João Galvão Couto, thirty-seven years old, stood on the touchline with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
As coach of Sporting CP's B team, he was not a household name, but he had played a key role in developing one standout talent: Cristiano Ronaldo.
Only a few months earlier, the nineteen-year-old winger had been sold to Manchester United in the Premier League for more than twelve million pounds, delivering a handsome profit to the club.
Yet right now, Couto felt anything but proud.
His side was being thoroughly dominated in this derby against Benfica B. They were already trailing by two goals, and the pressure showed no sign of easing.
On paper, Sporting CP B should have been evenly matched with their rivals.
As one of Portugal's "Big Three," the club had a strong reputation for producing talent, and their reserve side was usually competitive.
Today, however, Benfica held a clear edge. They had called down Paulo Cabral, an experienced national team player, to regain match fitness with the B team.
Cabral, though not a regular starter for Benfica's first team, was a solid defender who made the difference.
Against this group of mostly teenage and early-twenties reserves, he looked like a man among boys. His positioning and tackling completely shut down Sporting's right flank.
Sporting CP had always prided itself on developing quick, skillful wingers.
Their main attacking route relied on breakthroughs down the flanks followed by dangerous crosses or cut-backs.
With Cabral locking down that side, the entire attack stalled. Paulo Sérgio, Chiquinho, and the freshly substituted Edgar Marcelino had all tried in turn to beat the defender, but each run ended the same way: a blocked cross, a lost duel, or a quick turnover.
The club had also sent down two first-team players to sharpen their form, but both Paulo Bento and Rui Bento were defensive midfielders.
They strengthened the middle, yet offered nothing to unlock the congested right wing.
Couto's attempts to spark the offense through substitutions had produced little result.
Instead, Benfica B seized the momentum and began launching waves of attacks that pinned Sporting deeper into their own half.
With the situation growing more desperate, Couto turned toward the bench and barked a quick order.
He sent José Fonte into the game, instructing the tall young defender to reinforce the back line and help absorb the pressure.
After finishing his warm-up along the touchline, José Fonte glanced toward Mathis and offered a quiet word of encouragement.
Then he jogged onto the pitch to bolster the defense.
By now, the spark of anticipation in Mathis had faded into bitter disappointment. He no longer felt like moving.
He had fully absorbed the memories of this parallel life and understood the situation clearly: his contract expired today, and the coach had never rated him.
There was almost no chance he would be given any minutes. He slumped on the bench, staring blankly at the grass with an indifferent expression.
Couto checked his watch. Only ten minutes remained in the match, and defeat looked inevitable.
Annoyed, he turned his head and spotted Mathis lounging on the bench like he had already given up. The sight instantly ignited the coach's temper.
"MATHIS!" Couto barked, his voice cutting sharply across the technical area.
Mathis, still lost in thought about what to do next, answered blankly. "Huh?"
Seeing the boy's lazy demeanor, Couto's anger flared hotter. "There's a fucking match going on right now! What the hell are you doing sitting there like that?"
Mathis felt his own irritation rise. The pride he had carried as a PSG prospect in his previous life surged forward. He shot back without hesitation, "I was thinking about how I could turn this game around if I actually got on the pitch. But it doesn't look like that's going to happen anyway."
If Mathis had spoken politely, Couto might have let it slide. After all, there was little point in arguing with a player who was about to be released. But hearing the usually timid Mathis talk back so boldly made the coach's temples throb with rage.
He let out a harsh, angry laugh. "You? Turn the tide? What difference would you make if you played?"
Mathis curled his lip. "I'd lead the team to victory, obviously."
Couto sneered, his fury cooling into cold disdain. In that moment, he decided the quiet, humble attitude Mathis had shown over the past few years had clearly been an act.
There was no regret in letting this kind of player go. "Fine," he said. "I'll put you on. If you really manage to turn this match around, I'll go straight to the board and recommend we renew your contract."
Mathis stood up slowly, stretching his arms and shoulders with deliberate laziness. "Forget it. Whether I even want to renew with you at that point will depend on my mood."
With that, he took two steps forward and planted himself at the substitution spot, ready to enter.
Couto gave a cold laugh and decided he had wasted enough words. He turned to a stunned substitute sitting nearby. "Go tell the fourth official to let him on."
When Mathis reached the sideline, several Sporting players who had just repelled a Benfica attack and were preparing to push forward froze in surprise.
In a tight-knit squad like this, secrets rarely lasted long. Everyone knew Mathis's contract was ending today and that he was expected to leave. Why on earth was he coming on now?
Fonte, already on the pitch, clapped his hands loudly to welcome him—the only one who did.
Marcelino, however, curled his lip in contempt. As a winger who could operate on either flank, he saw this as the perfect opportunity to prove once and for all how much better he was than "that scrub Mathis."
On the right wing, Chiquinho trudged off the field, offering Mathis a casual high-five as he passed. He was a regular starter for the B team, and his relationship with Mathis had always been lukewarm at best.
Mathis paid little attention to any of it. The moment the fourth official signaled, he sprinted onto the pitch with quick, eager strides.
He could hardly wait to show what he could do.
Only after stepping onto the pitch did Mathis realize how pointless his presence seemed.
When Sporting CP built an attack, most of the players funneled the ball toward Marcelino on the left flank.
No one trusted the right side anymore — not with Paulo Cabral patrolling that channel like a wall.
Attacking down the left made tactical sense, yet Benfica's defense on that side was no weak point either. If it had been, they would have exploited it long ago.
Mathis made two sharp runs down the right wing, but the ball never came near him.
Frustration built quickly. He had only ten minutes left in the match; he could not afford to waste a single second.
On the next attacking move, he abandoned the right flank entirely and cut straight toward the center.
A player with Figo's skill set could dominate from central areas just as effectively as from the wing.
His sudden movement squeezed the position of the regular central attacking midfielder, Carlos Márquez. The Portuguese player shouted angrily at him, but Mathis pretended not to hear.
I need the ball, he muttered under his breath.
On the sideline, Couto sneered. In his mind the match was already lost. At least he would get to watch this troublesome kid embarrass himself in front of everyone.
As the coach stood there with folded arms, Sporting CP prepared another attack.
The ball rolled to Márquez's feet in central midfield. Mathis, now the closest player, sprinted toward him and called out loudly, "Pass it to me!"
Márquez scoffed inwardly. You steal my position and then expect me to pass? Even if I lose the ball, I won't give it to you.
He never noticed how close Mathis had come.
Even if he had, he would not have protected the ball — who guards against his own teammate?
In the next instant, Mathis launched a fierce sliding tackle and cleanly stole the ball from Márquez's feet.
The moment he regained possession, Mathis pushed himself upright and scanned the pitch ahead. You won't pass to me? Fine. I'll take it myself.
A stunned silence fell across the field and the benches. Players from both teams froze.
Even the referee hesitated, his whistle halfway to his lips, before lowering it again. Tackling your own teammate was unheard of, yet the motion had been clean — no foul.
"What are you doing? Are you crazy?!" Marcelino yelled from the left flank.
Mathis ignored him. The instant the ball touched his foot, a powerful surge of confidence flooded his body.
Figo's technical mastery felt completely natural, as if the skills had always belonged to him.
At that exact moment, the system's mechanical voice echoed in his mind once more:
[Host's first touch. First match participation recorded.]
[For every goal the host directly contributes to, a permanent Figo ability will be awarded.]
Not a temporary boost — a permanent reward. The promise sent a fresh wave of anticipation through Mathis.
He drove forward with the ball at his feet. After the initial shock, his Sporting teammates instinctively began making runs and pulling markers out of position.
They were not doing it to help him; it was simply a habit. Still, those split-second movements created small gaps in Benfica's defensive line.
A Benfica B defensive midfielder charged out aggressively to close him down.
Mathis did not retreat. He took one controlled touch and accelerated into a dribble.
Figo's ball control was world-class. His top speed was not the highest, but Mathis paired it with his own natural athleticism and explosive pace.
The ball stayed glued to his feet, answering every subtle command.
He mastered sudden changes of pace and used his upper-body strength to win physical duels.
Even elite defenders struggled against this combination; these reserve-level opponents had no chance.
The midfielder lunged in desperately.
Mathis dropped his shoulder sharply to the right, then exploded into the first change of direction, dragging the ball with the outside of his left foot.
The defender's body swayed as he tried to adjust.
Without pausing, Mathis planted his right foot and whipped into a second lightning-quick turn, hips swiveling hard.
The poor midfielder's legs tangled completely. He stumbled, arms flailing, and crashed heavily to the grass with a dull thud.
Mathis never looked back.
Mathis surged forward, the ball dancing lightly under perfect control as he ate up the open space ahead.
When a coordinated defense tries to contain a coordinated attack, a single breakthrough at one point can trigger a chain reaction across the entire line.
Marcelino no longer had time to sneer at Mathis.
On the left flank, he raised his arm and called for the ball. The defender marking him had stepped inward to cover the central gap, leaving Marcelino wide open.
Mathis never noticed the call. His focus stayed locked on the goal.
The opposing right-back was too slow to close the distance, and although Cabral had shifted across, he could not yet apply tight pressure.
Mathis held the ball roughly thirty meters from goal — still a relatively safe distance for most players.
But Figo was not like most players. Beyond his dribbling and close control, his long-range shooting was equally lethal.
Three years earlier, at the 2000 European Championship, it had been one of his thunderous strikes from distance that sparked Portugal's famous comeback against England.
While still running, Mathis adjusted his stride, planted his left foot, and swung his right leg with explosive power.
The ball whistled as it left his boot. Cabral lunged forward and instinctively stuck out a leg, but the shot had already flashed past him.
The long-range effort flew toward the penalty area at high speed. Its initial trajectory headed straight for the center of the goal, but at the last moment it bent sharply toward the top right corner.
The Benfica B goalkeeper, much like England's David Seaman years earlier, could only turn his head and watch helplessly. The ball bounced once inside the net — a world-class goal in every respect.
The pitch fell silent for a full five seconds. Then the referee blew his whistle, confirming the goal.
No cheers followed. Although Sporting CP had pulled one back, making the score 1-2, none of the players could believe that the soon-to-be-released Mathis had just scored such a strike.
Mathis did not celebrate wildly either. He simply pumped his fist once, then turned and jogged calmly back toward the halfway line.
José Fonte ran over and offered a high-five.
Mathis laughed and pulled the only teammate who had shown him any support into a quick hug.
"Lucky shot. It must have been pure luck," Marcelino called out loudly as he jogged back into position.
Several other players nodded, their faces showing sudden understanding. Yes — it had to be luck.
Mathis ignored the murmurs. With this goal, he would earn at least one permanent Figo ability.
That alone gave him a solid foundation for survival in this new life.
He was only seventeen. He had no doubt he could find a club somewhere.
Even if it meant dropping to a lower division, the salary would likely match or exceed what most university graduates earned in regular jobs. And on top of that, he still had the System.
With that thought in mind, he settled back into his new position.
On the sideline, João Galvão Couto watched with a complicated expression.
The score had narrowed from 0-2 to 1-2, and seven or eight minutes still remained. For the first time in the match, a flicker of hope appeared.
Yet the goal had come from Mathis. That left the coach completely speechless.
The match restarted. Conceding such a spectacular long-range goal had visibly shaken the Benfica B players.
Their attacks lost intensity and became lethargic, lacking their earlier bite.
José Fonte rose highest inside the penalty area and headed away the opponent's cross.
Sporting CP B quickly transitioned from defense into attack.
Even after the goal, the ball still bypassed Mathis. Scoring a beautiful strike had not changed the team's thinking.
He had started the move by tackling his own teammate and was widely expected to leave the club today.
Carlos Márquez, by contrast, was a key player the coach relied on. Passing to Mathis now risked upsetting Márquez — something no one wanted to do.
For the next few minutes, Mathis remained completely out of the offensive play. Paulo Cabral began shadowing him closely, but Mathis made no effort to ask for the ball.
As a result, Benfica's defensive shape started to creak under the constant circulation of the ball.
After several short passes, Benfica's centre-forward Matthäus dropped deep to receive the ball and was fouled as he turned.
The referee awarded Sporting CP B a direct free-kick just outside the top of the penalty arc.
The position was awkward — close enough to the goal to be dangerous, yet tight enough that accuracy mattered more than power.
Marcelino, the team's best set-piece taker, stepped forward without hesitation.
Then he noticed Mathis had stepped up beside the ball as well.
"What are you trying to do?" Marcelino snapped.
"Taking the free-kick," Mathis replied flatly.
"Get lost! I'm the designated taker. Why should you take it?"
"Can you score from here? If not, move aside."
Marcelino opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat.
His free-kick technique was decent, yet even in training he converted this kind of position only once in ten attempts — and that required luck.
He chose to ignore Mathis instead, planting himself over the ball with an aggressive stance.
Mathis said nothing more. He stood just beside the ball, seemingly preparing to take part in a rehearsed routine.
The referee blew his whistle.
Marcelino began his run-up, but before he could strike, Mathis swung his right foot and smashed the ball straight at goal.
"You're stealing it again!" Marcelino's furious curse rang out across the pitch.
No one paid him any attention. Mathis's shot left his boot with a beautiful curve.
As the ball rose, Cabral, positioned in the wall, sensed danger immediately.
He leaped desperately, but he was a fraction too late. The ball grazed the top of his head and continued its downward path.
A moment later it flew past the diving goalkeeper's outstretched hands and nestled in the net with a clean swish.
The score was now 2-2.
In barely five minutes, Mathis had touched the ball only twice — once for a long-range strike, once for a free-kick — and single-handedly dragged Sporting CP B back into the match.
If the first goal could be dismissed as luck, what about the second?
Mathis did not celebrate wildly.
With the Figo Replication Card active, dominating a reserve-team derby felt only natural to him.
A level-99 player crushing beginners in the starter village held little thrill.
He simply raised both arms high while the rest of the pitch stared at him in stunned silence.
Paulo Cabral looked especially frustrated. In his view, Mathis and Marcelino had staged an argument on purpose so Mathis could steal the shot.
If he had realized sooner, he might have blocked it.
He had no idea there had been no acting involved.
"See? I scored," Mathis said to Marcelino.
"You motherfu—"
Marcelino's curse was cut short as Mathis extended his right index finger and wagged it twice.
"I told you that you couldn't do it, so I had to score myself."
Marcelino looked ready to charge, but José Fonte wrapped both arms around him from behind. "Calm down! Calm down! We're level now — we have to win this match!"
The other players nodded unconsciously. They had come this far; none of them wanted to settle for a draw.
"Want to win?" Mathis said calmly. "I'll play on the right wing. Make sure you pass the ball to me often."
Marcelino started to curse again, but Fonte quickly covered his mouth.
Márquez still felt uneasy about the earlier tackle, yet Mathis had just scored twice to equalize the game.
At this moment, even if Mathis did something wrong, it would be overlooked.
Matthäus, the twenty-one-year-old centre-forward and one of the older players in the squad, patted Mathis on the shoulder. "Mathis, I didn't expect you to be this good. We'll get the ball to you more often now."
His words carried weight. With a weekly salary of 1,500 euros, he earned more than anyone else in the B team except the two first-team veterans. The two Bentos, both over thirty, nodded in agreement.
"Then I'll pass to you more," Márquez added, forcing a civil tone. "We're counting on you."
Even though he was still annoyed by the tackle, he knew this was the only sensible reaction if he wanted to keep the coach's trust.
On the other side, Cabral turned to his teammates with a fierce expression. "Let me mark that guy from now on."
At thirty-one, he was no longer a prospect. He might never have become a star, but he had worn the Portugal shirt once.
He refused to be embarrassed by a B-team nobody in a reserve derby.
What Cabral did not know was that he was not facing an ordinary seventeen-year-old African kid.
He was facing a former PSG prodigy armed with the footballing ability of Luís Figo at his peak.
A fringe international defender and the former captain and core of the Portuguese national team were separated by an enormous gulf in class.
The match restarted, and within moments Mathis's sophisticated dribbling left Paulo Cabral swaying back and forth on the right wing.
Once the ball began reaching him regularly, Mathis started to dominate his flank.
Everyone knew Luís Figo had never been the fastest player in a straight sprint, yet his combination of physical strength and elite ball control made him extremely dangerous.
He often began dribbles at a controlled, almost deliberate pace that suddenly shifted, unbalancing defenders or creating space for a precise pass before they could recover.
No player could win every duel, but Figo possessed a rare ability to manufacture danger even when tightly marked. Cabral was already sweating heavily.
Normally, the veteran defender handled young wingers with relative ease. Most possessed decent footwork, a bit of pace, and some power, but they lacked experience.
They telegraphed their intentions too early, made rushed decisions, and left small openings that Cabral could exploit with smart positioning and veteran tricks.
That approach usually allowed him to neutralize them before they could cause real trouble.
Over nearly his entire career in the Portuguese leagues, Cabral had faced almost every type of winger the country produced. Every club seemed to churn them out by the dozen.
The ones who gave him real problems were the freakishly quick talents. Against them he often found himself at a disadvantage.
And the seventeen-year-old in front of him was exactly that kind of player.
Mathis was not merely quick — he was explosively fast when it counted. What made him truly dangerous, however, was how he blended that raw acceleration with masterful ball control.
His feints and body movements looked completely convincing, constantly forcing Cabral to commit to the wrong side.
The moment the defender tried to recover, Mathis would unleash his pace at the perfect instant, bursting past or delivering a dangerous cross before Cabral could reset.
Only the solid defensive cover inside Benfica B's penalty area had prevented Mathis from already helping Sporting CP B take the lead with those breakthroughs.
On the sideline, João Galvão Couto stood stunned. Although he was only a B-team coach and not a high-profile manager, years of work had sharpened his eye for talent.
Every move Mathis made looked like a masterclass. The level of the match was low, yet the quality of the performance was unmistakable.
How did this kid suddenly become so strong? Is he on drugs?
The thought crossed Couto's mind, but he quickly pushed it aside. Drugs or not, he needed to speak to the club's management immediately and urge them to keep Mathis.
Even if this level was only occasional, a seventeen-year-old capable of performing like this was worth investing in and developing.
Besides, the salary for a seventeen-year-old in the B team was negligible. Mathis had been earning only two hundred euros per week, including his training subsidy.
The highest earner in the squad was centre-forward Matthäus at 1,500 euros a week, and that was only because he was already earmarked for the first team. Most others earned between three and six hundred euros.
José Fonte received two hundred and fifty. Six or seven players sat at roughly Mathis's previous level. These figures represented the standard pay for youth players across Portugal at the time.
Even a modest increase for Mathis would cost the club almost nothing.