Morning light leaked through the blinds like threads of gold, slipping across the edge of Jaeven's desk, catching the corners of a half-folded jersey and a phone still buzzing with unread notifications.
Sleep had come late, restless, full of noise — crowd chants replaying in loops, the sound of commentary echoing between dreams. The Ravenna match had ended barely twelve hours ago, but the world hadn't stopped talking.
The "Han Effect" had gone from fan nickname to trending headline.
When Jaeven finally stirred, blinking through the haze, his phone was already vibrating itself off the nightstand. Messages stacked like dominoes: texts from teammates, DMs from sports journalists, tagged mentions from accounts he'd never seen before.
He dragged himself up, ran a hand through his hair, and exhaled.
Another day. Another storm.
He thumbed the notifications open — clips, edits, fan comments, even tactical breakdowns uploaded overnight.
> @CalcioDaily: "Virtus Lombardia's Jaeven Han isn't just winning games — he's redefining them. Rainbow Flick, Step-Over, Trivela… three moves, one player. Is Italy witnessing the birth of something new?"
> @RavennaUltra: "Vieri got cooked That flick was illegal. Someone tell me how Han even pulled that off."
> @NextGenFootball: "Han's movement reminds me of early artistry — pure instinct. The Han Effect might be football's next phenomenon."
He scrolled through the noise, half amused, half overwhelmed. They were calling him a "phenomenon." Yesterday he was just trying to keep Virtus from falling behind in the table. Now his name was a hashtag.
He slipped the phone onto the counter, poured cold water over his face, and let the chill drag him back to calm.
The mirror reflected a young man with tired eyes but an easy grin. "So this is what it feels like," he muttered, half-laughing. "One match and suddenly you're a headline."
---
By noon, the media circus had evolved.
Clips from the match replayed on sports channels; analysts debated him between espresso sips.
> Studio Host: "Han's Rainbow Flick — can we even call it that? Nobody's done it before in this league."
Pundit 1: "He's innovating on instinct. You can't coach that kind of creativity."
Pundit 2: "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. It's one game. He's talented, sure, but Ravenna underestimated him."
And then, inevitably, Riccardo Vieri's post-match interview aired.
He appeared in front of the cameras, perfectly groomed, designer jacket zipped halfway, that practiced smirk still glued to his face.
> Reporter: "Riccardo, tough loss today. What do you make of Jaeven Han's performance?"
Vieri: "Performance? Come on. He got lucky. A few flashy touches and everyone's calling him a genius. We've all seen one-hit wonders before."
Reporter: "But the Rainbow Flick—many are saying it's something new."
Vieri: "New? It's just street football with a different name. Let's be serious — I've been scouted by Serie A teams. I play at a different level. He had a good night, that's all. Next time we meet, he won't even see the ball."
The clip went viral within an hour.
Fans flooded the comments section, torn between outrage and amusement.
> @VirtusBlue: "Bro just got humiliated and still talking?? "
@HanNation: "Different level? Yeah, below Jaeven's."
@RavennaFaithful: "We love Vieri but come on… Han played him like a training cone."
By the time Jaeven saw it, his first instinct wasn't anger — it was laughter. A quiet, genuine laugh that came from disbelief more than anything. He shook his head, leaning back on the couch.
"Different level, huh?" he murmured. "Then I guess I'll keep climbing."
---
Coach Rossi called that afternoon. His voice came steady and warm through the phone.
"You handled yourself well," he said. "Media's eating it up, and you didn't bite. That's good. Don't let their noise pull you away from the field."
"I won't," Jaeven replied.
"Good. Because fame's a tide — it lifts and it drowns. Learn when to float."
Rossi's wisdom always had a rough sort of poetry. He didn't praise easily, but the respect was there in every pause.
After they hung up, Jaeven stretched out on the couch, scrolling through highlights again — not out of vanity, but out of study. Watching angles, movement, tempo. Every dribble was a question: What if I could link that flick with something faster? What if the body feint could transition smoother into a strike?
Blueprint Mode, the system had called it.
A creative matrix in his mind that connected instinct to invention.
Now it whispered ideas like soft static at the edge of his thoughts.
He opened his notebook and jotted something down.
"Fusion: flick → step-over → burst cut. Find rhythm. Test timing."
The handwriting was messy, fast, like someone trying to catch a thought before it ran away.
---
By late afternoon, the noise had reached his family too.
When he finally checked his messages, Lucia's name flashed at the top.
> Lucia : "Oppa, my friends didn't believe me They said I was lying when I told them YOU were my brother."
Lucia : "You have to come to my school tomorrow. I already told them you'd visit."
Lucia : "Pleaseee. I want to show off just once "
He couldn't help but smile. Lucia was fourteen — equal parts chaos and charm — and while she teased him mercilessly, she'd always been his biggest fan.
He called her immediately.
"Lucia?"
"Finally! Do you have any idea what's happening here?" Her voice was alive with excitement. "The entire class watched your match! Even Mr. Romano stopped teaching to replay your goals!"
"Sounds like I owe your teacher an autograph," he said, amused.
"Don't joke, I'm serious! My friends said I made it up. I told them, 'He's my brother! Look at the name!' But they said it's a coincidence."
"So your solution is… dragging me to school?"
"Exactly," she said proudly. "Come at lunch break. Just for five minutes. You'll make my whole week."
He laughed softly. "Alright, alright. I'll come."
"Yes!" she squealed. "You're the best! And don't wear those boring tracksuits. Dress nicely for once!"
"Got it, boss."
When they hung up, he was still smiling. For all the chaos fame brought, moments like that grounded him — reminded him why he played, why he endured, why he cared.
---
That evening, Virtus' training ground hummed with low chatter. The players had gathered for light recovery drills, still riding the high of the win.
Matteo clapped Jaeven on the shoulder the moment he walked in. "The magician arrives."
Jaeven chuckled. "Don't start."
"Oh, I'm starting," Matteo grinned. "You saw what Riccardo said? That guy's ego has its own zip code."
"He's just trying to save face," Jaeven said calmly. "It's fine."
"Fine? Man, if I'd done what you did, I'd have printed his quote on a shirt."
Laughter broke around them, the easy kind that only comes from victory.
Coach Rossi entered a few minutes later, whistle around his neck. "Enough chatter. Recovery session. Laps and stretches. Media circus or not, we train."
The players obeyed without complaint. Work was the anchor that kept everything sane.
As they jogged around the field, Jaeven's mind flickered back to that thought again — Blueprint. He could almost feel it hum beneath his skin. Each movement, each decision on the ball had begun to spark possibilities.
It wasn't just copying old-world skills anymore. It was the potential to make something new. Something his own.
He didn't know what it would look like yet — but the idea of creation thrilled him.
---
That night, the sports world continued to revolve around his name.
News channels ran montages of his goals. Analysts debated whether Virtus could make a surprise run up the table.
> GazzettaSport: "Virtus' young winger has changed the narrative. Han's technique and creativity have brought them within touching distance of the top eight. Could this be the league's breakout star?"
> Football Italia Weekly: "Some call it arrogance; others call it belief. Riccardo Vieri's dismissal of Han's brilliance might just ignite a new rivalry for the ages."
Clips of the Rainbow Flick replayed on endless loops, slow-motion edits highlighting every subtle detail — the flick, the body angle, the calm after. Fans flooded forums, trying to imitate it in backyards and practice pitches.
In one fan video, a kid shouted, "I'm doing the Han Flick!" before failing miserably and laughing.
Jaeven saw it hours later and grinned. "Han Flick, huh? Guess that's what it's called now."
The world was spinning faster around him, but he stayed still — centered, observing.
When his father called, it was brief but proud.
"Good game, son. Your mother cried again."
"She always does," Jaeven said softly.
"She says you looked calm. Like you belonged there."
"I felt that way, Dad."
"That's all that matters."
---
By the time night fell again, the excitement had quieted to a hum. Jaeven sat by the window of his small apartment, city lights flickering below, the air still scented with rain.
His phone buzzed one last time. It was a system prompt, faint and unobtrusive — almost like a whisper rather than a message.
> [System Insight]
Observational growth detected.
Creativity threshold nearing activation point.
Blueprint Potential evolving.
He read it twice, then closed his eyes. The words weren't loud like rewards — they were subtle, like the system itself was watching him think.
Maybe it recognized that what drove him wasn't just skill or fame. It was creation — the act of making something from nothing.
Tomorrow, he'd visit Lucia's school, make her proud, smile for a few photos.
After that, training resumed. And somewhere in those quiet hours on the pitch, he'd start shaping the next move — the next idea.
For now, he just sat there, breathing it all in — the city, the noise, the weight of promise.
Riccardo's arrogance didn't bother him anymore. Fame didn't scare him either.
Because for Jaeven, the path forward wasn't about proving who was better.
It was about proving what was possible.
And that — he thought, as the last light flickered out — was a battle only he could fight.