September 9th, 2029
"So, here we are." Diego’s voice cut through the locker room, steady and commanding. "The first match of the group stage."
The players and staff alike were gathered in the confined space, the air thick with anticipation. The atmosphere was stiff, almost suffocating.
And understandably so. For most of them, this was their first UCL game as the defending champions. The weight of that title pressed down on their shoulders like an invisible crown.
Nervousness was not just expected. It was justified.
"Though your opponent comes from a league smaller than ours, don’t underestimate them." Diego’s gaze swept across the room, sharp and unyielding. "You have witnessed their performance firsthand. Even after that, if you still think this match will be easy..."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"Then I suggest you discard such thoughts immediately."
The players stared at him, their attention locked onto every word.
"Once again, I’m reminding you." He let his gaze linger on each face as if searching or demanding answers. "This match is going to be anything but easy."
The assistant staff standing beside him nodded in silent agreement.
"Do you hear me?" Diego pressed, his voice cutting through the stillness.
"Yes, sir!"
The players responded in unison, their voices echoing off the walls—a thunderous declaration of readiness.
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Diego’s face.
"Good." He nodded. "Then, before we step onto that pitch, let’s go through the tactics we’ve been working on for the past couple of days. One more time."
He turned toward the tactics board.
The room leaned forward.
The battle was about to begin.
**** ****
"Time and again, we have been labelled the underdogs."
The man, who looked to be in his early sixties, stood before a gathered crowd adorned in identical uniforms. His voice carried a deep, resonant weight that filled the room.
The atmosphere inside was grim. Almost suffocating.
Each individual seemed to be buckling under immense pressure. Their shoulders were tense, their brows knitted into deep furrows. Some locked their fingers together in nervous anticipation. Others stomped their feet restlessly, unable to contain their anxiety.
"And that’s justifiable."
The old man paused, his tone softening.
"We come from a smaller league. We don’t own superstars." He swept his gaze across the room, meeting the eyes of his players one by one. "Unlike the giants of the world stage, we haven’t won anything significant in Europe."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
"But..."
He straightened his posture; his presence intensified.
"When it comes to passion for the sport, we don’t fall behind."
His voice rang with quiet conviction, a spark of defiance in the suffocating gloom.
"We might lack numbers. The people supporting those behemoths are countless." The old man’s voice grew stronger, each word stoking a fire. "But what we lack in numbers, we make up for in resolve. In spirit. In passion."
He paused, his pupils blazing with fierce determination.
"And this time as well, we will show them our resolve. Our determination." His voice rose, cutting through the gloom. "We will show them we aren’t here just for a draw. We are here for the win. And we shall claim victory."
Hearing him, Yang felt a surge of resolve ripple beneath his skin—hot, electric, undeniable. He grew restless, unable to contain the feeling swelling inside him.
His fists clenched.
He leaned forward, hanging onto every word.
Just moments ago, the atmosphere of the room had sickened him. He couldn’t bring himself to resonate with the feelings of most of his teammates who appeared as scared as a cat facing a body of water.
Unlike him, their resolve wasn’t hardened enough.
He had overheard them. Whispers of satisfaction with a draw. Murmurs of hoping to escape with dignity.
The hunger to win was nowhere to be seen.
And he, who had been striving for victory since the moment he stepped onto European soil, couldn’t bring himself to attune with this bunch of people he was supposed to call teammates.
This team had lost before the match even started.
But now?
As he listened to his coach, he couldn’t help but feel something stir within him.
Excitement.
Just like him, the old man wasn’t here for a draw. He was here for the win. And he wanted it just as badly.
Yang could feel it—the resolve radiating from the coach, colliding with his own.
’Finally,’ He became even more keen, his pupils expanding. ’Someone who understands.’
The excitement consumed him, and before long, Yang found himself digging his gaze into the coach, unable to look away.
"Now, quit acting like contenders." The old man’s voice rang with authority. "Start acting like Champions."
He paused, letting the words settle like stones in still water.
"To kill a beast, you have to be the beast. And to be a Champion, you have to think like a Champion."
The words lingered in the air, resonating deep within each player.
They understood what he was attempting to convey.
And it made sense.
Just as he said, the match wasn’t played solely on the field. The whistle hadn’t even been blown, yet the battle had already begun. And without realizing it, they had been losing this match in their minds, in their hearts, in the quiet spaces where doubt festered.
But now, his words snapped them back to their senses.
How can someone dare to win when they’ve already thought of defeat?
The game doesn’t just take place on the pitch. It takes place here in the mind, in the spirit, and in the unwavering belief that victory is not just possible, but inevitable.
To win, you must first have the mindset of a winner.
Stomp!
A loud sound echoed through the room as one of the core members slammed his foot hard against the floor.
The crowd turned, startled and confused.
What’s going on?
Then, as the noise died down, he rose to his feet. His voice rang out, his tone vigorous, unshakable.
"The victory belongs to us."
His words hung in the air, fueling the spirits of those on the verge of breaking loose.
"Yeah! The victory belongs to us!" someone else roared.
"Yeah! Let’s go and win this match!"
Soon enough, the entire room was chanting in unison. Their voices swelled, echoing off the walls, filling every corner with raw, unbridled enthusiasm.
The gloom of moments before had vanished.
In its place stood something far more dangerous.
Belief.
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