Chapter 4 :Lionel Messi

Viktor leaned back in his creaking office chair, the faint glow of the talent orb fading in the corner of the Vitality Stadium office. Jake Turner had just left, his new contract tucked in his pocket, £1,000 cash in hand, and the spark of Cristiano Ronaldo's 2007-08 genius burning in his veins.

The kid's steps had been different as he walked out—sharper, predatory, like he could already feel the pitch under his boots. Viktor allowed himself a flicker of hope, but the weight of reality crushed it fast.

One player, even one with Ronaldo's talent, wasn't enough.

The Premier League's 25-man squad list was due in nine days, and AFC Bournemouth was still a husk—£500,000 in the bank, no coaches, no players except Jake, and a 12-point deficit before the 2025-26 season even kicked off.

Clara, his assistant, stood by the door, her sharp eyes scanning a tablet. "You're pinning everything on a dock kid?" she said, voice laced with skepticism. "One striker doesn't make a team."

Viktor rubbed his temples. "I know, but I'll have the squad sorted soon enough."

Clara gave a sharp laugh. "What, by rounding up more street lads who've never played a proper match?"

Viktor flashed a grin. "Trust me, I'll build the greatest team in the universe."

Clara smirked. "That's a cracking joke. I'm off home."

She walked out.

Viktor glanced at the glowing orb, now pulsing softly like a heartbeat. "System," he said, "let's move, next one."

The system's voice echoed in his mind. "Position?"

Viktor's mind raced. Jake was his centre forward, a predator in the box, but he needed someone to supply him—someone with vision, flair, a player who could tear defences apart.

"Still a forward," he said. "But a winger. The best winger."

"Position confirmed. Universe AX-0072X. Transit initiated."

The orb flared, its electric blue light swallowing the office. Viktor's stomach churned as the world dissolved into white.

When the light faded, Viktor stood in a roaring cauldron of sound.

The Camp Nou, Barcelona, 2009, was alive with 98,000 fans chanting "Messi! Messi!" The air was thick with sweat, grass, and anticipation. Red and blue flags waved like a tidal wave.

The scoreboard read: Barcelona vs. Real Madrid, 1-1, first half.

"Welcome to Universe AX-0072X," the system said, its orb hovering beside him, invisible to the crowd. "May 2, 2009. El Clásico. Barcelona versus Real Madrid. Observe Barcelona number 10."

Viktor's eyes locked on a diminutive figure in Barcelona's blaugrana kit, number 10—Messi moved like water—effortless, untouchable, a blur of genius. He weaved through Real Madrid's defense, his feet glued to the ball, and flicked a pass that split three defenders, setting up a goal. The crowd erupted, shaking the stadium.

"Holy hell," Viktor whispered. "He's not human."

"Lionel Messi's 2008-09 season redefined football," the system said. "His ability to dribble past entire defenses, create chances, and score from impossible angles makes him the ideal winger for your squad. His talent orb will grant a host player his agility, vision, and finishing."

Viktor watched, mesmerized, as Messi danced past Sergio Ramos, leaving the defender sprawling. In the 36th minute, Messi received a long ball, took two touches, and chipped the keeper with a delicate lob that kissed the net.

The Camp Nou exploded again, fans chanting his name like a prayer.

"This is what I need," Viktor said, his voice hoarse with excitement. "Someone to feed Jake, to tear defenses apart. Get me that orb."

"Patience," the system said. "You must witness the full scope of his talent to ensure the correct extraction. Continue observing."

The match unfolded like a masterclass. Messi was everywhere—dropping deep to orchestrate plays, sprinting down the right flank, cutting inside with deadly precision. By the final whistle, Barcelona won 6-2, with Messi scoring twice and assisting twice. His every touch was a work of art, bending the game to his will.

Viktor's mind raced back to Bournemouth. Jake was his Ronaldo, but Messi's talent could complete the attack. He needed another host, another kid with that spark—someone from the docks, the streets, someone who'd fight for every chance. But who?

"System," Viktor said, "how do I find the right host for this?"

"The host must have hunger," the system said. "Messi's talent requires a player with instinct, creativity, and resilience. A soul that thrives under pressure. You will know when you see it."

Viktor thought of Bournemouth's backstreets, the kids playing under flickering lights, their dreams bigger than their wallets. He'd seen them—scrawny, scrappy, refusing to quit. One of them could carry Messi's magic.

"Alright," Viktor said. "Generate the orb. Let's go back."

The orb pulsed violently, spinning into a dazzling spiral of gold light. A glowing golden sphere formed, radiating an otherworldly energy."The talent orb is forming," the system said. "Within this orb lies the essence of Lionel Messi's 2008-09 abilities: 38 goals, 18 assists, 92% dribble success, unmatched vision. It awaits a worthy host."

The orb flared, blinding. "Talent orb locked. Return destination: Universe AX-0089X. Prepare for transit."

The Camp Nou dissolved into white light, and Viktor's world spun once more.