End of the Group stage of the Brasseries Tournament

Coach Emile stood in the center of the huddle, his players gathered around him. He took a deep breath before addressing them.

"I can't blame you, boys. You gave everything to come back from behind and almost won it. The defense, midfield, and attack were all strong—that's why we managed to equalize." He paused, looking around at their tired, disappointed faces. "But that last-minute goal... that was on me. I pushed you all forward without thinking about protecting our defense. That mistake is mine."

The players looked up, their expressions shifting slightly.

"But this is a lesson for all of us," Emile continued, his voice firm. "We'll learn from it, and next time, we won't make the same mistake. Heads up, boys! We're not eliminated. I don't want to see sad faces. Losing is part of football. What matters is how you stand back up and fight harder the next time."

Slowly, the players straightened their backs, the fire of determination replacing their initial disappointment.

As Coach Emile turned to leave, he stopped beside Marcel, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Don't blame yourself. It was a team mistake, and you played well in the second half. Keep playing like that, and you'll have a bright future."

Marcel nodded, still processing the words. He wasn't completely over the loss, but the disappointment fueled something inside him—he would come back stronger.

After changing out of his kit, he stepped outside, where his mother was waiting for him. She hadn't been able to watch the game, but she had come to pick him up.

...

...

Marcel walked toward his mother's car, his head hanging low. Despite the coach's encouragement, the sting of his first defeat lingered. He knew even the best players in the world had lost matches, and that this was just a youth tournament, but none of that made it hurt any less. He had never realized just how competitive he was until now.

He clenched his fists. He needed to play better in the next match. He needed to win.

"Marcel!"

He barely registered his mother's voice, his thoughts still tangled in frustration.

If even the greatest players lost, then he would just have to make sure he lost as little as possible in his career. He would—

"Marcel!"

The loud honk of a passing car snapped him out of his thoughts. He jerked his head up, stepping back just in time to avoid walking straight into the road.

"Marcel!" Francine shouted, exasperation and concern in her voice. "Do you want to get hit by a car?! I've been calling you over and over! What's wrong with you?"

"Sorry, Mom," Marcel muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Francine sighed, glancing at his downcast expression. "How was the match? Did you win?"

Marcel kept his head down and mumbled, "We lost."

Francine didn't hear him at first, but one look at his face told her everything. She reached out, pulling him into a comforting embrace.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she said, gently rubbing his back. "You'll do better next match."

She pulled away slightly and looked at him. "This is just a small setback. From what I understand, you're not eliminated yet, right? That means you still have a chance to win the whole tournament."

Marcel nodded slightly but said nothing.

The ride home was silent. Francine tried saying a few more words of encouragement, but she could tell her son wasn't in the mood to talk. She let him be, knowing he needed time to process the loss on his own.

Back in his room, Marcel lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind was restless.

Maybe he should have used his special boost.

A defensive boost would have been perfect in a match like that. It wasn't even a temporary skill—it was a permanent increase.

But if he started relying on the system now, at the youth level, wouldn't he just become dependent on it?

He wanted to play football before the system ever appeared. If it had never shown up, he would still have chased his dream. He needed to prove that he could succeed without relying on it.

That settled it.

For the rest of the tournament, he wouldn't use the system—no matter how difficult things got.

Before going to sleep, he opened his interface one last time.

[Elite Boost System]

Level: 1 (10/500 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:

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

Lottery Tickets: 0

Player Attributes

Market: Locked

Points: 21

Marcel stared at the glowing screen of his system, his eyes scanning over his updated stats. His points had increased, and his XP had gone up slightly.

He frowned. Something didn't add up.

Last time, when he had two goals and two assists, he had gained four points and two XP for the goals, and two points and two XP for the assists. That meant each goal was worth two points and one XP, and each assist gave him one point and one XP.

But this time, he had only scored once and assisted once. That should have been three points and two XP.

So why did he receive five points and three XP?

"Tricera, why did I receive more rewards than what I actually contributed? Are you saying I got rewarded just for losing? That doesn't make sense, does it?"

The system's voice responded in its usual calm tone.

"Your rewards depend on the level of your opponent compared to your team. If you are the favorite to win and lose, you will receive no points or XP. However, if you are the underdog and the match is closely contested, you may still earn rewards. The gap in skill level determines the amount of XP and points awarded."

Marcel processed that information. It made sense. Dragons FC wasn't supposed to win against Brasseries Academy. They were one of the best youth teams in the country, and yet they had pushed them to the limit, almost stealing a victory.

"This system is designed to reward effort, not just results," Tricera added.

Effort. Not just winning.

Marcel exhaled slowly, letting the idea settle. He still hated losing, but at least he knew that as long as he played well, he wouldn't walk away empty-handed.

Still, this wasn't enough. He didn't want just "effort"—he wanted to win.

He closed the system and turned onto his side, staring at the dim glow of his bedroom wall. His hands clenched into fists under the blanket.

Next match, he had to win. No matter what.

...

...

The match against Canon de Yaoundé had been as difficult as predicted. The first half ended in a goalless draw, with both teams creating opportunities but failing to convert. The game was a relentless back-and-forth battle, as neither Dragons FC nor Canon Yaoundé preferred to hold onto possession for long.

The pace was intense, with every duel fought fiercely. Players lunged into challenges, bodies clashing as tackles flew in. It was the kind of game where skill alone wasn't enough—physicality played just as big a role.

Marcel, as expected, was a nightmare for Canon Yaoundé's defenders. Each time he touched the ball, he drew immediate pressure. No single defender could stop him one-on-one, so they resorted to a different tactic—fouling him whenever he looked dangerous. In the first half alone, Marcel had been brought down five times, each challenge rougher than the last.

Canon Yaoundé's players had made him their primary target, their game plan simple: rough him up and disrupt his rhythm. The referee had already brandished four yellow cards against their team, all for fouls on Marcel. Yet, despite the repeated punishment, Marcel endured, refusing to back down.

By halftime, his patience was wearing thin. He was never one to complain, but this time, frustration had begun to creep in. These weren't players his age—some were one, two, or even three years older than him. The difference in physicality was apparent, but he wasn't about to let that intimidate him.

In the locker room, Coach Emile could sense the tension in his team.

"You're playing well, boys," he said, his voice carrying authority. "We're just missing a bit of luck. The goal will come if we stay focused."

He then turned his attention to Marcel. "Calm down. Don't let them get to you. That's exactly what they want. They know they can't stop you fairly, so they'll try to rattle you, frustrate you, and make you lose control. Let them keep fouling you—eventually, they'll see red. That's all the proof you need that they can't handle you."

Marcel took a deep breath and nodded. The coach was right. If they kept playing like this, Canon Yaoundé would eventually punish themselves.

The second half began with even more intensity. Dragons FC responded in kind, playing with more aggression. They too received yellow cards—three of their players were now booked—but they refused to be pushed around.

In the 78th minute, Marcel found himself on the left wing with two Canon Yaoundé defenders closing in. He stopped abruptly, standing over the ball, shifting his weight as if preparing to make a move. His feet danced around the ball, executing quick, deliberate feints without touching it.

The defenders hesitated. Marcel smirked. They're waiting for me to commit first.

Then, with a sudden movement, he pushed the ball outward, toward the flank. Both defenders reacted instantly, stepping in that direction—only for Marcel to cut inside sharply, executing a reverse elastico, squeezing between them.

He was in the box now, eyes locked on goal. He nudged the ball forward, setting up a shot—

CRASH!

A defender lunged in recklessly, his tackle catching Marcel's legs instead of the ball. Marcel stumbled forward, losing balance, crashing onto the ground.

Fweeeeeee!!!

The referee's whistle cut through the chaos. He immediately pointed to the penalty spot.

Despite winning the foul, Marcel had had enough. He sprang to his feet and shoved the defender who had tackled him.

The player fell to the ground, rolling theatrically, clutching his face as if he had been struck.

Marcel glared at him in disbelief.

"Stand up, little wimp!" he barked, his voice laced with anger. "I barely touched you compared to what you all did to me this whole match!"

He took a step forward, fists clenched, but Jean was already there, blocking him.

"Marcel, stop," Jean said firmly, gripping his shoulders. "They're baiting you into a red card. Don't give them what they want."

By now, Canon Yaoundé's players had surrounded Marcel, but Dragons FC's squad was quick to step in, forming a protective barrier.

Fweeeeeee! Fweeeeeeeeeee!!!!

The referee blew his whistle repeatedly, forcing his way between the players to prevent an escalation.

He confirmed the penalty and turned to the defender who committed the foul, brandishing a yellow card—and then a red. The defender had already been booked earlier. Canon Yaoundé was down to ten men.

Then, the referee turned toward Marcel. "Calm down," he warned before reaching into his pocket. A yellow card for Marcel.

Marcel narrowed his eyes, feeling a sense of injustice. After all those fouls on me, I get booked for a tiny push?

He exhaled sharply, glaring at the referee. As he walked away, he flicked his hand dismissively over his shoulder, muttering under his breath.

The referee shook his head with an amused smirk. "Kids these days…" he muttered. Then, he turned his attention back to the penalty taker.

Dragons FC's striker stepped up to the spot, placing the ball down, hands on his hips, staring at it intently.

Fweeeee!!!

The referee signaled for the shot.

The striker took a deep breath, took a short run-up, and struck the ball cleanly—sending the keeper the wrong way.

GOAL!

0-1! Dragons FC had finally broken the deadlock.

The Canon Yaoundé players slammed their fists on the ground in frustration, while Marcel and his teammates ran to the goal scorer, celebrating.

For the remainder of the match, Canon Yaoundé parked the bus, choosing to sit deep and absorb pressure rather than push for an equalizer. With a man down, they couldn't risk leaving gaps at the back. Dragons FC, on the other hand, chose not to overcommit. They had learned from their last match—no unnecessary risks.

The referee blew for full time.

0-1!

Dragons FC had secured the victory, finishing the group stage with two wins, one defeat, and six points, advancing to the semi-finals of the Brasseries Tournament.

As the team celebrated, Marcel stood there, breathing heavily, still feeling the aches of the countless fouls he had suffered.

Jean patted him on the back. "You good?"

Marcel exhaled. "Yeah. But I swear, I've never been kicked this much in my life."

Jean chuckled. "Welcome to Cameroonian football."

Coach Emile approached them, clapping his hands. "Good job, boys. We played smart this time. That's how you win matches. We're not done yet, though—the semi-finals are next."

Marcel's lips curled into a determined smirk.

This tournament wasn't over. If anything, it was just beginning.

...

...

The sun hung low over the training ground of Dragons FC, casting long shadows as the players gathered around Coach Emile, who stood at the center, arms crossed, surveying his team with a look of pride. The air was still heavy from the intensity of the tournament, but today wasn't for training—it was for recognition.

The boys stood in a tight semi-circle, sweat still clinging to their skin from their warm-down session. Some had their hands on their hips, others stretched absentmindedly, but all were listening intently.

Coach Emile cleared his throat before speaking. "Boys, before anything else, I want to say congratulations." His voice carried the weight of a man who had seen countless players come and go, but right now, there was genuine pride behind it. "You made it out of a group that had both Brasseries Academy and Canon Yaoundé. That is not an easy feat."

There were nods, a few murmurs of agreement, but no one spoke.

"Yes, we lost against Brasseries Academy. But one defeat does not define us. What defines us is the way we responded—the way we fought back against Canon Yaoundé, refused to be intimidated, and took control when it mattered. That's what I want you to remember."

His gaze swept across them, pausing momentarily on some of the key players who had stepped up—Jean, who had been a wall in defense; the striker, who had scored the decisive penalty; and, of course, Marcel, whose ability to change a game was now undeniable.

"Now, we are in the semi-finals against Kadji Sports Academy. Two games away from the championship." His voice hardened slightly, the warmth replaced with something sterner. "We did not fight this hard just to get here. Now that we're in this position, I expect you to give everything you have left. There is no reason we can't win this tournament."

A few of the players exchanged looks, the determination in their eyes reigniting.

"And let me tell you something else." Coach Emile paused for effect, allowing tension to build. "This tournament isn't just about lifting a trophy. From this point forward, there will be eyes on you. Scouts from the national team. Scouts from the first team. They will be watching closely."

Silence.

"If you prove yourself here, there is a real chance that some of you could be called up to represent Cameroon in the U-17 African Championship qualifiers against Ghana this September." His gaze flickered over them, letting the weight of his words sink in. "And if you do well there, who knows? You might even make it to the main competition next February."

A ripple of excitement coursed through the squad. The idea of wearing the national jersey—of playing for Cameroon—was something many of them had dreamed of since they first kicked a ball.

Marcel clenched his fists slightly, his heart beating a little faster. The national team? That was his goal since beginning this tournament. Sure, he wanted to go pro, but representing Cameroon? That was the first step in achieving his dream.

Coach Emile clapped his hands together, breaking the moment. "So now, apart from the trophy, you have another reason to push yourselves to the limit." His lips curled into a smirk. "No one remembers the players who stopped at the semi-finals. But everyone remembers the champions."

That final statement hit hard.

"Now go home, rest. Recover properly. Because next time we meet, we prepare for a great battle."

The team let out a collective "Yes, Coach!", their voices firm and filled with purpose.

As they began dispersing, small conversations sparked between teammates—whispers about Kadji Sports Academy, about the national team, about what could be next. Marcel, however, lingered for a moment, watching Coach Emile as he walked toward the touchline.

There was no doubt in his mind anymore. This was bigger than just one tournament.

This was the start of something much greater.