Tokyo, Haneda Airport.
The massive glass windows of the terminal reflected the cold, grey sky of a Japanese winter. The departure board flickered with a rhythmic, mechanical click that sounded like a countdown.
[FLIGHT GA875 - JAKARTA - BOARDING]
Rio stood alone at the gate, his backpack heavy on one shoulder. He looked healthier than when he arrived months ago—his skin had color, and his legs, though still thin, were taut with the wiry strength of a survivalist. But his eyes were older. They held the weight of a man who had bargained with death and won, only to realize the game was rigged.
"So, you're really going," a voice said, flat and unamused.
Rio turned. Hiroto Nakamura was standing there, leaning against a pillar, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his expensive leather jacket. He hadn't come to say goodbye; he was observing the conclusion of an experiment.
"The National Team calls," Rio smiled faintly.
"Don't embarrass the J-League," Hiroto grunted, chewing gum slowly. "If you fail the selection in a third-rate football country like Indonesia, don't bother coming back to Tokyo. I hate playing with predictable partners."
"I won't fail," Rio said, his voice quiet but firm. "And Indonesia isn't third-rate. We're just... sleeping giants."
Hiroto scoffed, but he extended a fist. "Wake them up, then. I want to crush you at the Asian Cup."
Rio bumped his fist against Hiroto's. It was a cold contact, carrying the weight of a blood pact between rivals.
"It's a promise."
8 Hours Later. Soekarno-Hatta International Airport, Jakarta.
The humidity hit Rio the moment he stepped out of the terminal. It wasn't just heat; it was a physical weight. The air was thick, hot, and smelled of clove cigarettes (kretek) and exhaust fumes. It was the smell of chaos, energy, and home.
"Home sweet home," Specter coughed dramatically, waving away imaginary pollution. "I forgot how hot this place is. It feels like breathing soup."
Rio didn't have time for nostalgia. A black van with the golden PSSI (Indonesian Football Association) crest was idling at the curb, engine rumbling like a beast waiting to be fed.
Standing beside it, arms crossed, was the man in the black suit. Guntur Wijaya. The Head Scout.
He checked his watch as Rio approached. He didn't smile.
"You're on time," Guntur noted, popping the trunk. "Get in. We're going straight to the hospital."
"No hotel check-in first?" Rio asked, throwing his bag into the trunk.
"No," Guntur said coldly, slamming the trunk shut. "The medical exam is the filter. If you fail, you're going straight back to the airport. Why waste a hotel budget on a liability?"
Rio sat in the back seat, the leather sticking to his skin. His heart pounded a dangerous rhythm against his ribs. The noise of the Jakarta traffic—honking horns, shouting vendors—seemed to amplify the ticking in his head.
Rio opened his System interface.
[CURRENT LIFESPAN: 72 Days, 04 Hours]
[ITEM: MASQUERADE MASK (Rank B)]Effect: Falsifies bio-signals for 1 Hour. Cost: 30 Days Lifespan.
He looked at Guntur's reflection in the rearview mirror. The scout was watching him, waiting for the first sign of weakness.
I have to do it now.
Rio closed his eyes. The loss felt tangible, like ripping out a handful of his own hair.
He pressed [CONFIRM PURCHASE].
Zzzzt!
A sharp, violent cold sensation washed over his body, starting from his heart and spreading through his veins like liquid nitrogen. It was the sensation of existence being revoked—30 days of sunrises, birthdays, and heartbeats erased from his future.
Rio gasped, a silent, internal scream trapped behind his teeth. He felt physically lighter, as if a layer of his soul had been flayed away.
!!! PURCHASE SUCCESSFUL !!![LIFESPAN DEDUCTED: -30 DAYS][CURRENT LIFESPAN: 42 DAYS, 04 Hours]
[ITEM EQUIPPED: MASQUERADE MASK]Status: ACTIVE.Duration: 1 Hour.
Forty-two days, Rio thought, feeling a wave of nausea. I have six weeks left to live. I have to make the team before then, or I'm dead.
National Sports Hospital, Jakarta.
The MRI machine hummed like a giant, angry insect. CLANK. CLANK. BUZZ.
Rio lay on the sliding table, clad in a flimsy hospital gown. He was surrounded by doctors and technicians. Behind the thick glass partition, Guntur stood with arms crossed, watching the monitors like a hawk hunting a field mouse.
"Stay perfectly still," the technician ordered. "We need high-resolution images of the myocardium."
The table slid into the magnetic tube. Rio felt the powerful magnetic field humming over his chest. His actual heart—the thick, struggling muscle—was screaming under the magnetic interference.
Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump. The arrhythmia was intense.
"Specter! Is it working?" Rio screamed in his mind. "My heart is going crazy!"
"Relax, Rio," Specter's voice was calm, clinical. "The Mask is active. It's intercepting the magnetic resonance signals and rewriting them before they hit the sensors. It's creating a perfect digital lie. To the machine, your heart is a pristine, healthy engine."
In the Control Room (Guntur's Perspective):
Guntur leaned over the radiologist's shoulder, his expression intense.
"I want the left ventricle wall thickness," Guntur commanded. "He collapses after 60 minutes. There must be a defect. Hypertrophy. Find it."
The radiologist squinted at the high-resolution grayscale images of Rio's heart appearing on the screen.
"Sir..." the radiologist muttered, adjusting his glasses. "It's... normal."
"What?" Guntur frowned. "Impossible. Zoom in. Look for scarring."
"I'm looking at it, Pak Guntur. The septal wall thickness is 11mm. Perfectly within the normal range for an athlete. Valves are functioning 100%. Ejection fraction is excellent. No sign of cardiomyopathy, past or present."
The radiologist turned around, confused. "This kid has the heart of a marathon runner. Physically, he is in peak condition."
Guntur stared at the screen. He scanned the data again and again. The cold, hard numbers betrayed his suspicion.
"But I saw him collapse..." Guntur whispered to himself, his grip tightening on the desk until his knuckles turned white. "Was it really just dehydration? Did I misjudge him?"
Back in the MRI Room:
The table slid out. Rio sat up, blinking in the bright light.
[MASK DURATION: 10 Minutes Remaining]
Guntur walked into the room holding the medical report. He looked frustrated, like a detective who had lost his prime suspect due to a technicality.
"Well?" Rio asked, swinging his legs off the table. He forced a confident grin, masking the vertigo. "Did you find the 'defect' you were looking for?"
Guntur hesitated. He looked at Rio—at the sweat on his brow, the paleness of his skin—then at the paper that read 'CLEAN BILL OF HEALTH'. Finally, he sighed, defeated by the data.
"You passed," Guntur grunted. "Clean bill of health."
Rio let out a silent breath of pure, agonizing relief. The lie held.
"So, can I join the camp now?"
"Don't get cocky," Guntur narrowed his eyes. "You passed the medical, but I still don't trust you. The Physical Fitness Test (Yo-Yo Test) is tomorrow morning. A healthy heart doesn't mean you have the stamina to survive my camp."
Guntur tossed a jersey at Rio. It was the training kit with the Garuda emblem on the chest.
"Welcome to hell, Valdes. The bus leaves at 06:00."
The National Training Center (Senayan Dorms).
Rio stood in his assigned dorm room. It was simpler than the Tokyo complex—bunk beds, peeling paint in the corners, the faint whine of mosquitoes. But it felt real. He was back in his own country, wearing his national colors.
He held the Garuda jersey in his hands.
[MAIN QUEST UPDATE]Step 1: Join the National Team - COMPLETEDREWARD: +7 Days Lifespan
[NEW LIFESPAN BALANCE: 49 Days, 04 Hours]
"You survived the lie," Specter said, floating by the window, watching the Jakarta traffic below. "But Guntur isn't convinced. He's going to push you until you break in the physical tests."
"Let him try," Rio said, pulling on the jersey. It fit perfectly. "I have 49 days. That's enough time to prove I belong here."
Suddenly, loud laughter erupted from the hallway.
BANG!
The door burst open without a knock.
A group of tall, athletic players walked in. They were the established young elite, the golden boys of Indonesian football. Leading them was a boy with expensive shoes, a trendy haircut, and an aura of supreme arrogance. He looked at Rio—the "Japanese Import"—with immediate hostility.
He stopped when he saw Rio. He looked at the English name tag on Rio's duffel bag.
"Valdes?" the boy sneered.
He stepped closer, looming over Rio. He was taller, broader, radiating the confidence of someone who has never struggled for breath.
"So you're the 'Japanese Import' everyone is talking about? The fragile little genius who fainted at the tryouts?"
Rio turned around slowly, meeting the boy's gaze.
[SYSTEM SCAN]Target: Bambang "The King" Pamungkas (Junior) Role: Striker / U-20 Captain Status: HOSTILE Ranking: National #1
"I didn't faint," Rio said calmly, the pain of the lost 30 days hardening his voice into steel. "I recharged."
Bambang laughed. It was a loud, barking sound that signaled dominance to the pack behind him.
"Recharged? Cute."
Bambang leaned in, his face inches from Rio's.
"This isn't Japan, kid. We don't play nice here. Tomorrow is the Yo-Yo Test. The true test of a man's heart. I bet 500,000 Rupiah you vomit before Level 12."
He turned to his entourage. "Let's go. The air in here smells like weakness."
They left, slamming the door behind them.
Rio stood in the silence, clutching the Garuda jersey.
"Level 12?" Specter asked, amused.
"I'll go to Level 20," Rio whispered. "Even if my heart stops."