It had been two months since Dylan Allen's podcast mic-drop, and life had gone... strangely game-like since then.
The system hadn't shut up, tracking drills, assigning quests, silently judging his stretches, and calling him "grandpa" every time he lagged behind during sprints. It had become his most consistent companion, annoying, sarcastic, but oddly motivating.
He'd checked his emails religiously those first few weeks. A few second-tier teams had shown interest. A Turkish club he couldn't pronounce offered decent money but required him to learn the language. A PR-hungry side in Romania had actually offered to pay part of his salary in cryptocurrency, which the system had mocked relentlessly.
But one stood out. A professional club in the third tier: Leighton OFC.
"Second chance," they called it in their official statement. Dylan knew better, it was pure marketing. The moment his viral rant hit a million views, they'd sent the offer through his agent. Still, a contract was a contract, and Division 3 football was better than no football at all.
***
⚙️ System Log — Progress Report
Level: 5
Legacy Points: 78
XP to next level: 42
Physical Stats:
- Stamina: 69/100
- Speed: 71/100
- Passing: 74/100
- Shooting: 68/100
- Defending: 45/100
Mental Stats:
- Confidence: 52/100
- Discipline: 71/100
- Leadership: 38/100
Reputation: 90 (Trending Villain)
Special Skill: Crowd Igniter (+10% stats when fans cheer or boo loudly)
***
Despite intense preseason training and endless drills, Dylan had made no real impact at Leighton. The fitness tests showed improvement, but socially? He was a ghost. No beef, no friends. Teammates treated him like a microwave, they knew he was there, didn't care unless he dinged.
The training ground at Leighton was nothing like his old clubs. Worn pitches, creaky goalposts, and a gym that looked like it belonged in a secondary school. But it was football, and Dylan attacked every session like his life depended on it.
[Oh look, another 6 AM wake-up call. Your dedication is almost admirable... almost.]
"Shut up," Dylan muttered, lacing up his boots in the empty changing room. "Some of us actually want this."
[Want what? Third-tier mediocrity? Aim higher, fossil.]
Except for one teammate: Tariq Morrison, who called himself Taz. A 17-year-old academy kid, local, raw, loud, and fearless. The kid had claimed to be Dylan's #1 fan since day one, which was both flattering and terrifying.
"Bro, you were literally my wallpaper growing up," Taz had said during their first training session, eyes shining with genuine admiration. "That goal against Red Evils when you were 23? I must've watched it a thousand times."
"How old were you then, five?" Dylan had muttered, but secretly... it felt nice. Someone still remembered the good times.
Taz played the same position, attacking midfield, but with the fearless hunger Dylan remembered having at that age. The kid would attempt through-balls that seasoned professionals wouldn't dare try, and somehow, half of them came off.
Then there was Captain Ollie Ryker. Same position. Same shirt number Dylan wanted. Always glaring like Dylan owed him money or had stolen his dog. Ryker had been Leighton's star player for three seasons, and Dylan's arrival clearly threatened his status.
"Just because you were somebody once doesn't mean you're somebody now," Ryker had said during their first team meeting, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Dylan had bitten his tongue, but the system hadn't.
[Ooh, captain's got his knickers in a twist. Want me to analyze his insecurities? I've got charts.]
The manager, Marcus Webb, hadn't said much about the tension. A former lower-league striker himself, Webb seemed more interested in the media attention Dylan brought than his actual football ability. With Dylan around, ticket sales had boomed. Online hate had flooded in. Fans either booed him or couldn't wait to boo him.
Tomorrow's opener was a derby: Leighton OFC vs Charlotte AFC. The stadium had sold out three weeks ago. Not for the club's prospects or tactical innovation. For him.
***
🕖 Match Day
Dylan sat in the cramped away changing room at Charlotte's ground, methodically taping his ankles, pretending not to care about the team sheet that hadn't been posted yet. The walls were thin enough that he could hear the crowd building outside, a low rumble that grew louder with each passing minute.
The system buzzed faintly in his peripheral vision. No quest notification. Just banter.
[Match day, huh? Let me guess. Bench again? Predictable. You're becoming a professional substitute.]
He rolled his eyes, pulling on his socks. "Yeah, yeah. I've been here before."
[Have you though? Because from where I'm sitting—which is inside your increasingly thick skull—you've been about as useful as a chocolate teapot.]
Manager Webb walked in, clipboard in hand, looking nervous. Derby days did that to managers in the lower leagues. Win, and you're a tactical genius. Lose, and the fans would be calling for your head by Monday.
"Right, lads," Webb began, his voice carrying the forced confidence of a man trying to convince himself as much as his players. "Charlotte will come out flying. Home crowd, derby atmosphere. We weather the storm, stay compact, and hit them on the break."
The team sheet went up on the wall. Dylan's eyes scanned it quickly, his heart sinking as he saw his name among the substitutes. Again.
Ryker's name was there in the starting XI, right where Dylan's should have been.
"Standard procedure," Dylan muttered to himself, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice.
The system whistled mockingly.
[Classic. A warm bench and a cold shoulder. You're the teabag in boiling water, just stewing while everyone else enjoys the party.]
Taz bounced over, nervous energy radiating from every pore. "You nervous, Dylan? I'm proper bricking it. First derby, innit?"
Dylan looked at the kid's eager face and felt something protective stir in his chest. "Just play your game, Taz. Don't try to be a hero. Heroes get remembered, but smart players get medals."
[Look at you, being all wise and mentor-like. Almost makes me forget you're warming the bench. You never got medals though when you were playing, did you?]
***
🏟️ Leighton OFC vs Charlotte AFC
The tunnel at Charlotte's ground was narrow and dimly lit, filled with the nervous energy of 22 men about to go to war. Dylan could hear the crowd now, a wall of sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium.
As the teams lined up, Dylan caught sight of the Charlotte players. They looked confident, relaxed even. Playing at home in a derby did that. Their captain, a grizzled defender named Parker, was giving his teammates last-minute instructions.
"Remember, lads," Parker was saying, "number 8's the one who thinks he's still somebody. Show him what third-tier football really looks like."
Dylan's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The system, however, was less restrained.
[Ooh, they're talking about you. Want me to record that for motivation? I can play it back whenever you need a reminder that you're public enemy number one.]
The teams walked out to a wall of noise. Charlotte's fans were in full voice, a sea of blue and white scarves waving in the afternoon sun. But Dylan could hear the away section too, Leighton's supporters, outnumbered but not outsung.
And yes, there were chants about him. "Allen's Finished!" and "Bench Boy!" rang around the stadium, but he also caught snippets of "Give him a chance!" from some of the younger fans.
Dylan sat on the bench, arms crossed, watching the pre-match rituals. The coin toss, the handshakes, the final team huddles. Part of him wanted to be out there, feeling the grass under his boots, the weight of expectation on his shoulders.
[Enjoying the view from the sidelines? I hear it's lovely this time of year.]
"Just wait," Dylan muttered under his breath. "My time will come."
***
⏱️ First Half
Charlotte came out exactly as Webb had predicted, flying. Their midfield pressed high, their wingers ran at Leighton's full-backs, and their striker bullied the center-backs with every touch.
Dylan watched Ryker struggle to cope with the pace. The captain was a decent player, but he lacked the vision to find space in tight situations, especially since he is aging now. Twice in the first ten minutes, he had the ball in good positions and chose the safe pass instead of the killer ball.
[Your mate Ryker's having a mare. Look at him, passing sideways like a crab with commitment issues.]
"He's not my mate," Dylan replied quietly.
[Good point. You don't actually have any mates, do you? Just me, and I'm a figment of your imagination. How sad.]
Charlotte's pressure told in the 23rd minute. A corner kick caused chaos in Leighton's box, and when the ball eventually fell to their midfielder on the edge of the area, he swept it home with a first-time shot that gave the keeper no chance.
1-0 to Charlotte. The home crowd erupted.
Dylan felt his teammates' heads drop on the bench beside him. Derby defeats were hard to take, but losing while playing this poorly was even worse.
But Leighton had spirit, if nothing else. Taz, playing on the right wing, began to find pockets of space. His pace was causing Charlotte's left-back problems, and in the 31st minute, he delivered a cross that their striker should have buried.
[The kid's got something. Reminds me of someone... younger, hungrier, less cynical. Can't quite place who.]
"Yeah, yeah, very funny."
Five minutes before half-time, Leighton found their equalizer. A scrappy goal from a corner, bundled in by their center-back after a goalmouth scramble. Not pretty, but it counted.
1-1. The away fans went mental.
Dylan allowed himself a small smile. Maybe they had a chance after all.
***
⏱️ Second Half
The second half began with Charlotte showing their frustration. They'd expected to cruise past their lower-league opponents, but Leighton were proving stubborn.
Dylan watched Ryker's body language deteriorate as the pressure mounted. The captain was trying to do too much, holding onto the ball too long, forcing passes that weren't there.
[He's cracking. Classic case of a player who's never been tested at the highest level trying to prove he belongs. Spoiler alert: he doesn't.]
In the 58th minute, Charlotte's pressure paid off again. Ryker lost the ball in a dangerous area, trying to dribble past two players instead of releasing it early. Charlotte's winger picked up the loose ball and squared it for their striker to tap in.
2-1 to Charlotte. Webb's face was like thunder.
"That's on you, Ryker!" one of the defenders shouted. "Keep it simple!"
Dylan could see the captain's confidence evaporating. This was the moment, the point where good players found another gear, and average players crumbled.
Ryker was crumbling.
***
⏱️ Minute 75
Taz had been running on fumes for the last twenty minutes, his inexperience showing in his tired legs and heavy touches. A Charlotte tackle sent him tumbling, and he stayed down, clutching his ankle.
The physio ran on, shaking his head after a brief examination. Taz was done for the day.
Webb looked along the bench, his eyes settling on Dylan. For a moment, neither man said anything. Then, reluctantly, "Allen. You're in."
Dylan stood, pulling off his tracksuit top and cracking his neck. The crowd's reaction was immediate and split, half cheering, half booing, all electric.
[NEW QUEST UNLOCKED: "Lead Them to Glory"]
[Objective: Win the match. Show why you're still here.]
[Reward: Significant Legacy Points and stat boosts]
[Failure: More bench time and public humiliation]
Dylan jogged toward the touchline, soaking in the jeers like sunlight. This was what he'd missed, the raw emotion, the pressure, the feeling that everything mattered.
His boots touched the grass, and for the first time in months, he felt truly alive.
The Charlotte fans were relentless. "Has-been!" "Washed up!" "Back to the pub leagues!"
Dylan smiled and waved. Let them hate him. He'd turned hatred into fuel before.
***
⏱️ Minute 83
The ball dropped near the opponent's box after a cleared corner. Dylan was there, of course, he always seemed to know where the ball would land. It was a gift that had never left him, even through the worst times.
He took the ball on his chest, feeling the weight of it, the familiar texture of leather against his skin. Time seemed to slow. He could see the Charlotte defenders closing in, could hear their breathing, could feel the tension in the stadium.
A quick turn, just like the old days. Not the desperate scramble of a player trying to relive past glories, but the fluid movement of someone who had never really forgotten how to play.
The ball sat up perfectly for his left foot. He looked up, scanning the field with eyes that had seen this exact pattern a thousand times before.
Luis, the winger, was making a run down the left flank. Not the obvious run, the one that would draw the defender's attention, but a clever, delayed run that would take him into space behind the defense.
Dylan's pass was perfect. A 30-yard diagonal that dropped into Luis's path like it was guided by GPS. The crowd gasped, had they really just seen that precision from a third-tier player?
[Ooh, look who's remembered how to play football. Show-off.]
Luis collected the ball and surged forward, but Dylan was already moving. Not the slow jog of a player admiring his work, but a full sprint toward the box. He could feel his lungs burning, his legs screaming, but also the familiar rush of adrenaline that came with knowing exactly what was about to happen.
The cross came back across the face of goal, low and hard. Dylan was there, unmarked, with just the keeper to beat. For a split second, he considered shooting. The old Dylan would have shot. The selfish Dylan who cared more about personal glory than team success.
But then he saw the number 9, completely unmarked on the far post. The pass was harder than the shot, requiring perfect weight and timing. But it was the right choice.
Dylan threaded a no-look pass between three defenders, the ball arriving at exactly the right moment for the striker to tap it in.
2-2. The stadium exploded.
The away fans were delirious. "DY-LAN! DY-LAN!" The chant started in the away end but spread, grudgingly, to some of the home fans who couldn't help but appreciate the quality of the move.
[Skill Activated: Crowd Igniter – Temporary boost to all stats]
[Stats temporarily boosted: Stamina +5 | Speed +6 | Passing +8 | Confidence +10]
Dylan felt the boost immediately. His legs felt lighter, his vision sharper. The crowd's energy was feeding into him, making him stronger with every chant and every boo.
His teammates mobbed him, but Dylan's eyes were already on the clock. Seven minutes of normal time left, plus stoppage time. This wasn't over.