System Awakens

The morning sun stretched over the rooftops of Fouda, casting warm golden hues over the waking neighborhood. The streets slowly stirred to life—women setting up their market stalls, the scent of fresh bread mixing with the occasional burst of roasted plantains. Motorbikes weaved between taxis, their engines roaring as students in crisp uniforms hurried toward school, some on foot, others squeezed into packed buses.

Inside the Ndonga household, Marcel was running late.

"Marcel! Hurry up, the driver is waiting!" Francine's voice rang from the hallway, firm yet concerned. "It's already 6:30! Eat something before you go. How can you be late on the day of your BEPC maths exam?"

"I'm coming, Mum!" Marcel called back, hopping on one foot as he stuffed himself into his school shoes. He grabbed his schoolbag, slung it over one shoulder, and rushed toward the kitchen.

Francine stood by the doorway, arms crossed, her sharp eyes scanning him like a final check before he left the house. Dressed in a bright kaba, her long braids falling neatly over her shoulders, she looked composed.

"Eat something," she reminded him, her tone softer now. "You need to concentrate."

Marcel grabbed a piece of baguette and a carton of juice, wolfing them down in record time. He knew better than to argue—his mother was right, as always.

Outside, their black RAV4 was idling in the driveway, Uncle Sylvain behind the wheel, patiently waiting.

"Uncle Sylvain, let's go!" Marcel said, slipping into the back seat.

With a nod, Sylvain started the car and pulled onto the road.

The streets of Yaoundé were already alive with movement. Street vendors arranged fresh fruit in neat piles, smoke curled from roadside grills, and the air carried the distinct blend of fried dough, gasoline, and damp earth—a familiar scent Marcel barely registered anymore.

He leaned against the window, watching the city blur past. They passed small boutiques, roadside tailors, and the usual spots where men sat idly on benches, discussing football and politics. A few schoolkids, running late just like him, darted between cars, making risky dashes across the street.

After twenty minutes, they arrived at Collège de la Retraite. The school's tall blue gates stood firm, already surrounded by clusters of students. Some flipped through their notes in a last-minute panic, while others tried to mask their nerves with lighthearted jokes.

"See you later, Uncle Sylvain," Marcel said as he stepped out.

"Good luck, Marcel."

Marcel adjusted his bag and headed inside, weaving through the crowd. He spotted familiar faces—some students sat quietly on benches, deep in last-minute revision, while others paced around, reciting formulas under their breath. The usual pre-exam tension was thick in the air.

Climbing the stairs to Class 3e A, he entered the room and found his usual spot—third row, second bench. He set his bag down, pulled out his maths materials, and took a deep breath.

"Ready for this?"

Marcel turned to see Jordan and Dimitri, his two closest friends, sliding into their seats beside him.

Jordan, always the joker, smirked. "Just another day, right?"

Dimitri, ever the level-headed one, shook his head. "It's maths, not magic. Just stay calm, and we'll be fine."

They had been through everything together—schoolyard fights, endless football debates, and just last month, they had won the Interclass 3e Tournament. Marcel, named best playmaker, had thrived feeding assists to Jordan, who finished as top scorer. Football had always been their escape from the pressure of school, but today, there was no pitch to run on—only numbers, equations, and a ticking clock.

Their conversation was cut short as the invigilators entered. The casual murmurs in the room died instantly. A heavy silence settled over the classroom, the weight of the exam sinking into everyone's bones.

Exam papers were passed down the rows.

Marcel gripped his pen, took a deep breath, and focused.

 ... 

The hours dragged on as one exam followed another. By the time the final bell rang, Marcel exhaled deeply, his fingers sore from gripping his pen for so long. The long, exhausting day was finally over.

As he stepped out of the classroom, he spotted Jordan and Dimitri waiting outside, their expressions a mix of relief and mild frustration.

"That maths exam was something else," Jordan groaned, rolling his shoulders as if he'd been physically beaten by the equations.

"You mean those equations from hell?" Dimitri muttered, rubbing his temples.

Marcel chuckled, though his mind lingered on a few tricky questions. "At least it's over. No point stressing about it now."

The three of them fell into step, heading toward the school gates. Their conversation bounced from one subject to another—Maths, History, English—all of them trying not to overanalyze their answers.

Outside, Uncle Sylvain leaned against the black RAV4, sipping from a chilled glass of Foléré, the deep red hibiscus drink catching the afternoon sunlight.

"Someone looks relaxed," Marcel teased, stepping up to the car.

Sylvain smirked, lifting the glass slightly. "It's you who should be relaxed now. Exams are over."

Marcel nodded, finally feeling the weight of the day start to lift. He and his friends exchanged a few more goodbyes before climbing into the car, their usual post-exam banter filling the air.

The drive home was familiar—the warm breeze from the half-open window, the sounds of Yaoundé shifting from the morning rush to the more relaxed rhythm of afternoon life. The city pulsed with energy. Vendors sat by their stalls, calling out to passersby, while taxis honked impatiently, weaving through the streets.

Soon, they pulled up outside Le Normalien, the place that was more than just a restaurant to Marcel—it was like home.

The green-tiled roof gleamed under the sun, framed by neatly trimmed hedges and the swaying leaves of tall palm trees. The deep green sign above the entrance bore the name in elegant cursive:

Le Normalien.

The moment Marcel stepped out of the car, the air changed.

The rich aromas of Ndolé, Poulet DG, and grilled plantains filled his senses, instantly awakening his appetite. No matter how stressful the day had been, the smell of home-cooked food had a way of making things better.

Instead of heading through the front entrance, they slipped past the reception and walked toward the back—the heartbeat of the restaurant.

The kitchen was alive with movement.

Chefs darted between stations, their hands moving with practiced ease. The sizzle of hot oil, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the bubbling of simmering sauces created a comforting symphony. It was a place of controlled chaos, yet everything worked in harmony.

Through the half-open door of her office, Francine stood in deep conversation with a supplier, pen in hand, nodding occasionally.

But the moment she spotted them, her expression softened.

"Finished already?" she asked, stepping out.

Marcel grinned, feeling lighter now. "Yeah, and I think I did well."

Francine's eyes, always sharp, studied him for a moment before a proud smile touched her lips. "I knew you would." She patted his shoulder before turning to Jordan and Sylvain, acknowledging them with a nod.

They made their way to their usual table, tucked away in a quieter section of the restaurant. It had practically become theirs over the years—a place where they had shared countless meals, celebrated small victories, and debated football for hours.

Without needing to ask, they headed to the kitchen, grabbing plates of steaming food before settling in.

...

The meal at Le Normalien had been lively. Marcel, Jordan, and Sylvain laughed over their plates, rehashing the day's exams, teasing each other over wrong answers, and discussing upcoming football matches. Francine, though busy with work, had made sure to sit with them for a bit, offering quiet encouragement.

But even as Marcel ate, something lingered in the back of his mind.

His mother had called him over after the meal, her expression unreadable. "We'll talk when we get home," she had said. And now, as the car pulled into their driveway, Marcel felt a subtle weight settle in his chest.

The house was quiet when they stepped in. Francine walked ahead, setting down her purse, while Marcel kicked off his shoes and stretched. It had been a long day, but something about her tone earlier kept him alert.

"Sit," Francine said simply, taking a seat across from him in the living room.

Marcel sank into the couch. The air felt different tonight.

Francine folded her hands together, her tone calm but firm. "Marcel, we need to talk."

He sat up straight, heart picking up pace.

"I've been speaking with your father about your football ambitions for months now," she continued. "We both know that making it as a footballer is not easy, but we've seen how serious you are. That's why we've decided to support you."

Marcel's breath caught. His hands clenched unconsciously. Did she just say what he thought she said?

"For real?" he blurted out, leaning forward. "Thank you, Mom! Thank you!"

Francine raised a hand, signaling him to hold on. "Don't get too excited just yet," she warned.

Marcel froze.

"Your father pulled some strings and paid a lot to register you for a trial with Dragons FC Yaoundé. But this opportunity comes with conditions."

He swallowed hard. Conditions?

"In two weeks, you'll play a trial match to prove yourself," Francine continued. "If you don't perform well enough, that'll be the end of football as a career. No second chances. You need to prepare seriously."

A rush of emotions hit Marcel all at once. Excitement. Pressure. Determination. Two weeks. That was all he had.

"I'll train hard. I'll be ready," he said, voice steady—but inside, his mind was racing.

Francine's expression softened, but her tone remained serious. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a trainer working with you. He's going to push you hard for the next two weeks. You have to take this seriously. Your father has done a lot to make this happen. Don't let him down."

Don't let him down.

Marcel felt the weight of those words settle over him. His father, all the way in France, had done this for him.

"I won't, Mom. I promise," he said. "I'm going to work harder than ever. I'll be like Cristiano Ronaldo."

Francine sighed, shaking her head with a faint smile. "Let's start with passing this trial first before you start talking about comparisons with legends."

Marcel nodded, though in his head, he was already imagining it—a stadium roaring, thousands chanting his name.

Then, as the excitement dimmed slightly, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

"Will Dad be able to come back to Cameroon this year?"

Francine's smile faded slightly. "No," she said gently. "He signed a new contract with his company. He won't be back until next year. But you can call him tomorrow and tell him everything."

Marcel nodded again, this time with a more controlled expression. "Alright. I'll call him. I want to talk to him about this."

They talked a little more before Marcel finally excused himself, heading to his room.

That night, Marcel lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind couldn't rest.

His trial was in two weeks.

Two weeks to prove himself.

Two weeks to change everything.

He needed to focus—but before that, he needed to unwind.

Grabbing his PS4 controller, he started a match on FIFA 14, losing himself in the game.

Later, he switched on the TV to watch a replay of Cameroon vs. Mexico from the 2014 World Cup. The game had ended in a frustrating 1-0 loss.

As he watched, frustration built inside him. Missed chances. Poor finishing. A lack of sharpness in the final third.

"This shouldn't have happened," he muttered, shaking his head. His hands clenched into fists. "One day, I'll make sure we don't lose like this. I'll train harder than ever. I'll help Cameroon win the World Cup."

At that moment, something strange happened.

Ding!

A sharp sound echoed in his mind.

System activation…

Synchronization with host Marcel Ndonga…

Initializing…

Welcome, Marcel, to the Elite Boost System.

Marcel's eyes widened. His body stiffened. Suddenly, a floating screen appeared right in front of him.

"What the—!" He jolted backward, nearly hitting the wall.

His heart pounded. Was he dreaming? Hallucinating?

The screen was still there, hovering in midair.

Before he could process it, his door swung open.

"Marcel!" Francine's voice was sharp with concern. "Why are you shouting? What's wrong?"

Marcel's head snapped toward her. She didn't see it.

His pulse raced. What the hell was happening?

"Marcel, I'm talking to you!" Francine stepped closer, worry turning into frustration. "What happened?"

Marcel scrambled to find an excuse. "Uh… it's nothing, Mom," he said quickly. "I was watching a horror movie on my phone, and something scared me."

Francine let out a long breath, rubbing her temples. "You screamed like that… over a movie?"

She clicked her tongue. "You're 14, Marcel. Don't scare me like that."

"Sorry, Mom," he said, forcing a sheepish smile.

Francine gave him one last unimpressed look before walking out.

As soon as she left, Marcel exhaled deeply and turned back to the floating screen.

Marcel stared at the floating screen, frozen in place. His mind raced, trying to find a logical explanation, but nothing made sense.

"This isn't real," he muttered under his breath.

Yet the screen remained. Hovering. Glowing faintly in the dimly lit room.

Then, a smooth, composed voice echoed directly into his thoughts.

I am Tricera, the AI that will assist you in utilizing the Elite Boost System.

Marcel flinched. He whipped his head around, scanning his room as if expecting someone to be hiding in a corner.

Nothing.

His breathing quickened. "Who said that?" he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

I am the system AI, Tricera. I exist to help you become the greatest football player in history.

Marcel's throat went dry. Greatest in history? What kind of nonsense was this?

His instincts told him to shut his eyes, to shake his head, to snap out of whatever dream this was. But when he opened them again, the screen was still there.

Still glowing.

Still waiting.

Taking a shaky breath, Marcel hesitantly reached out, his fingers moving toward the text. If this was a dream, he needed to prove it.

The moment his fingertips brushed the glowing interface—

Ding!

The screen responded to his touch, flipping to a new section instantly.

Marcel jerked his hand back. His heart pounded.

This was real.

Or at least, it wasn't going away.

For the next few minutes, Marcel listened in stunned silence as Tricera explained the system.

The Elite Boost System is a development tool that enhances your football abilities. It tracks progress, provides boosts, and accelerates your growth as a player. But remember—football is a team sport. No system can replace hard work, intelligence, and teamwork.

"So… you're saying this thing can make me better than Messi? Than Ronaldo?" Marcel finally found his voice.

That depends entirely on you.

Marcel's eyes narrowed. "Wait… why me? Why did I get this?"

A pause.

Then, the answer came.

You weren't really chosen for any particular reason.

Marcel blinked. "What?"

You got lucky. The system didn't pick you because you're special or the most talented. It could have gone to anyone. You just happened to be in the right place at the right time. 

Marcel stared at the screen, trying to process the words.

So, no prophecy? No destiny? Just… luck?

The Interface Unveiled

The screen shifted again.

Elite Boost System

Level: 1 (0/500 XP)

Name: Marcel Ndonga

Date of Birth: 17 May 2000 (14 years old)

Height: 168 cm

Weight: 64 kg

Position: Left Winger / Right Winger

Special Boosts: None (Two slots available)

Lottery Tickets: 1

Player Attributes

Market: Locked

Points: 0

Marcel exhaled, his nerves still on edge.

"Okay… so what does all this mean?"

You are at Level 1. This gives you access to basic Bronze Boosts—small, temporary improvements in matches.

XP (Experience Points) are gained through matches, trophies, and awards. Tougher games earn more XP.

Points are given based on performance—goals, assists, overall impact. These points can be used in the Market… but right now, the Market is locked. You must join a professional team to unlock it.

Finally, you have a lottery ticket. This can be used to win a random boost or extra points.

Marcel absorbed the information slowly.

So, this wasn't some cheat code. He couldn't just unlock god-tier abilities overnight. He still had to earn everything.

Marcel then clicked on the the player attributes section.

Pace: 73

Dribbling: 82

Shooting: 58

Passing: 62

Technique: 67

Vision: 55

Composure: 55

Agility: 75

Flair: 80

Balance: 62

Decision-Making: 55

Physical: 56

Defending: 20

Tactical Awareness: 50

Overall: Developing Talent – Great potential but needs improvement in several areas.

Marcel frowned, scanning the numbers.

His dribbling and flair were solid, which made sense. His pace was pretty good for his age. But the rest weren't really impressive.

"So… based on this, do you think I'll be ready for my trial match in two weeks?"

With your current attributes, you're already ahead of most youth players in Cameroon. But staying here won't challenge you much.

Marcel raised an eyebrow. "I'm already at that level?"

Yes, but true growth requires tougher competition.

Marcel leaned back, thinking.

His mother's words from earlier came back to him.

"Your father has done a lot to make this happen. Don't let him down."

He clenched his fists.

"I still want to win at least a trophy here in Cameroon before I think about going to Europe," he admitted.

You can develop here, but it will take longer. In Europe, the competition is far tougher that means higher rewards for victories.

Tricera paused.

But let's focus on the present. You have a trial match in two weeks. Get some rest. Recovery is just as important as training.

Marcel checked the time—10:30 PM.

He lay down, staring at the ceiling.

His journey was just beginning.