Starting as a Defensive Midfielder at Real Madrid

Li Ang had always believed in luck.

He didn’t really have a choice—he was the very definition of a non-chosen one when it came to fortune.

All his life, anything even remotely involving luck had never turned out well for him. Whether it was prize draws, scratch-offs, game loot boxes, or random selection systems, luck was never on his side.

Fortunately, though Lady Luck rarely smiled upon him, life still turned out relatively smooth.

His family was healthy, his friends loyal.

After graduating college, he worked diligently at an e-commerce company. Within three years, he’d become a supervisor, and three years after that, he was promoted to regional manager.

No one would call it a life of unbroken triumph, but for someone in his early thirties who’d earned a house and two cars through his own grit, it was certainly a modest success.

On the night of his thirty-second birthday, instead of joining his colleagues for another round of drinks and revelry at the bar, Li Ang went home, eagerly fired up his computer.

Don’t get the wrong idea—he wasn’t planning on gaming or binge-watching shows.

He was going to watch football.

Li Ang was a die-hard fan, to the point where he’d broken up with not one, but two girlfriends over football.

”Are you kidding me? It’s Champions League night and you want me to take you to the movies? Go for a walk by the river? If you really cared, you’d bring over a couple of cold dishes and a six-pack to watch the game with me!”

And so, with his standards clear and non-negotiable, he resumed life as a happily single man.

That night, one of his favorite teams, Chelsea, was playing.

He had planned to enjoy a relaxing evening watching the match after a hard day’s work. Instead, Chelsea got suffocated by Southampton in their own home ground—beaten 0–1 in a frustrating, lifeless performance.

It was the second half of the 2022–2023 season. Rather than turning their form around, Chelsea had followed three draws with yet another loss.

Li Ang was furious, so furious his head started spinning.

”Goddammit! How many times have I said it—buy a damn target man and a proper holding midfielder! But nooo, you let Giroud go and bring in Lukaku, a total waste! That didn’t work, so you bring in Aubameyang? And now we don’t even have a striker to use! Hell, if I went up there, I might at least get a couple of touches!”

Cursing under his breath, he stormed into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and soaked his head in cold water.

It was a habit he’d picked up in his school football days—drenching his head at halftime to clear his mind and stay alert.

But whether it was the overtime shifts or something else, this time when he stood back up, his vision went black, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

When he came to, he found himself back in his childhood home in his hometown.

The wall calendar said it was 2004.

Before he could fully process the absurdity, a strange panel unfolded in his mind, labeled:

Road to Football King.

”So I am the chosen one!”

Li Ang was hit by the kind of overwhelming joy that made his brain short-circuit.

He’d traveled back in time. Got a second chance at life. And now he had a system.

If that didn’t make him heaven’s chosen, then what would?

But then, in the system’s beginner’s gift pack, when he reached into the selection of over twenty midfielders, including attacking superstars, and pulled a limited edition 08–09 late-career Claude Makélélé talent card—the lowest drop rate of them all—he went completely numb.

What did it mean to be unlucky?

This was what it meant.

”Chosen one, my ass!”

Howling in anguish, Li Ang pounded the bed in despair—only to be caught by his younger dad, who rushed in wearing Seven Wolves brand pants and gave him a proper old-school thrashing.

The next day, when he said he wanted to become a professional footballer, he got thrashed again.

For seven straight days, he repeated his goal, enduring five or six servings of ”bamboo shoots stir-fried with meat” (read: beatings) before his father finally relented and gave a reluctant verbal agreement—he could go to Spain that summer to visit his uncle.

And that trip? It lasted six whole years.

In the end, he never did get to play as the towering striker he’d always dreamed of, but regardless, he achieved his childhood dream.

Actually, it was a dream across two lifetimes.

He became a professional footballer and had even played half a season in the Segunda División. Now, with La Liga just on the horizon, a brighter future was within reach.

That was more than enough to make him feel satisfied.

And at this point, he’d finally accumulated 500 points in the system, enough to unlock another Golden Star Talent Fragment Card.

He didn’t dare hope for something world-breaking like Ronaldinho’s dribbling, Pirlo’s free kicks, or Rui Costa’s through-pass vision.

Any fragment from a top-class midfielder would do—just something to bump up his stats and help him continue improving.

He didn’t have high expectations anymore.

He was a non-chosen one, after all. Low rolls were his destiny.

Spending six years grinding for one golden card was the most he could hope for in terms of changing his fate.

The rest? That was up to destiny.

Back in his rented apartment, Li Ang hummed a tune, showered again, and started prepping dinner.

After a quiet but satisfying night, he texted his parents to let them know his next season’s plans were settled.

Then he rewatched the first half of the 2009–2010 Champions League Final before heading to bed at 10 PM.

He planned to get up early the next day and return to Seville to pack up his place.

Real Betis and Real Madrid had already discussed the loan agreement. With Mourinho calling him in that day, the contract would likely be finalized tomorrow.

Even if it took one more day, he’d be training with Betis’ first team the day after tomorrow.

Meanwhile, the rest of Real Madrid’s squad still at Valdebebas would be flying to the U.S. for their preseason tour.

There was no point in him staying behind to train alone—he’d just give a polite call to the assistant coach and Mourinho to explain the situation.

As for the talent card draw, he’d wait until he got to Seville.

A bath, some incense—maybe improve his luck a little.

With that in mind, Li Ang had a restful sleep and didn’t wake up until after 9 AM.

He packed up his modest amount of clothes, slung his travel bag over his shoulder, double-checked that he hadn’t left anything in his Valdebebas locker, then hailed a cab straight to Barajas Airport.

Music in his ears, dreams in his heart, Li Ang rode along, imagining the successful career awaiting him at Betis.

He felt like the secretary in Let the Bullets Fly, excited to take office in Goose Town.

But just like how Master Tang got intercepted by Zhang Mazi, Li Ang didn’t get to be happy for long—one phone call pulled him right back.

An hour later, he was back at Valdebebas.

Back in Mourinho’s office.

Sitting in the same chair as yesterday.

Yesterday, he had received Mourinho’s blessing and was ready to go all-in at Real Betis. He’d mentally prepared for not returning to Real Madrid for three to five years—maybe never.

But now?

He’d barely reached the airport when everything changed. Mourinho, also preparing to catch his flight, got interrupted too.

No time for formalities. They only spoke for five minutes before Mourinho had Li Ang grab his suitcase and leave the office with him.

He still had a flight to catch.

But not to Seville.

He was now headed to Los Angeles—with the Real Madrid first team.

Half an hour later, Real Madrid’s official website posted an announcement:

Lassana Diarra had suffered a thigh strain during training the previous day and would not be making the U.S. tour.

The updated squad list featured a new addition: Castilla youth product Li Ang, who had impressed during last season’s loan.

With this change, six players from Castilla were joining the U.S. tour—sparking heated discussion among Madrid fans.

Onboard the flight, Li Ang sat quietly, watching as Karim Benzema and Fernando Gago greeted him, and Nacho and Álvaro Morata waved and winked from their seats.

He didn’t even know how to feel.

Was he unlucky?

He felt unlucky.

He’d just lost his sure-fire shot at regular La Liga minutes this season.

But from the outside? It looked like he’d just hit the jackpot.

Still, he had no interest in sitting on Real Madrid’s bench all season.

What could he say?

This wasn’t fair.

But hey—he was used to it.

He was a non-chosen one.

He’d learned to live with it.

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