Chapter 4

Marcel stepped through the front door, his heartbeat still racing from the excitement of the day. The moment he had dreamt about had finally arrived—he had passed the trial. He was officially a player for Dragons FC Yaoundé's U17 team. The thought alone sent another surge of adrenaline through his veins.

He barely took a moment to settle in before grabbing his phone. His father had to hear this. He quickly dialed the number, anticipation bubbling inside him as the line rang.

"Hello, Dad!" Marcel greeted, unable to contain his grin.

"Marcel? How are you?" His father's voice came through, warm but carrying the weight of authority, as always.

"I'm good! What about you?" Marcel replied, his excitement barely concealed. "I just called to tell you—I passed the trial! I'm officially part of Dragons FC Yaoundé's U17 team now. And I'm going to work my way up to the first team soon!" His words came in a rush, spilling out in his eagerness.

His father was silent for a moment, and Marcel could almost picture his serious expression. Then, finally, his father's deep voice spoke again, steady but firm.

"Is that true? Well done, son!" There was pride in his tone, but it was quickly tempered with caution. "But don't get too carried away. This is just the beginning. Making the team is one thing, staying there and proving yourself is another. You need to stay disciplined. Keep your head down and work harder than ever. The real journey starts now."

Marcel nodded instinctively, even though his father couldn't see him. The words settled in his chest—a reminder that this was just one step forward, not the final destination. "I know, Dad. I'm ready to put in the work."

"Good. Now that you're in a team, you have to be more careful. Less time fooling around. And for heaven's sake, stop playing with the neighborhood kids—one wrong tackle, one bad fall, and your career could be over before it even starts." His father's tone grew sharper. "You also need to remember your family. Your grandmothers have been asking about you. They call your mother and me all the time, wondering why you never visit."

Marcel chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Dad, I love my grandmothers, but you know they only speak Ewondo. It's tough—I barely understand them."

His father let out a deep laugh, a rare but genuine sound. "Ah, the youth of today! Always in French, never their native tongue. You have to work on that, Marcel. Language is part of who you are. You can't only think about football—you need to understand your roots too."

Marcel sighed, knowing his father had a point. "I know, I know. I'll visit Grandma on Mom's side tomorrow, and then I'll see Grandma on your side too. But after that, I won't have much free time. Training is going to get more intense."

"That's what I want to hear," his father said, satisfied. "Keep me updated on your progress. And don't disappoint me, Marcel. You've taken the first step—now, you have to keep going."

Marcel smiled. "I won't, Dad. I promise."

"Alright then. Good night, son."

"Good night, Dad."

After ending the call, Marcel leaned back against his pillow, exhaling deeply. His father's words still echoed in his mind, a mix of praise and warning. He knew his father was right—this was just the beginning.

But right now, he had something else to check.

He sat up, eyes sharpening with anticipation. "Tricera, show me my interface."

A soft hum filled the room as a holographic screen flickered to life in front of him, casting a faint blue glow across the dimly lit space.

Elite Boost System

Level: 1 (0/500 XP)

Name: Marcel Ndonga

Date of Birth: 17th 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 frowned slightly. No XP gained. That meant the trial match wasn't counted as an official game.

"Figures," he muttered. No reward for trial matches.

But then his gaze landed on something else. The lottery ticket.

His fingers instinctively twitched. He still hadn't used it.

A flicker of curiosity stirred in his chest. What would he get? A boost to his dribbling? His speed? Maybe even something game-changing?

He took a deep breath. "Tricera, use my lottery ticket."

Instantly, the system whirred to life, and in his mind, a virtual wheel appeared, spinning rapidly. The sections flashed by—different boosts, points, upgrades—each one a possibility.

Marcel's heart pounded as he watched the wheel slow down.

'Lottery ticket activated. Random bonus selection in progress…'

The needle hovered, shifting between two rewards before finally clicking into place.

Congratulations!

You have received the Team Boost: Defensive Cohesion +5%

A description popped up below:

Your team's defensive cohesion has improved. Defenders now anticipate opposition moves better, filling gaps and working together to neutralize attacks.

Marcel blinked. Not exactly what he was hoping for.

"Team defense?" he muttered, rubbing his temple. He had been expecting something personal—something that boosted his own abilities. Not… this.

For a few seconds, disappointment lingered. But then, as he thought about it, he reconsidered.

This could actually be useful.

The Académie de Football des Brasseries and Canon de Yaoundé had some of the best youth squads in the country. Even if Marcel played brilliantly, he couldn't carry a team alone. Defense mattered—especially in crucial matches where a single mistake could cost them everything.

"I guess this will come in handy," he murmured.

The system interface updated.

Special Boosts:

Bronze Boost: Defensive Cohesion +5% (One slot available)

His eyes lingered on the empty boost slot. What would a Silver, Gold, or even Platinum boost feel like?

Would he ever unlock something truly game-breaking?

Marcel shook his head, shutting the interface. That was a question for another day. Right now, his focus was clear.

He had his first official match in a few days.

And whether he had system buffs or not, he was going to prove himself—with or without help.

Satisfied, Marcel exhaled and lay back, staring at the ceiling. His mind drifted to the match ahead, imagining himself cutting past defenders, scoring goals, making an impact.

A small smirk tugged at his lips.

He closed his eyes.

...

...

The first rays of sunlight crept through the narrow gap in the curtains, casting a golden hue over Marcel's room. His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he simply lay there, feeling the cool morning air against his skin.

Then, the weight of the day ahead settled in his mind. Training. Improvement. Progress.

Without hesitation, he threw off the thin bedsheet and sat up, rolling his shoulders to shake off the last remnants of sleep. He reached for his phone—5:45 a.m. Perfect timing.

Marcel got up, stretched his arms, and let out a deep breath. It was time to get to work.

Stepping outside, he was greeted by the crisp, fresh air of the Fouda district. The sky was painted in soft hues of blue and orange, the city not yet fully awake. A few vendors were already setting up their stalls, their voices low, while early risers made their way to work.

Marcel tightened his laces and began his jog.

His footsteps echoed rhythmically against the quiet pavement, his breathing steady. Each stride felt strong, each movement purposeful. As he ran through familiar streets, he let his mind wander.

He imagined himself on the pitch, gliding past defenders, feeling the weight of the ball at his feet. The roar of an unseen crowd filled his mind, urging him forward.

The run lasted thirty minutes, ending back at his home, where sweat clung to his skin but satisfaction filled his chest. His muscles were warm, his body energized. A good start to the day.

But he wasn't done yet.

Grabbing his Brazuca ball, he stepped into the courtyard, where the dry ground made for a challenging surface. Perfect for ball control.

One hundred juggles. Then two hundred. Three hundred. His feet moved in instinctive rhythms, the ball never touching the ground. He transitioned into tricks—an around the world, followed by a double around the world, then a quick reverse step-over into a flick-up.

Each touch was an extension of himself.

By the time he was done, his heart pounded, but he felt sharper, more in control than ever.

Satisfied, he finally headed inside for a quick breakfast.

After washing up and finishing his meal, Marcel checked the time—almost noon.

He grabbed his phone and sent a quick message to Christina saying he was coming to her place.

Leaving his apartment, he knocked on the Yamesse family's door, right next to his own. The door opened a moment later, revealing Nicole Yamesse, Christina's mother.

"Hello, Marcel," she greeted warmly, stepping aside. "Come in, don't just stand there."

Marcel grinned. "Merci, Tantine Nicole."

The living room felt familiar, the large plasma screen still mounted on the wall, family photos decorating the space. It smelled of freshly brewed tea and home-cooked food, a comforting scent.

He greeted Hardy, Christina's younger brother, with a quick fist bump.

"Acer combi, where's your sister?" Marcel asked, crossing his arms. "She knew I was coming, and I see you instead?"

Hardy shrugged. "She just woke up. Still in her pyjamas."

Marcel rubbed his forehead in disbelief. "Ékié, Chrissy... we had plans."

Almost as if she heard him, Christina appeared down the hallway, yawning, her hair still tousled from sleep.

"Oh, babe! I forgot!" she said, voice a mix of guilt and playfulness. "I was up until 3 a.m. watching my soap opera. It was so good, I couldn't stop! I'm sorry!"

Marcel let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable... Just go get ready. I'll wait here."

Christina grinned. "I'll be quick, promise!" She pecked Marcel on the cheek before rushing back to her room.

Marcel turned to Hardy, shaking his head.

"Bro, let's talk about the World Cup," Hardy said suddenly, flipping through TV channels. "Cameroon is a disaster. Three games, three losses, zero points! And now, Alex Song is making headlines for elbowing Neymar. We're a laughingstock!"

Marcel's jaw tightened. "It's embarrassing. But honestly, who do we have? Eto'o is past his prime. The rest of the squad? Not good enough."

"I know," Hardy sighed. "But still... it's sad watching us fall apart."

Marcel leaned back. His eyes burned with quiet determination.

"Just wait. Give me two or three more years, and I'll bring Cameroon back to the top."

Hardy looked at him, a skeptical.

"I know you've got talent, but bro... you're no Samuel Eto'o," Hardy muttered. "And even he couldn't do much for us."

Marcel smirked, leaning forward.

"I'll be better than Eto'o and even best in the world."

Hardy burst out laughing.

"Hahahaha! Abeg, combi, stop making me laugh! Not just the best in Africa, but the best in the world? Focus on becoming the best in Cameroon first before dreaming that big."

Marcel grinned. "You'll see."

Christina finally reappeared, now properly dressed, looking effortlessly beautiful in a casual outfit. She smiled as she walked up to them.

"Babe, I know you'll make it," she said with confidence.

Hardy sighed dramatically. "Ah, so you're encouraging him too?"

Christina's eyes softened. "Whether he makes it or not... I'll be there."

Hardy gave a playful shake of his head. "Alright, alright. If both of you believe in him, I guess I'll just wait and see."

Marcel stood up, linking arms with Christina as they prepared to leave.

"Let's go. We've got a whole day ahead."

Hardy waved lazily from the couch. "Enjoy, future Ballon d'Or winner."

Marcel grinned.

"Watch me."

Marcel and Christina stepped out of the apartment, greeted by the intense afternoon heat of Yaoundé. The sun was relentless, casting a golden haze over the Fouda district as the temperature soared. The streets buzzed with life, shopkeepers calling out to passersby, vendors displaying fresh fruit, clothing, and electronics. The scent of grilled meat and spices filled the air, mingling with the unmistakable aroma of hot asphalt. It was a typical summer day in the capital.

They walked side by side toward the main road, their hands occasionally brushing. Marcel scanned the street for a taxi, watching as one yellow car after another zipped past, each already filled with passengers. He sighed, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. After a few minutes, a taxi finally slowed down as he raised his hand. The driver rolled down the window, glancing at them with mild impatience.

"1500 FCFA for Mokolo market?" Marcel offered.

The driver frowned. "1500? No, no. With this heat and traffic, it'll be at least 2000."

"2000 is too much," Marcel countered. "There's barely any traffic right now."

The driver shook his head. "If you don't want to pay, find another taxi. Good luck." Without waiting for a response, he drove off, leaving Marcel standing there, frustrated.

Christina shrugged beside him. "We'll find one soon. Be patient."

Another taxi approached, and Marcel stepped forward, determined. "1500 for Mokolo?" he asked again.

The driver let out a short laugh. "Are you joking? Mokolo at this hour? 2000, take it or leave it."

Marcel sighed, already feeling the heat pressing down on him. He tried again with another driver, only to be met with the same response. By the fourth rejection, his patience was wearing thin. They had been standing in the scorching sun for almost half an hour.

Christina placed a hand on his arm and stepped forward, flashing a confident smile as she flagged down the next taxi. The car came to a stop, and she leaned in toward the window. "2500 FCFA for Mokolo?" she offered casually.

The driver hesitated before nodding. "Alright, get in."

Marcel stared at her in disbelief. "2500? Really?"

Christina grinned. "You wanted a taxi, didn't you? Problem solved."

Marcel couldn't help but laugh as they slid into the backseat. The driver merged into the chaotic traffic, weaving between motorbikes that darted recklessly between cars. What should have been a quick trip turned into a slow, tense crawl through the city's gridlocked streets. Street vendors walked between the cars, carrying trays of water bottles, fresh fruit, and fried snacks, their voices rising above the blaring horns. The Makossa music playing on the radio added a rhythmic backdrop to the madness outside.

Marcel looked out the window at the vibrant energy of the city—the painted advertisements on worn-down buildings, the children playing football in narrow alleyways, the makeshift market stalls overflowing with colorful fabrics and household goods. As they neared the notorious Rond-Point Nlongkak, the congestion worsened. The driver, unfazed, navigated through tight gaps, squeezing past larger cars with practiced ease.

Despite the sweltering heat and the endless stop-and-go of traffic, Marcel felt at ease. The rhythmic beat of the music, the comfort of Christina beside him, and the familiar sights of the city all blended into something strangely soothing. His thoughts drifted to the match in a few days. It would be his first major test with Dragons FC. He had trained hard for this moment, but now, it was time to prove himself on the pitch.

After nearly forty minutes of slow progress, Mokolo market finally came into view. The sprawling, chaotic hub was alive with energy, packed with vendors shouting prices, customers haggling, and the constant movement of people navigating the narrow aisles. The smell of fresh produce, grilled fish, and the occasional whiff of incense filled the air. Marcel handed the driver the fare before stepping out into the frenzy.

The moment they entered the market, Christina's eyes lit up with excitement. She loved places like this—the noise, the bargaining, the endless options. Marcel, on the other hand, had a specific goal in mind. He needed new socks for training. He had been wearing the same pairs too often, and with the important matches coming up, he needed fresh gear.

They approached a stall displaying a variety of sportswear. The vendor, a heavyset man with a warm smile, greeted them eagerly. "Football socks? I have the best quality. You want the long ones or short ones?"

"How much for these three?" Marcel asked, pointing at a set of black and white socks.

The vendor rubbed his chin. "4500 FCFA."

Marcel frowned. "4500? That's too much. 3000."

The vendor chuckled, shaking his head. "Look at the quality! These socks will last you a long time. 4500 is fair."

Marcel sighed, glancing at Christina, who simply smirked. "What about 3500?" he tried.

The vendor hesitated, then finally nodded. "Alright, 4000. Final price."

Marcel handed over the money, pocketing his new socks. As they moved through the market, Christina wandered toward a stall selling dresses. Her eyes landed on a flowing blue maxi dress with delicate lace detailing.

"Marcel, look at this," she said, holding it up against her frame. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Marcel grinned. "You want to try and haggle for it?"

She nodded, stepping up to the vendor. "How much for this dress?"

"10,000 FCFA," the woman behind the stall replied smoothly. "Handmade lace, very good quality."

Christina hesitated, then looked at Marcel. "10,000 is a bit much, right?"

Marcel crossed his arms. "Definitely. Try 6000."

Christina took a deep breath. "6000?" she asked with a polite smile.

The vendor laughed. "No, no, impossible. 8000."

"7000?" Christina countered.

The vendor paused before finally relenting. "Alright, 7000. But that's a bargain."

Christina beamed as she handed over the money, holding the dress close as they continued through the market. Marcel watched her excitement with amusement. She was happy, and that was enough for him.

After another hour of exploring, picking up a few small trinkets and clothes, they decided it was time to move on. They hailed another taxi, heading toward Marcel's paternal grandmother's house in Nkolfoulou.

The farther they traveled from the city, the more the landscape changed. The concrete jungle gave way to lush greenery, the chaotic streets replaced by quiet dirt roads. The journey took forty-five minutes before they finally arrived at a modest house tucked beneath the shade of a large mango tree. Sitting on a wooden stool in the courtyard, an elderly woman, her skin weathered with age but her eyes still sharp, looked up as Marcel stepped out of the car.

"Mbombo!" she called out, her voice warm and full of love. She stood with the help of her wooden stick, embracing Marcel tightly.

Marcel grinned. "Grandma, it's good to see you."

She pulled back, studying his face before nodding approvingly. "You look strong. Have you been eating well?"

Marcel chuckled. "I try."

He introduced Christina, who greeted his grandmother respectfully. They sat under the tree, talking about family, life, and football. His grandmother listened intently as Marcel told her about his trial and his new team, her eyes lighting up with pride. She spoke in Ewondo, her words laced with wisdom, reminding him to stay humble and to never forget his roots.

After receiving her blessings, they made their way to Mballa 2, where his maternal grandmother lived. The visit was just as warm, filled with stories of childhood and laughter. Marcel felt a deep sense of peace in these moments, surrounded by family, reminded of where he came from.

As they finally headed home, the sky had begun to darken, the city winding down. Walking Christina to her door, Marcel smiled as she held up the bag carrying her new dress.

"Thanks for today," she said softly. "And for the dress."

Marcel shrugged. "You liked it. That's enough reason for me."

She chuckled. "You're too sweet."

They shared a small, gentle kiss before she slipped inside. Marcel lingered for a moment, watching her disappear before turning toward his own home.

...

...

Three days before the crucial match against Union Douala U17, Dragons FC Yaoundé U17 held their final intensive training session at the Ngoa Ekélé military stadium. The late afternoon sun bore down relentlessly, casting long shadows across the dusty pitch, but the heat did little to sap the energy of the young players. The session was crucial, despite Union Douala being considered the weakest team in the group.

Marcel stood next to Jean-Pierre Mvondo, the team's towering central defender and the captain of the team, as they went through a series of stretches and fast sprints during warm-up. The heat pressed down on them, but Marcel was locked in, focused on preparing himself for what he knew would be a pivotal match. His first real test since joining Dragons FC was approaching, and he was determined to prove he deserved his spot.

The session kicked off with one-touch passing drills, a rhythm-driven exercise designed to sharpen the players' speed and precision. Marcel thrived in these sequences, his touches clean, his movements fluid. His quick reactions and ability to anticipate the next pass made him stand out even among his more experienced teammates.

Once the warm-up concluded, Emile directed the team into fitness drills, setting up cones for acceleration and direction-change exercises. Marcel, ever agile, weaved between them, his dribbling skills naturally coming into play. He knew that his ability to create space and break past defenders would be crucial, especially when coming off the bench.

After the fitness work, the training shifted to tactical exercises. Emile split the team into smaller groups, each focusing on different aspects of the game. Jean-Pierre Mvondo joined the defenders, practicing aerial duels and long throw-ins. Marcel, meanwhile, was placed with the attacking group, focusing on quick counter-attacks. His role was to transition swiftly from defense to attack, collecting the ball deep and bursting forward, looking to either beat his marker or deliver a quick pass.

The instructions were clear: swift transitions and mental sharpness in key moments. Even though Marcel knew he wouldn't start, his chance would come. As a winger, his speed and ball control would be essential in breaking down Union Douala's defense.

The session culminated in a fast-paced six-a-side match, emphasizing counter-attacking play—winning the ball back quickly and transitioning to offense in a matter of seconds. Marcel often found himself leading these transitions, exploiting space and sending crosses into the box. His confidence grew with every touch, knowing that his preparation would soon pay off.

As the sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow over the stadium, Coach Emile gathered the players in a semicircle on the grass. Sweat dripped from their faces, but all eyes were locked on the tactical board in front of them.

"We'll play 4-3-3," Emile began, his voice firm. "Union Douala U17 is a team we can beat, but we have to be smart."

He drew their formation on the board, detailing each player's role. The strategy for the first half emphasized patience and discipline.

"We're going to sit deep," Emile continued. "Let them come at us. Once we win the ball, we play long. We'll leave one or two players up front for the counter-attack, and the wingers need to drop back to help in defense."

Marcel watched closely, following every movement of Emile's marker on the board. He saw the strategy unfold—Jean-Pierre, as the central defender, would play a key role in launching quick counters with long balls to the forwards.

"Jean-Pierre, you and the defense need to move fast," Emile instructed. "A quick interception, then launch the ball to the winger or forward. Union Douala will push hard, and that's when we hit them."

Marcel knew he wouldn't start, but he understood the importance of the plan. The team had to remain disciplined and wait for the right moment to strike.

Emile then turned toward him with a knowing smile. "You'll start on the bench," he said, but Marcel sensed that his moment would come soon enough. "We're changing our approach in the second half."

With his finger, Emile traced new lines on the board, outlining a more aggressive game plan.

"When you come on, we press high. Win the ball back as quickly as possible and hit them with a fast transition. Marcel, you'll be the key to speeding up the game."

Marcel's heart raced as Emile explained the second-half strategy. The high press would allow them to regain possession quickly, and his speed would be critical in breaking through Union Douala's defensive lines.

"You'll have a lot of freedom out there," Emile added. "When you get the ball, the attacking midfielder, right-winger, and center-forward will all make forward runs. They'll create space for you to either cross or cut inside and take a shot. It'll be up to you."

The players sat in silence, absorbing the plan. Marcel's excitement was palpable. The prospect of being at the center of the team's attack fueled his determination. His eyes glimmered with anticipation—this was his chance to shine.

Emile clapped his hands together. "That's all for today. Get some rest, and in three days, we'll show Union Douala what Dragons FC is made of."