My system allows me to copy talents

In one of the post-match interviews, Kazuki Yamada sat before the cameras in the cramped press area beneath the stadium, his hair still damp from the shower and his tracksuit zipped to the collar.

He was twenty-eight, an attacking midfielder with years of big matches behind him and the heartbeat of Japan’s midfield, and tonight he looked calm but tired, like a man who had given everything for ninety minutes and had little left over for anything else.

The interviewer smiled politely. ”Congratulations on the win, Yamada-san. Another dominant performance from the team. But I have to ask, how is the team coping without Hiro Takahashi?”

Kazuki’s expression did not change. ”Hiro is a brilliant player,” he said carefully. ”He is one of the best in the world. But Japan isn’t built around any one individual.”

The interviewer pressed on. ”Surely you feel his absence, though. He’s the Golden Ball winner, the face of Japanese football.”

Kazuki leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, and when he spoke again, his voice had gained an edge.

”Let me be clear. We miss Hiro; I miss him, too. He’s a teammate and a friend, and he’s a brother to me. But Japan is not a one-man team. We are a collective, and we fight for one another, not for a single player.”

He paused to let the words settle.

”Tonight our goalkeeper, Shun, was magnificent. He made three saves that kept us in the match, and he commanded his box like a general. He is the reason we won.”

The interviewer blinked, plainly thrown off her script. ”So you’re saying Japan doesn’t need Hiro?”

Kazuki’s eyes hardened. ”I’m saying Japan is bigger than any one player. We will fight with him or without him. When he returns, if he returns, we will welcome him with open arms. But we won’t wait for him, because we can’t.”

The interview ended there, and within hours the clip was everywhere.

The headlines followed close behind.

”Yamada: Japan Doesn’t Wait for Hiro” — Sports Nippon

”Japan’s New Identity: A Team, Not a Star” — Nikkan Sports

”Is Hiro’s Era Over Before It Began?” — Football Digest Japan

In Madrid, Hiro watched the interview on his laptop, propped against the pillows with the glow of the screen on his face.

He had expected to feel anger, or jealousy, or the sour taste of resentment. But what he felt instead was respect.

Yamada-san is right. Japan can’t wait for me. I have to earn my place back.

He picked up his notebook and wrote, in the same steady hand as before: They moved on. Good. Now I have to catch up.

That evening, the System came alive again.

[Quest Update: Return to the Pitch.]

[Condition: Complete rehabilitation and play a competitive match.]

[Bonus Objective: Unlock hidden potential through mental mastery.]

[Progress: 51%.]

[New Bonus Objective: Reconnect with the team from afar. Assist in their growth without being on the pitch.]

[Method: Unknown.]

Hiro read the last line twice.

Reconnect from afar. Assist without being there.

His thoughts went first to Lee Kang-In, to the messages they had traded and the tactical conversations that had slowly grown into a kind of mentorship.

Then he thought of Shun, fighting for his own place and pushing himself harder every morning, and of Yamada’s words about a collective.

Maybe I don’t have to be on the pitch to be part of the team. Maybe there are other ways I can help.

He drew the laptop closer and began to type a message to Diego.

”I’ve been studying our matches, and I have some ideas. Can we talk?”

He read it over once, pressed send, and sat back against the pillows to wait.

Diego’s reply came at midnight.

”Come to the training ground tomorrow. I want to hear these ideas.”

Hiro read the message, and his heart began to pound. He hadn’t expected a coach of his caliber to hear him out.

That night, he found himself struggling to fall asleep. His mind kept racing through possibilities, tactical adjustments, and positional rotations, and every time he drifted toward sleep, another idea pulled him back to the notebook on the nightstand.

By morning he had filled three full pages.

The training ground was quiet when he arrived, the pitches still silvered with dew and the floodlights switched off.

Diego was waiting for him in the tactical room, the same room where they had planned victories and picked apart opponents and, on better days, celebrated what came after.

The whiteboard still carried the faint ghosts of old diagrams, smudged where someone had tried to wipe them clean.

Hiro came through the door on his own two feet, with only a slight hitch in his stride. His leg was still wrapped, but it felt lighter than it had in weeks, and he could put his full weight on it now and cross a room without anyone’s help.

Diego’s eyes went to the leg first, with the practiced attention of a man who knew exactly what a bad knee looked like, and then up to Hiro’s face.

”Sit,” Diego said, nodding toward a chair.

Hiro sat, laid the notebook on the table, and opened it to the first page.

”I’ve been watching the matches,” he began. ”Lee is doing well, but he’s being asked to do too much. He’s playing as the number ten, but he keeps dropping deep to collect the ball, and that leaves Julian isolated up front.”

He hesitated for half a second, because the role Lee was filling was the one that used to be his, and then he set the thought aside and went on.

Diego nodded slowly. ”I’ve noticed.”

”What if we change the shape? Push Lee higher, closer to Julian, and let Guiliano drop into the pocket instead. He’s better at receiving under pressure, and it would free Lee to make runs into the box.”

Diego drew the notebook toward him and studied the diagram Hiro had sketched, the arrows and circles and the lines linking one player to the next in a loose web of movement.

”You’ve thought about this a lot.”

”I have time.”

A faint smile touched Diego’s mouth. ”Keep going.”

They talked for two hours.

The conversation soon moved beyond formations and into mentality, into how the team could hold on to its identity without Hiro, how Lee could grow into a leader, and how the younger players could step up when it mattered.

Diego listened closely, asked questions, and challenged his assumptions, and with each answer Hiro found that his words came a little more easily than before. The sunlight slid slowly across the table as they worked, and the coffee beside them went cold.

By the end, Diego was nodding.

”These are good,” he said. ”Really good.”

”They’re only ideas.”

”Ideas are how everything starts.” Diego leaned back in his chair. ”I’ll use some of these in the next match, and I’ll tell you how it goes.”

Hiro nodded. ”Thank you, Coach.”

”Don’t thank me. You’re still part of this team, even if you’re not on the pitch.”

Hiro’s throat tightened, and for a moment he couldn’t say anything at all. But he couldn’t help but feel glad to be included.