Routine

The rhythm of his new life started to take shape — a cycle of relentless training, system missions, learning, and survival.

Every day felt the same.

Mornings were football. A battlefield of drills, sweat, and competition. A place where mistakes were punished, where every sprint, every touch, every decision mattered. The cold air bit into his skin, muscles burned from repetition, but stopping wasn't an option. Not when there was always someone waiting to take your spot.

Afternoons were school. A different kind of challenge, an unfamiliar maze of Dutch words and expectations. He sat in classrooms where the language swirled around him too fast, lessons moving forward whether he understood or not. It was frustrating. Back home, school had been something to endure. Here, it was something to conquer.

Evenings were recovery. A slow rebuild for the next war. Ice baths numbing his aching muscles, stretchings that pulled at stiff joints, and nutrition plans designed to keep his body from breaking down. Sleep should have been easy after days like this. But most nights, his mind wouldn't let him rest.

No wasted time. No distractions. Just progress. But adapting wasn't easy.

Dutch grammar twisted his brain into knots. It was a language that felt both impossible and urgent — something he needed to master, yet something that resisted him at every turn.

The verbs changed depending on the subject. The sentence structure felt backward. Even words that seemed simple had rules that made them complicated.

Some teachers slowed their speech for him. Others didn't.

He sat in class, scribbling notes furiously, trying to keep up while words blurred together. The moment the teacher moved on, he whispered Dutch phrases under his breath, forcing them into his mind like a new football technique.

It was exhausting. But what choice did he have? He couldn't afford to fail.

And yet, school wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was the weight — the weight of expectation, the weight of knowing that football wasn't just a game anymore.

It wasn't just a passion anymore.

It was a job now, he was getting paid to do it.

Every time he stepped onto the pitch, he felt it pressing down on him.

This wasn't like back home, where he could play freely on the sandy beaches, where football was something that made him feel alive. Here, every mistake could cost him his place. Every bad training session could push him one step closer to being forgotten.

He had teammates who had been in the system for years, players who had grown up in Dutch academies, who spoke the language fluently, and who knew exactly how things worked.

Amani wasn't just competing against defenders on the pitch. He was competing against an entire system that had been designed long before he arrived.

Every touch on the ball mattered. Every sprint in training mattered. Every moment of hesitation could be the difference between success and failure.

And the worst part?

There were no guarantees. He could train harder than anyone else. He could study longer, push himself further, and sacrifice everything.

And still, it might not be enough. Because football didn't owe him anything. Amani felt that reality settling deep into his bones.

And yet... He wasn't going to back down.

Not now.

Not ever.

Amani sprinted through the frozen air, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. The cold bit at his skin, wrapping around his muscles like invisible weights. Each inhale felt like knives in his lungs, but he didn't slow down.

He couldn't.

"Again!"

De Vries' voice cut through the wind like a whip, and Amani dug deeper, forcing his legs to pump faster.

The icy grass crunched beneath his boots as he drove forward, the resistance in his muscles screaming for relief. But relief was a luxury he couldn't afford.

This wasn't just a drill.

This was survival.

They were working on explosive power today — short sprints, rapid changes of direction, and ball control under high-pressure situations.

The kind of work that separated the good from the great.

A few yards away, Amrabat was already drenched in sweat. But he never looked tired. Never looked like he was suffering. His movements were sharp, efficient, and calculated — every sprint, every touch on the ball, every shift of his weight was done with purpose.

Amrabat wasn't the fastest, but he was relentless. He didn't waste energy. He didn't make mistakes.

He was a machine.

Tijmen, on the other hand, was the opposite.

Where Amrabat was controlled, Tijmen was fluid.

His quick feet and sharp turns made him look untouchable, cutting through the drills like he was playing a game only he could see. His movement wasn't just fast — it was effortless, a natural rhythm that defenders struggled to keep up with.

Amani?

Amani needed to match them.

No — surpass them.

Because talent wasn't enough here. Discipline won games. Consistency built careers.

He wasn't here to be good.

He was here to be great.

And that meant pushing through every sprint, every drill, every moment of doubt until the work became instinct.

Until the exhaustion meant nothing.

Until he left no question who he was meant to be.

By the time training ended, Amani's body was running on fumes.

His lungs felt like they had been wrung out, each breath sharp and heavy in his chest. His legs ached with every step, the buildup of fatigue making them feel like bricks strapped to his body. The cold did little to soothe the burn in his muscles — it only tightened everything, making his movements stiff.

But there was no time to recover.

Because football wasn't his only fight.

Now, he had to switch gears.

Now, he had to survive school.

Dutch was still a fight. A different kind of opponent — one he couldn't outrun, couldn't overpower, couldn't outwork in a sprint.

It was a slow grind.

The classroom was warm compared to the freezing training pitch, but it didn't feel any more comfortable. If anything, it was worse.

But the Dutch language was still a fight, Amani forced himself to listen. To pick up patterns, to piece words together, to understand.

Every lesson felt like a match where he was chasing the ball, always a step behind, always struggling to keep up.

But he refused to quit.

Amani sat toward the back of the room, his notebook open, pen poised, trying to keep up.

The teacher's voice moved too fast, syllables crashing into each other before he could even process them.

But the rest?

A tangled mess.

His hand tightened around his pen.

He tried to follow, scribbling notes furiously, whispering Dutch phrases under his breath like they were tactics he had to memorize before a big match.

It was frustrating.

It was exhausting.

Some days, he felt like he was making progress. On other days, it felt like he was drowning in words he couldn't yet understand.

But in football, just like in life, adaptation was survival.

And Amani refused to fall behind.

***

During lunch, Jeroen tested him over sandwiches and stroopwafels, his usual grin plastered across his face.

"Alright, Hamadi," he said, wiping crumbs from his hands. "How do you say 'pass the ball' in Dutch?"

Amani furrowed his brow, reaching into his mind for the phrase.

"Uh… geef de bal door?"

Jeroen tapped his knuckles against Amani's shoulder. "Not bad! You'll be fluent in no time."

Amani wasn't so sure.

The words still felt foreign on his tongue, the language structure still twisting his brain into knots.

But he had no choice.

This was his reality now.

And in football, like in life, adaptation was survival.

Amani refused to fall behind.

***

By the time he returned to his apartment, exhaustion had settled into his bones.

He felt heavy like the weight of the entire day had buried itself into his body.

His calves ached from sprinting. His shoulders tightened from resistance training. Even his fingers, wrapped around the strap of his training bag, felt like they had no energy left.

Amani kicked off his boots, barely making it to the couch before collapsing onto it.

For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, his body sinking into the cushions.

Then—

Ding.

A sharp chime vibrated through his mind, the familiar blue screen flickering to life in his vision.

Amani inhaled deeply.

The System.

***

System Notification: Weekly Progress Update

Progressive Overload Training - Week 3 Completed:

24 miles run (7 miles high-intensity)

70 dumbbell squat-and-press routines (12kg)

Daily: 50 push-ups

Daily: 50 single-leg squats

Daily: 4 rounds of advanced Yoga

System Reward Unlocked!

🎁 +2% Physical Conditioning Boost

🎁 +1% Tactical Awareness Boost

🎁 C-grade Physical Conditioning Elixir sent to system inventory (temporarily-unlocked).

***

Amani exhaled slowly, a tired smile creeping onto his face.

Progress.

Little by little, step by step, rep by rep —

He was becoming something more.

And he wasn't stopping now.

He let his eyes drift shut for a second, his breathing steady.

Tomorrow would be another battle.

Another test.

Another chance to prove himself.

And Amani Hamadi?

He never backed down.

***

Thank you for reading until now. The last few chapters of the story have become a bit repetitive, so I will try to spice it up. Thank you for your support. Any kind of engagement is appreciated.