The relentless ticking of the stadium clock bore into Eric Maddox's consciousness, each second a cruel reminder of the five agonizing minutes still left until the halftime whistle.
His Silvergate Youth Sailors were being dismantled on the pitch, the scoreline a brutal testament to their collapse: 5-0 down to the Crestford Colts, with the crowd's jeers growing louder by the minute.
Maddox—newly transmigrated into this unfamiliar body, his mind racing while his pride withered—knew he couldn't just stand there, frozen on the touchline like a statue of defeat.
He needed answers. Not cosmic explanations for his bizarre predicament, nor apologies from whatever universe had decided to upend his life. Just cold, hard information to make sense of this chaos.
"This… 'system' thing," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "Alright, fine. Let's see what I'm working with."
He exhaled sharply, his breath fogging briefly in the chilly night air, and spoke with a mix of curiosity and frustration. "Now how do I access the system?"
[Command Recognized: Opening System Interface…]
A soft, sci-fi chime echoed in his mind, and before he could brace himself, a translucent screen materialized in the air in front of him.
The floating blue display hovered at eye level, flickering faintly like a holographic tablet straight out of a Star Trek rerun he used to watch on lazy Sunday afternoons. The sight of it—so futuristic, so utterly alien—made Maddox recoil instinctively, his heart lurching in his chest.
He blinked rapidly, his eyes darting left and right to gauge if anyone else had noticed this impossible display. The assistant coach, a lanky man with a perpetually bored expression, was three feet away, casually picking his nose with the dedication of a sculptor. The fourth official strolled by, clipboard in hand, his face etched with the weary resignation of a man who'd rather be anywhere else.
And the group of Silvergate substitutes warming up on the sideline—stretching half-heartedly as if they were preparing to dig trenches in a thunderstorm—didn't so much as glance his way. The crowd, the players, the officials… no one reacted. The holographic screen was invisible to them.
Maddox let out a quiet, shaky breath, his fingers trembling slightly as he steadied himself against the bench. "Okay. Just me. I only can see it. Great," he muttered, his voice tinged with bitter sarcasm. "Just what I needed—hallucinations with privacy mode."
Tentatively, he focused on the glowing display, his eyes scanning the text that shimmered with an otherworldly glow.
---
[Pro Manager System (PMS)
Profile: Eric Maddox
Age (Physical): 25
Rating: 1★
Grade: D — Licensed Novice Coach
(Grassroots level, little experience or tactical understanding)
Internal Value: 12 (Stagnant)
Role: Youth Coach
Specialties:
> Motivational Team Talks
> 4-4-2 Tactical Setup (Basic)
Trait: Nil]
---
Maddox stared at the profile, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the words. Then he squinted, leaning forward slightly as if hoping to find some hidden sarcasm embedded in the code, a digital smirk that would explain this insult to his legacy. But the screen remained impassive, the text unyielding.
"…Little experience or tactical understanding? Are you kidding me?" he growled under his breath, his frown deepening. "At age thirty-five, I ran a second-division squad in Sacramento with a ten-man roster and no payroll. We made the playoffs twice. What do you mean grassroots level?"
The words didn't change despite his hullabaloo. The screen didn't flinch.
UNLICENSED NOVICE. D GRADE.
It was as if the system had taken his fifty-eight years of coaching experience—his blood, sweat, and tears on pitches from North America to Europe—and spat on them, framing the insult as an objective statistic.
Maddox rolled his eyes, his frustration bubbling over. "Well, screw you too, Siri-from-the-football-gods," he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain.
But as much as the system's assessment bruised his pride, a cold, hard truth began to settle in his gut. In this world—whatever world this was—he had no credentials, no history, no contacts, no clout. Whoever this younger Eric Maddox had been before he'd arrived, the man clearly hadn't built much of a reputation.
If anything, he'd likely been on a one-way path to guiding his youth team straight into the jaws of league disqualification, a laughingstock in the making.
His eyes drifted to the next line on the screen, the words glowing with an almost mocking clarity.
[Internal Value: 12 (Stagnant)]
"What the hell is Internal Value?" he mumbled, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the term.
[With the cap at 100, Internal Value is a measure of the host's coaching potential, decision-making, tactical insight, and emotional resilience. Increased through system use, tactical success, morale management, and overcoming adversity.]
Maddox let out a humorless chuckle, the sound bitter and hollow. "Great. So basically… every single thing I'm failing at right now."
The system offered no response, its silence as damning as its earlier assessment. Maddox skimmed further down the display, his frustration mounting with every word.
[Specialties: Motivational Team Talks / 4-4-2 Tactical Setup (Basic)]
The first specialty made sense. He'd always had a knack for rallying his players, for delivering halftime speeches that could make grown men cry or charge onto the pitch like warriors.
He'd once talked a striker into playing through a torn groin—a decision that, in retrospect, might have been a lawsuit waiting to happen, but it had secured a crucial win. Motivational team talks were his bread and butter, a skill honed over decades of coaching.
But the second? A 4-4-2? Basic?
"That's it? That's the only thing I know?" he hissed, his voice low but laced with indignation. "Give me a high press 3-5-2 with an inverted false nine and an asymmetric midfield, and I'll still make it work. You think I can't read a game?"
The system didn't respond, but the next line hit him like a sucker punch.
[Trait: Nil]
That one stung deeper than the rest. Not even a freebie? Not "Experienced"? Not "Hardass"? Not even "Knows How To Yell"?
"I'll be damned!"