, the faces twisted with emotion.

Then he saw it.

A banner, stretched across the north stand, painted in bold letters:

”WE WAIT FOR YOU, HIRO. COME BACK STRONGER.”

Below it, smaller text:

”THE THRONE IS YOURS. WE’LL KEEP IT WARM.”

Hiro’s eyes stung.

He hadn’t realized he was crying until he felt the tear roll down his cheek.

They’re waiting for me... They believe in me. He thought. I can’t let them down.

He wiped his eyes and looked back at the screen.

The first half ended 0-0.

In the dressing room, Diego stood before his players.

His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp.

”You’re playing like you’re afraid,” he said quietly. ”You’re playing as if you’ve already lost.”

No one spoke.

”Hiro isn’t here. That’s the truth. But he’s not the only player in this squad.” Diego’s voice rose. ”Julian. Guiliano. Lee. Unai. You’ve all proven yourselves. You’ve all won matches without him before.”

He paused.

”So why are you playing like you’ve forgotten that?”

Julian looked at the floor.

”I’m not asking you to replace him. That’s impossible. But I am asking you to trust each other. To fight for each other. To believe that you are enough.”

He swept his gaze across the room.

”Are you?”

The room went silent, each avoiding his gaze.

Then—Guiliano stood.

”We are.”

Lee Kang-In stood next. He wouldn’t have stepped in. But he had been signed to improve the squad. Hence, even if he were debuting in such a difficult match, he had to prove his worth.

”We are.”

Julian stood last.

”We are.”

Diego nodded.

”Then go out there and prove it.”

The second half began.

Something had changed.

Atlético Madrid moved with purpose now. The passes were sharper. The runs were more decisive. The pressing was more aggressive.

Chelsea, who had dominated the first half, suddenly found themselves on the back foot.

Julian dropped deep, collected the ball, and turned.

This time—he didn’t hesitate.

He drove forward, past one defender, then another. The Chelsea midfield scrambled to close him down, but he was already gone.

He slid a pass to Lee Kang-In, who had made a run into the box.

Lee took a touch.

Then another.

Then, he planted a powerful shot that sent the ball soaring.

The ball rocketed toward the goal.

Dibu Martinez—the Chelsea Keeper—dove with his fingers stretched.

For a split second, it seemed as if he had reacted a second later. However, despite that, somehow, his fingertips grazed the ball.

The ball deflected off the post and out for a corner.

Lee buried his face in his hands.

So close.

But the crowd was on their feet now, roaring with approval.