My system allows me to copy talents

Yang gasped, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. For a split second, time itself seemed to slow, each moment stretching into an eternity.

Then a thunderous roar erupted, shaking the very foundations of the stadium.

"Go—GOAL!"

His steps faltered. Slowed. The atmosphere of the stadium transformed around him—a living, breathing entity of sound and fury.

But the audible roar muffled as it reached his ears, like distant cheers carried across a vast ocean. He didn’t stop. Not entirely. But his movements became mechanical—lifeless, as a walking corpse dragged forward by momentum alone.

His gaze remained fixed on Hiro.

The sheer brilliance of what he had just witnessed left a lasting impression—a scar etched into his consciousness. Though the moment had passed, he couldn’t shake the raw, unfiltered emotions that had consumed him.

The dribbles. The feints. The ability to read the game and that shot that shattered the hopes of their supporters.

All of it flashed before his eyes in slow motion, each frame seared into his memory.

In that instant, Yang felt as though he had been reduced to a mere spectator. Despite sprinting to redeem himself, despite pushing his body to its limits, he had been rendered powerless—just another face in the thousands buzzing around him.

I couldn’t do anything...

The thought entered his mind like a poison, accompanied by a suffocating sense of helplessness. He stopped running. Ahead of him, Hiro celebrated—surrounded by teammates, bathed in adulation.

Yang looked at the celebrating figure, at those gathered around him. The bright smile on Hiro’s face was a stark contrast to their sunken appearances—a portrait of triumph against a backdrop of defeat.

His gaze drifted down to his feet. The stained marks on his cleats, the mud caked into the studs—a testament to the effort he had poured into this match.

Then his eyes rolled to his hands.

For reasons unknown, they were shaking.

When was the last time I felt this miserable?

I couldn’t do anything!

Once again, the same thought permeated his mind. Helplessness crept into his heart, taking root like a weed strangling everything in its path.

It’s my fault.

I was supposed to redeem the dignity we lost.

I was supposed to take revenge on him.

More and more thoughts flooded his head like a relentless tide of self-recrimination. Meanwhile, the world around him basked in celebration. The crowd roared. The victors embraced.

And Yang stood there—forgotten, invisible, as if he weren’t even part of this world.

Even so, he didn’t stop lamenting.

But he didn’t blame those around him. The target of his blame was himself and only himself. He blamed himself for the disappointment that had fallen upon his team. He blamed himself for the goal. He blamed himself for being powerless.

Soon, his helplessness began to take shape.

The more he lamented, the more something else stirred within him.

Hot, seething, and uncontrollable. The rage inside him bubbled like boiling tar, devouring his powerlessness.

I won’t let this happen again. He glared at Hiro, his pupils burning crimson. I swear, this is as far as you go, Takahashi!

He clenched his palm, his knuckles white with rage.

For some reason, at this very instant, Hiro felt something—a faint, unsettling sensation that prickled across his skin. Though he didn’t sneeze, a cold chill pervaded his body, cutting through the warmth of celebration.

The elation still surrounded him. He was still part of it. Yet, despite the joy, he couldn’t shake this lingering feeling.

On a whim, he turned around—as if searching for the source of his discomfort.

It wasn’t the first time he had felt such a sensation. In fact, he had experienced it numerous times before.

Is someone talking bad about me?

He scanned the crowd, his gaze cutting through the sea of faces. But he couldn’t spot Yang—the pink-haired youth had blurred into the background, indistinguishable from the thousands around him.

"What’s wrong, Hiro?" Julian asked, concern lacing his voice.

"Nothing. It’s nothing serious..." Hiro shook his head, attempting to brush it off. "It just feels like someone’s talking ill about me."

Julian blinked, a dumbfounded expression crossing his face.

"Thousands watch you here. Millions behind the screen." He shrugged. "It could be anyone. Things like this are more common than you think." He paused, tilting his head. "I’d think you’d know that by now—being someone famous and all. Strange that you still don’t."

Indeed, just as Julian said, countless eyes were fixed on Hiro. Even if most wished him well, some would undoubtedly wish him ill. Given the circumstances, it wasn’t a strange feeling to have.

But even so—

Why does this one feel different?

Hiro glanced back one more time.

Who are you?

He had faced hostile enemies before. But this time it was different. The sense of unease was more formidable than it had ever been.

Thinking about this feeling, he couldn’t bring himself to lower his guard.

However, he couldn’t allow this feeling to affect his performance either. Hence, after pondering for a while, he let go of the feeling and shifted his entire attention to the match ahead.

Though his goal had given his team the much-desired lead, the game was still far from over.

That meant anything could happen.

The game hadn’t been won.

With that thought in mind, he composed himself.

The ball was stationed at the half-line, the referee preparing to resume the game. He looked at his watch before blowing the whistle.

Fwee!

The sharp, ringing sound of the whistle echoed, and at once the players sprang into motion.

The game continued.

The opponent, now more desperate than ever, didn’t resort to defence anymore. Instead, they went on the offense.

Their passes were sharper than ever; even their endurance and positioning had seen a drastic change.

The passes cut through their formation like a hot knife on a butter slab, sharp and precise.

Everyone had expected them to play a defensive game. But right now, what they were witnessing was something else.

The team that was supposed to play it safe was now playing as if their lives were on the line.

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