My Ultimate Gacha System

Sophia fixed his collar, a small adjustment that didn’t strictly need making, and he noticed her hand linger there a second longer than necessary.

She noticed his leg bouncing and put her hand briefly over his knee.

"You know you’re already on the list, right?" she said.

"I know."

"Then what exactly are you scared of?"

He looked at the television. "I don’t know."

That was the honest answer.

"That’s probably the problem," Sophia said. "On a pitch, you can do something about being nervous. Tonight you can’t."

She left it there.

The rankings climbed toward the top twenty, and the room’s mood shifted with them.

Demien stood near the television now instead of pretending not to watch.

Isabella sat with both hands together.

Sophia stood close by.

19 — HARRY KANE.

Demien went still.

England captain. Premier League legend. Bayern striker.

Nineteenth.

His own name hadn’t come yet.

"Still alive," Marco said, understanding first.

"Don’t say it like that," Demien told him.

18 — JUDE BELLINGHAM.

Demien’s lips parted slightly. He didn’t say anything.

Sophia looked straight at him.

"Does that mean—" Isabella started.

Marco raised one hand, waiting for the next graphic.

The broadcast paused for a beat while the presenter talked, and Demien could hear his own heartbeat over the television for a second.

Then his photograph appeared — Atalanta shirt beside his current United and England identity.

17 — DEMIEN WALTER

ATALANTA / MANCHESTER UNITED — ENGLAND

Seventeenth in the Ballon d’Or.

At nineteen years old.

He stopped moving entirely.

His fingers loosened around his phone.

His shoulders dropped.

He read the number again.

Not nominee.

Not shortlist.

Seventeenth.

Sophia looked from the television to him and smiled before she said a word.

Isabella put a hand over her mouth.

Marco broke the silence first. "Seventeenth."

Demien kept staring at the screen.

"Seventeenth in the world," Marco said again, like the first time hadn’t landed.

Isabella reached him first, hugging him hard, and he returned it while still half-looking at the television over her shoulder.

Then Sophia waited for Isabella to let go.

"So," she said, eyebrows raised. "Still checking your phone?"

That got the first real laugh out of him.

He pulled her into a hug too.

No system panel opened.

No MP, no SP, nothing.

This belonged to his career and to the people who’d voted, not to the gacha economy underneath it.

He sat down and looked at the ranking graphic again.

The Italy hat-trick hadn’t earned this.

The derby hadn’t earned this.

Even United hadn’t earned most of it.

This came from the season he’d arrived at Atalanta with barely any reputation and forced his way into the conversation through what he did across that whole year.

Messages started arriving.

Kane: Above me?? Unbelievable. Congrats though, seriously.

Bellingham: 17. Fair play 😂 See you inside.

Højlund: So you’re 17th and I’m not even on the big list. Still gave you the assist yesterday. Remember that.

Onana: 23rd AND I still had to save your match yesterday. You’re welcome.

Luca: SEVENTEENTH?? MY OLD ATALANTA TEAMMATE IS SEVENTEENTH IN THE WORLD. I’m telling everyone I used to pass him the ball.

He’d barely started replying when a knock came at the door — the driver, confirming the car.

Marco checked the time. "We need to leave for the Châtelet."

Demien stood, fully dressed now.

Sophia looked at him properly in the finished suit for the first time and paused.

"What?" he asked.

She reached for his lapel and adjusted something that didn’t need adjusting. "Nothing," she said.

He grinned. He knew exactly what the pause meant.

The car moved through Paris with Sophia and Isabella beside him, Marco following in the second vehicle.

The rankings continued on phones, positions sixteen through eleven scrolling past, but Demien wasn’t chasing numbers anymore.

He just kept seeing his own.

17TH — DEMIEN WALTER

The headlines were already tying it to the right season — a nineteen-year-old breaking into the top twenty off an Atalanta campaign, not October’s United form.

The Théâtre du Châtelet appeared through a wall of security barriers, photographers, television crews, sponsor boards, event cars arriving one after another, fans held behind the lines.

Names were being shouted for everyone, not just him — football had gathered in one place tonight, and he was one part of something much larger.

He stepped from the car.

Sophia stepped out beside him.

Isabella followed toward the guest entrance.

"Demien! Seventeenth!"

"Demien, look here!"

"Walter! Yesterday Haaland, tonight Paris!"

"Sophia, this way!"

Sophia handled the flashes without flinching, without reaching for him, completely steady.

That settled him more than anything anyone could have said.

A reporter caught him for a short stop. "How does it feel to be ranked seventeenth?"

"Higher than I expected, honestly," Demien said. "I’m proud of it. I owe most of it to Atalanta — the teammates and coaches I had last season, England, everyone who got me through that year."

"One place above Jude Bellingham — thoughts?"

"Jude had an incredible season," Demien said. "He’s having an incredible one right now too."

"After yesterday, looking forward to seeing Erling again?"

Demien glanced to where the reporter was gesturing, spotted Haaland further along the carpet, and laughed. "I saw enough of him yesterday."

Haaland caught sight of him from a distance and lifted an eyebrow with a grin.

Demien returned it.

Photographers went wild for the split-second image, the two of them still visibly carrying yesterday’s 3-3 between them.

Then both kept moving toward their own groups, nothing staged about it.

Inside, glimpses of the biggest names in the sport passed by as Demien moved through — Mbappé crossing another section of carpet, Bellingham mid-interview, Rodri and Bernardo not far off, having faced him at Old Trafford less than a day ago, a ripple of noise building somewhere behind them that could only mean Messi had arrived.

Months ago these had been names on a television screen.

Tonight event staff were directing him into the same room because he was seventeenth among them.

Inside the theater, the seating was arranged, the stage lit, the Ballon d’Or branding enormous above it, cameras positioned throughout, guests crossing the aisles to greet each other before the broadcast began.

Demien took his seat with Sophia and Isabella, Marco a few rows back.

Haaland. Mbappé. Bellingham. Rodri. Vinícius. Rows of former winners.

Bellingham passed close enough to tap his shoulder. "Seventeen," he said.

"Eighteen," Demien answered.

Bellingham looked genuinely offended. "Enjoy that while it lasts."

They both laughed.

The ceremony opened around 20:45, the pace slowing now, opening presentation, applause, cameras sweeping the room, finding Demien’s section more than once.

His knee started again.

Sophia put her hand over it.

The program reached the Kopa Trophy early — best player under twenty-one, voted by the living Ballon d’Or winners rather than the main press electorate.

TROPHÉE KOPA 2023

This one was different.

Seventeenth had been recognition.

This he could actually win.

The ten nominees appeared across the screen.

Demien Walter.

Jude Bellingham.

Jamal Musiala.

Pedri.

Eduardo Camavinga.

Gavi.

Xavi Simons.

Alejandro Balde.

Antonio Silva.

Rasmus

Demien almost laughed at Højlund’s face appearing — they’d been sitting side by side in United’s dressing room less than twenty-four hours ago.

Then his own highlight package started.

Atalanta footage. The Serie A breakthrough. Goals scored from midfield. Assists threaded through crowded boxes. The biggest matches of that season. Nothing from October — this belonged to the year that had actually built the case.

Isabella watched the screen harder than she’d watched anything all night, her hand tightening on the edge of her seat. She’d seen these moments individually. This was the first time she was watching them presented as proof her son might be the best young player alive.

Sophia looked at Demien instead of the screen.

He caught it and gave her a questioning look.

She shook her head once, telling him to watch his own highlights.

Bellingham’s package followed, his Dortmund season looking every bit as exceptional as it had been. Musiala’s came after, the same. This only mattered if any of them could genuinely win it.

The presenter returned. The envelope came forward.

Demien’s fingers interlocked, separated, interlocked again.

He stopped his knee from bouncing and realized his foot had started instead.

Sophia reached for his hand, and this time he took it properly.

Isabella sat rigid beside him, eyes fixed on the stage.

No system panel. No sound. No warning.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, there was absolutely nothing between him and not knowing.

Didier Drogba opened the envelope.

Demien stopped breathing for a beat.

"And the 2023 Kopa Trophy goes to..."

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