Morning bled slowly into the world, its golden hue gliding across the rooftops of Lombardia like a blessing. Three days had passed since Virtus Lombardia lifted the Serie D championship trophy — three days since the night that rewrote the script of an underdog's season and carved a new name into Italy's football conversation: Jaeven Moretti Han.
For most of Italy, it was just another off-season morning. But for those who lived through that game — the comeback, the impossible, the unthinkable — the echo of that night still refused to fade.
Even now, in the soft silence of his apartment, Jaeven could still feel the stadium's roar inside him.
The noise, the chants, the sight of his teammates hoisting him up on their shoulders. The sweat that ran down his face when he bent his head as the medal was placed around his neck.
Those moments felt… unreal.
Not like a dream — but like the first page of something greater.
The television murmured faintly from across the room. He hadn't turned it off all morning. Every sports channel carried the same topic: Virtus Lombardia's Miracle Run.
---
RAI Sport:
"four goals down with ten minutes left — that's not football, that's destiny. And at the center of it all… the boy they now call The Catalyst of Chaos, Jaeven Han."
Sky Calcio:
"Look at his composure in that free kick. Forty yards out, and he didn't hesitate. We're witnessing something rare — a player who creates beauty out of desperation."
La Gazzetta dello Sport:
From relegation to promotion in half a season. From anonymity to stardom. Is this the birth of Italy's next icon?
---
The host's words hung in the air like the final note of a symphony.
Jaeven stared at the screen, then reached for the remote and muted it.
He didn't smile. He didn't celebrate.
He just sat there — quiet, almost detached — replaying flashes of that night in his mind.
The moment he took that free kick.
The way the world seemed to hold its breath.
The way the ball cut through the air like a comet.
There had been no thoughts in that instant — only instinct. A perfect union of rhythm, balance, and clarity.
He remembered thinking: So this is what it means to feel infinite.
---
Outside, Milan was alive with conversation.
Sports cafés brimmed with arguments, street vendors sold newspapers with his face printed in bold ink, and children on small dusty pitches tried to mimic his movements.
"Han's spin move!" one kid shouted, flicking a ball behind his leg before falling flat.
"You're not him!" another laughed. "You can't just do magic!"
In one small apartment, a family of three watched the replay again.
"That's the boy who trained in the rain last winter," the father said proudly. "He said he'd change everything for Virtus. Look at him now."
It wasn't just his goals anymore. It was the feeling he gave people — that impossible, electric belief that something miraculous could happen at any second.
The world had started calling it The Han Effect.
---
Back inside, Jaeven stretched out on his couch, staring up at the ceiling.
The silence after glory was strange — almost heavy.
Fame had always seemed like noise from afar. But up close, it was stillness.
A stillness filled with questions.
The system had been quiet too, until that morning.
A soft chime broke the silence.
> [System Update: Player Performance Recognition Complete]
Charm stat increased from 62 → 70.
Reason: Large-scale public admiration and rising aesthetic recognition.
System Suggestion: Host should consider appearance adjustment to avoid public distraction or potential suspension due to idol-tier attractiveness.
Recommendation: Update hairstyle and clothing to maintain focus on performance integrity.
Jaeven blinked at the holographic prompt hovering above his wrist.
"…Are you saying I'm too good-looking to play football now?" he muttered.
The system replied in its calm monotone:
> [Clarification: Host's visual appeal has surpassed normal thresholds for athlete classification. Action recommended.]
He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Guess that's one problem I never thought I'd have."
But beneath the humor, there was truth.
In the mirror, he'd begun to notice what the cameras saw — the lean symmetry of his face, the sharpness of his jawline, the eyes that carried a calm intensity.
He was changing, not just in skill or strength, but in presence.
It was as if each match was rewriting him — piece by piece — into something more defined.
---
He wandered to the balcony, watching the city breathe.
Milan's skyline shimmered in the afternoon sun — a canvas of dreams painted in glass and stone.
Down below, two boys argued over whose team Jaeven would join if he ever left Virtus.
"Bologna!" one yelled.
"No, idiot! He's too good — Juventus would grab him first!"
A third voice cut in: "You're both wrong. He'll make his own team one day."
Jaeven smiled faintly. He didn't want to leave.
Not yet. Not when they'd built something so rare — a brotherhood born from survival.
Virtus Lombardia wasn't just a club anymore. It was a symbol of rebirth.
He thought of Coach Rossi, who'd trusted him when others wouldn't. Of Matteo, the captain who passed him the ball when it mattered most.
He couldn't abandon that.
The media didn't understand that. They only saw numbers and headlines.
But Jaeven saw faces, memories, and hours of silence between rain and dawn.
---
The next scene unfolded in flashes — the kind only a cinematic life could offer.
A dimly lit café.
Two scouts whispering in a corner, one sliding a contract across the table.
"Serie C. Immediate starter. We'll triple his salary."
The other shook his head, smirking. "You're late. Serie B clubs are already watching. The kid's worth more than gold right now."
Somewhere in a car parked outside, Rossi listened to the radio and sighed.
He knew what was coming — the offers, the pressure, the greed.
And he knew Jaeven would say no.
Because the boy wasn't chasing money. He was chasing mastery.
---
Later that evening, Jaeven sat in front of the mirror again, trimming the edges of his hair.
The reflection staring back wasn't just a footballer anymore. It was someone… evolving.
He tied his hair slightly higher, brushed a few strands aside.
Simple change. But it felt symbolic.
Like the closing of one chapter and the quiet promise of another.
His phone buzzed.
Messages from teammates filled the screen.
> Matteo: Bro. Rossi's proud as hell. You're on every TV channel.
Diego: You made my grandma cry with that comeback.
Toma: When are we going shopping for those clothes the system mentioned? 😂
He chuckled softly and typed back:
> "After I finish sleeping for a week."
The laughter faded as he turned off the phone and leaned back.
Silence again. But not empty — peaceful.
The kind that follows storms.
---
Night fell.
Outside, the city glowed — lights flickering like constellations, roads humming with motion.
And within that stillness, Jaeven's mind wandered back to the game — to the moment the ball soared, to the crowd's disbelief, to that one instant where time itself had seemed to pause.
This is who I am now, he thought. Not just a boy chasing a dream… but a creator shaping one.
The air felt lighter.
Then — the ringtone shattered it.
He glanced at the screen.
Coach Rossi.
He answered.
"Han," the coach's voice came through, rough but filled with warmth. "I hope you're resting, because things are about to get busy again."
Jaeven smiled faintly. "What did you do this time, coach?"
Rossi chuckled. "Nothing. The world did. A major network just called. They're running a new program — Rising Boots: Italy's Future Stars. It's about young talents from Serie A to D. And guess what… they want you as one of the main features."
Jaeven froze for a second. The words sank in.
He looked out at the glowing city, the streets whispering with unseen energy.
A quiet grin curved his lips.
"…When do we start?"
"Soon," Rossi replied. "Very soon. But for now — enjoy your three days off. You've earned every minute of them."
The line went dead.
Jaeven lowered the phone, eyes still on the skyline.
The city lights shimmered against the glass, reflecting his faint smile.
The world was changing again.
And this time — he was ready.