My system allows me to copy talents

In the rehabilitation room, Hiro leaned forward, his heart pounding. He was prepared to celebrate the goal.

However, the save left him disappointed.

”So close...” He muttered, frustration evident in his tone.

Those standing beside him couldn’t help but feel startled upon experiencing his reaction. Though those people were just as invested in the match as him, their reaction paled in comparison to Hiro.

Hiro rolled his pupils around before apologizing to those people for his reaction.

Then, as his attention returned to the screen again, his lips curled into a smile. Though the match had been tough until now and the score had remained tied, he could see his teammates improving.

The match continued.

Chelsea, now much more reluctant than before, pushed forward, desperate to regain control.

Cole Palmer, the lean blonde individual, the star performer of the blue side, found pockets of space that seemed almost nonexistent, threading passes through the smallest of gaps.

Even more threatening was their striker, whose instinct was almost predator-like, sensing opportunities that didn’t even exist.

Utilizing his terrifying pace and serpent-like movement, Joao Pedro coiled around the red and white defense.

However, Unai Simon refused to budge.

He was like an immovable mountain that didn’t falter despite the lethal strikes aimed at piercing his defense.

The Spanish keeper, now 32 years old, a veteran of the World Cup, a winner of the Golden Glove, stood tall in goal. He commanded his box with the authority of a general, barking orders, organizing his defense, making save after save.

The 67th minute. João Pedro broke through.

One-on-one with Unai.

The Brazilian opened his body like the shape of a man who had already decided, who could already see the ball nestling inside the far post.

Unai read it before he’d finished the thought.

He planted his foot before lifting himself off the ground with his arms stretched. The ball touched his fingertips, the flat smack of leather off an open palm.

Due to the intervention, the ball went wide.

The Metropolitano made a sound that wasn’t quite a cheer but something rawer than that, like relief and defiance in the same breath.

Not today.

Then the 78th.

It started, the way it always started, with Barco. The Argentine had run himself into the ground for an hour and a quarter and still came again, pressing and harrying and contesting every blade of grass as if it owed him money.

Deep in Chelsea’s half he put his shoulder into his marker, came away with the ball, and looked up.

Julián.

The striker took it with his back to goal, held off the centre-half, and waited. One second. Two. He kept waiting for someone to arrive.

Then Giuliano arrived.

Julián laid it into his path without looking.

One touch to set himself, another to attack the space, and the Chelsea defence folded inward around him, three bodies pulled toward the ball like water toward a drain.

Which left the edge of the box empty.

Lee Kang-in was standing in it.

Giuliano slid it across. Lee killed it with his first touch, took a breath that lasted a quarter of a second and felt like a minute —

Then curled it.

It left his foot climbing and bending, the arc of it so obvious and so unreachable that half the stadium was standing before the ball had finished rising.

Martínez dove. However, he got nothing but air.

The net snapped taut.

GOAL!

In the rehabilitation room, Hiro was on his feet before he knew he’d moved, and the pain caught him instantly, a white line of it running from knee to hip, folding him back against the table.

He didn’t care. He was laughing.

”YES! YES! THAT’S IT!”

On the screen, Lee was already gone, sprinting for the corner flag with his arms wide and his face lit up like something had broken open inside him. Julián and Giuliano caught him at the flag and buried him.

The crowd was singing. The stadium was alive, seventy thousand voices moving as one body.

Hiro sat back, breathing hard, his heart too full for the room he was in.

Maybe they’ll be okay without me.

Maybe I can just... get better.

It finished 1–0.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t dominant. It was ninety minutes of refusing to lose, which is its own kind of beauty.

And as the players walked off, the singing didn’t stop. Not for the win. For the fight. And somewhere in it, for the hope that their number ten would come back — stronger than he left.

He sat there, staring at the television for a while before he turned it off.

The room had been buzzing with the noise of the television. But now, as he turned it off, a rather calm silence descended upon the room.

He didn’t move from his place. He didn’t contemplate the match either. Hiro just sat there in the silence, almost as if he were relinquishing the silence.

Then his gaze fell to his legs.

He thought about the time he had lost and the time he needed to get back on the pitch again.

Though he had avoided something serious that would see the end of his career, he knew that he wouldn’t be the same even if he recovered well.

Perhaps things wouldn’t even be the same. He might not be able to rely on his speed as he did before.

There had been multiple instances where a player had to adopt a different playstyle in order to continue playing.

Such injuries were even more serious for someone like him who relied on his dribbles and speed. Though he didn’t want to admit it, his spot in the national team might not be as strong as before.

Who knows if he would even be picked for the World Cup campaign?

The thought came to him as he sat there in silence, contemplating. He considered multiple possibilities.

However, each possibility led him to the same conclusion: he would have to put in much more effort than he ever did to make a comeback.