New Mission

Amani woke to the soft chime of his alarm, it was 5:59 AM, but his eyes were already open.

Sleep hadn't stood a chance. Not after the night he'd had, the contract, the match, the cheers from the small crowd still ringing faintly in his ears. His body still carried the game like a memory etched into muscle-tight calves, a dull ache in his quads, and a faint soreness along his left side from one hard landing.

But beneath the stiffness, beneath the fatigue, was a hum. Not from the system. From him.

Excitement. The kind that only comes when a dream inches closer to reality.

Then, right on cue, the system stirred to life.

A soft ding, not too loud, just enough to let him know his unseen companion was still there. The familiar blue glow lit up the corner of his vision, floating like a hologram that only his eyes could see. It hovered there, flickering gently, like a promise wrapped in light.

****

CONGRATULATIONS!

🎉 SYSTEM REWARD UNLOCKED 🎉

→ New Contract Signed with FC Utrecht

SYSTEM GIFT: A one-year supply of C-Grade Physical Conditioning Elixir has been added to the inventory.

Reward Details:

*Weekly dose infused with optimal macro and micronutrients designed for elite training.

*Supports stamina, power, speed, flexibility, and recovery — improvements based on your actual training intensity.

*Each weekly gift card must be claimed manually.

*Warning: Doses expire if not consumed within five seconds after retrieval.

****

Amani's breath caught in his throat. This was real. Not a daydream. Not a maybe. This was his life now.

But the system wasn't done.

***

NEW MISSION UNLOCKED

Progressive Overload Training 

Time: 1 Year 

Weekly Requirements:

*Run 32 KM (20 miles) — including at least 8 KM (5 miles) of outdoor hill sprints or interval runs.

*Complete 50 dumbbell squat-and-press routines (10kg).

*Daily: 30 single-leg squats (15 each leg).

*Daily: 40 push-ups.

*Daily: 3 rounds of 4 Yoga poses for flexibility and injury prevention.

**Note: Elixir rewards are locked until the entire week's training is completed. No excuses.

Remember No shortcuts.

****

Amani groaned softly, rolling back against his pillow, arms draped over his face. It wasn't impossible — but it was serious. The system wasn't giving him space to enjoy his moment. It was already pulling him into the next fight.

If you want to hang with the Dutch boys; the ones built in academies, fed by science, and trained like machines. You have to work twice as hard.

Amani wasn't built in a lab. He was carved from dust, sun, and survival. And now? Now he had to fuse both worlds together. The system's science and his own raw fire.

He let his arms fall limply to his sides, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but his mind was already drifting; back to the phone call from the night before.

That call had shaken him more than any sliding tackle or tactical lecture ever could.

Right after leaving the academy office with his new contract folded neatly in his pocket, he'd called home. His fingers trembled as they punched in the familiar number, a number that had always meant safety, no matter how far from Malindi he roamed.

His mother answered on the first ring, her voice bright with that unshakable hope she always carried, even when hope was the only thing left.

"Amani? Are you okay?"

Amani had swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

"I'm fine, Mama. Better than fine."

The words came tumbling out after that; the match, the contract, the monthly salary, the signing bonus so large it felt unreal even as he said it. Five thousand euros.

The line went silent. Not the comfortable silence of a pause in conversation — this was something heavier. It felt like his words had hit the ground on the other side of the world and cracked open the earth.

He almost asked if she was still there when her voice finally returned, trembling at the edges.

"Mwanangu… are you sure? That much?"

"Yes, Mama. And I've already sent you three thousand."

He spoke quickly like he needed to outrun her disbelief. "Fix the roof. Clear the debts. And maybe… set something aside for yourself and grandma, okay?"

Another silence. Then, something Amani hadn't heard in years.

She hummed. Soft and low, her voice wrapping around an old lullaby; the one she used to sing when they sat together under the mango tree in front of their house, watching the sky turn from soft blue to molten gold.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he was there again: the rough bark pressing against his back, his mother's fingers gently braiding his hair, and the scent of warm earth and fried cassava drifting on the evening breeze.

That song had been a promise back then. A reminder that even when the world outside their gate was unforgiving, they still had this sliver of peace, a pocket of love.

"You have changed our lives, my son," she whispered, her voice like a prayer. "But promise me… no matter how much they give you, never forget who you are."

Amani's throat tightened so hard it hurt. He pressed his fist against his chest, trying to anchor himself against the storm of emotions rising inside.

"I promise, Mama."

And he meant it.

Because no matter how far football took him — from Malindi to Mombasa to Utrecht and beyond — he would always carry that lullaby, that tree, and that woman's unbreakable faith inside him.

Always.

That memory still clung to him as Amani swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet landing on the cold floorboards with a quiet slap. The chill made him shiver, but the warmth in his chest still lingered with the echo of his mother's voice, it kept him moving.

Before he could get lost in the spiral of homesickness, a faint rustling from the hallway snapped him back to the present. He rubbed his eyes, shuffled to the door, and cracked it open.

Sitting just outside was a box: sleek, black, and gleaming under the dim hallway light. The FC Utrecht crest stood bold and proud on the lid, and taped across the top was his name in block capitals:

HAMADI, AMANI CHIRICHI

OFFICIAL WELCOME PACKAGE

Amani's heart kicked up a notch. He dragged the box inside, hands already itching to peel it open. The cardboard flaps gave way to something that felt almost unreal, like unboxing a future he'd only dreamed of.

Inside, the care package was a treasure chest wrapped in professionalism:

*A brand-new Utrecht tracksuit, deep red and crisp white, his initials — A.H. embroidered just below the crest.

*Two pairs of thermal compression socks, thick enough to laugh in the face of Dutch winter.

*A smart recovery bottle, glowing faintly at the base, it was able to track hydration levels and electrolytes in real-time.

*Protein bars in shiny wrappers, way fancier than anything from home — flavors like Double Chocolate Power and Almond Butter Crunch. He could practically hear Malik joking about them already.

*A pair of custom Utrecht shinpads, molded perfectly for his legs, so light they felt like air.

*A signed match ball, covered in sharpie scribbles from first-team players he'd only seen on TV and the newspaper for the last week.

*A new pair of Kappa running shoes (The team's official Sponsor) - Perfectly his size.

At the very bottom, tucked between layers of foam padding, was a handwritten note. Amani's breath caught when he recognized Kristen's neat handwriting:

"Welcome officially to Utrecht, Amani. This is only the beginning. Train hard. Dream bigger."— Kristen

He ran his thumb over the ink, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth. There was no exaggeration in the words: this was only the beginning.

This box wasn't just gear. It was proof.

Proof that he was no longer the barefoot boy outside the fence, watching through the wire.

He was inside now.

Where he belonged.

The system's blue hologram still hovered quietly in the corner of his vision, reminding him of the miles to run, the squats to crush, the yoga poses to stretch into submission. Instead of dreading it, Amani felt that rare kind of excitement — the kind that comes when you know you're finally chasing your future at full sprint.

He crossed the room, cracked the window open, and let the cold morning air slap him fully awake. The chill stung his skin, but it couldn't touch the fire inside.

He bent down, fingers tightening his new running shoes until they hugged his feet like old friends. His breath fogged the glass, but his smile cut right through it.

As he stepped outside, his first footfall crunching lightly in the frost, Malik's voice floated down from the window above, still scratchy with sleep.

"Bro… where are you going this early? It's not even breakfast."

Amani looked up, grinning wide enough to split his face in two. "Got twenty miles to kill this week. Might as well start now."

Malik's forehead creased like a wrinkled bed sheet. "Bro, are you sure you signed for FC Utrecht and not the Kenyan Marathon Team?"

Amani laughed—deep, full, the kind that bubbles up from somewhere past exhaustion, past doubt. "If you wanna be great, you have to train like you already are."

Amani jogged off, laughing into the cold air, the system's silent hum buzzing in his chest.

From his village to Malindi where the road wasn't paved, Amani knew exactly how to run it.

And this time, he wasn't just running for himself.

He was running for his mother.

For his small village in Malindi.

For every kid who ever kicked a plastic bag ball and dared to dream.

One mile at a time.

***

Mwanangu - My Son