A reward for... relaxing? For going to the beach with his family?
It was the most brilliantly counter-intuitive game mechanic he had ever encountered.
The game wasn’t a separate, secret life he had to hide.
It was a part of his world, a part that was actively encouraging him to be a better, more balanced person.
He practically levitated with excitement on his way to his next shift at CostMart. He stacked milk cartons with the focus of a zen master and even managed to make Mr. Henderson crack a smile with a well-timed joke about the existential dread of a misplaced yogurt. The rightful source is novel⚑fire.net
But all he could think about was the +10% Training Efficiency boost. It was a golden ticket, a 48-hour window to turbo-charge his young squad’s development.
That evening, he dove into the pod with a singular purpose.
He appeared on the virtual training ground, where the digital sun was shining and his players were going through their warm-ups.
"Morning, gaffer!" Jonathan Rowe called out, looking refreshed.
"The best," Ethan said with a grin. "And because of it, you lot are in for the two hardest days of training you’ve ever had."
A few groans went through the group, but they were good-natured.
The team was flying high, top of the league, and brimming with confidence.
Ethan pulled his assistant aside. "James," he said, his voice buzzing with energy. "Scrap the usual schedule. For the next 48 hours, I want maximum intensity. I want every drill to be focused on our three wonderkids. Viktor, Emre, David. I want them playing together in every single drill. High-pressure scenarios, quick-fire finishing, complex passing patterns. I want to push them to their absolute limit."
James Pearce, his A-Rank AI brain processing the request, nodded. "An accelerated development protocol. Understood, gaffer. I’ll design the sessions immediately."
What followed was a masterclass in coaching.
The players seemed to learn faster, react quicker, and absorb tactical information with an incredible clarity.
The focus was the attacking trio. They spent an hour in a drill where they, as a three, had to break down waves of six, then seven, then eight defenders.
At first, it was a mess.
David Kerrigan would try to dribble through everyone. Viktor would make a run too early. Emre would try a pass that was too clever.
"Again!" Ethan would shout. "Talk to each other! Anticipate!"
Slowly, painstakingly, it began to click. Kerrigan learned to use his dribbling not just to beat a man, but to draw defenders and create space for the others.
Viktor learned to delay his run, waiting for the perfect moment to exploit the gap.
And Emre, the little magician, was the glue that held it all together, his brain seemingly two steps ahead of everyone else on the pitch.
"Better!" Ethan encouraged. "Now, David, when you beat your man, look for the cutback to Emre on the edge of the box. Vik, that little feint before you shoot? Perfect! Do it every time!"
The improvement was astonishing. By the end of the first day, the trio was moving with a fluid, almost telepathic understanding, tearing the defensive drills apart with a series of one-touch passes and explosive movements.
The second day was even more intense.
Ethan logged in, feeling the pressure of the 48-hour window.
He had one more session to maximize the boost.
Today was all about finishing. James Pearce had set up a relentless drill.
A cross would come in from the right, and Viktor would have to finish it.
The second the ball hit the net, another ball would be played to Emre at the edge of the box for a long-range shot. The second he shot, a third ball would be played to Kerrigan on the left for a one-on-one with the keeper. It was a rapid-fire, high-pressure test of technique and composure.
"Sharper, Vik! Get your body over the ball!"
"Good strike, Emre! Now put it in the corner!"
"Davey, stop trying to chip the keeper every time! Just pass it into the net!"
The three of them were sweating, breathing heavily, but they were thriving, pushing each other, a competitive fire in their eyes.
After two days of the most intense, focused training of their lives, the boost expired. The 48-hour window was closed. Ethan sent the exhausted but satisfied players to the showers.
He stood on the empty training pitch, a feeling of nervous anticipation in his gut.
He retreated to his office and pulled up the squad screen, his heart pounding.
He navigated to the player development tab. He looked at Viktor Kristensen’s profile first.
He scrolled down to the ’Current Ability’ attribute.
The number had been 67. He held his breath.
The number was now 70!
A huge, whooping laugh of triumph erupted from Ethan’s chest.
He had done it. 70. It was a huge milestone. In the game’s logic, it was the tipping point where a player went from being a ’promising prospect’ to a ’leading player’ for their division.
His finger trembled slightly as he clicked on Emre Demir’s profile.
The number had been 68. He looked.
The number was now 70.
"YES!" he yelled, jumping out of his chair. "YES! YES! YES!"
He had two 70-rated wonderkids. Two genuine, top-tier attacking talents for League One.
The gamble, the hard work, the belief—it had all paid off in the most spectacular way possible.
He was so lost in his celebration that he almost missed his assistant, James Pearce, appearing in his office doorway.
"Gaffer," James said, his tone bringing Ethan back down to earth. "Apologies for the interruption. The draw for the second round of the EFL Trophy has just been made."
Ethan’s grin widened.
"Excellent! Who is it? Another Championship side we can embarrass?"
James Pearce’s face remained a perfect, unreadable mask of AI neutrality.
He tapped his tablet, and the draw appeared on the main screen.
It wasn’t a Championship side.
It wasn’t a team from their own league.
It was a team from the league below. League Two.
A team whose crest was a simple, elegant black and gold design.
"It seems, gaffer," James said, his voice a perfect, analytical monotone, "that your next cup match will be against the team managed by ’LeoTheHunter’."
The grin on Ethan’s face was slowly replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated, predatory glee.
The derby was back on. And this time, it was for real.