Chapter 12: The Grind & The Glory
Dawn Rituals (4:00 AM)
The alarm blared like a wounded seagull, a shrill cry slicing through the silence of the early morning. Su Dong rolled off his mattress—if one could even call it that. It was more like a strip of foam, barely thicker than a training cone, laid flat on a creaky bedframe in his cramped room.
Time to work.
He started Pontes' so-called "simple" morning routine, which was a lie in every conceivable way.
Push-ups, slow and torturous—six seconds per rep, each one carving fire into his arms.
Bodyweight squats, thighs sinking deep, parallel with hell itself.
Inverted holds, where gravity turned traitor, threatening to pull his world apart.
"Simple?" The first set whispered sweet promises. By the third, his limbs were on fire, muscles screaming like they were being seared on Lisbon's July asphalt.
That's when the System Store kicked in to save him from collapse.
"Red Bull Knockoff": A suspicious, battery-acid-tasting energy drink that jolted his brain awake and rinsed the fatigue from his veins.
Basic Nutrition Packs: 500-calorie slabs that never left him full, never left him hungry. Just... operational.
That was enough.
Weighted Pilgrimage
With sandbags strapped to his arms and legs like punishment, Su Dong set off into the awakening city. He jogged through Lisbon's sleepy streets, passing pastel buildings and shuttered bakeries, a moving target for stray cats and confused early-bird tourists.
At Edward VII Park, Rony stood waiting, arms folded across his chest, eyes cold.
"You're late," he said, though Su Dong wasn't.
The drills had become more brutal than ever.
First-touch gauntlet: Rony would whip balls at him with machine-gun pace, testing his control under fire.
Dribble labyrinth: Cones arranged in configurations that defied geometry and sanity.
1v1 duels: Where pride wasn't just wounded—it was annihilated.
Today's humiliation came in the form of Rony mimicking Quaresma's iconic Trivela—curling the ball with the outside of his boot in impossible arcs. Su Dong couldn't read it, couldn't stop it, couldn't even comprehend how the ball bent so unnaturally.
"Again," Su Dong muttered, sweat dripping from his brow as he reset for the next attempt.
Afternoon Crucible
Portugal Sporting's team training offered little reprieve.
The squad had its own rhythm—默契 (mòqì), an unspoken chemistry born from years of surviving the third division's trenches together. They moved as one. Su Dong was a stranger trying to learn their language mid-sentence.
Coach Pereira's tactics didn't help. "Get it forward. Fast. Pray someone's there," he'd bark. It was the anthem of semi-pro teams—direct, ugly, and desperate.
But the real education came after, when Captain Mateus—the grizzled ex-Belenenses goalkeeper—dragged him aside for post-session drills.
"See this?" Mateus pointed to a scar near his collarbone. "1997. Belenenses vs. Porto. Jardel crushed me like I was a folding chair. Lesson one: never turn your back on legends."
Su Dong didn't flinch. He simply nodded and kept listening.
Matchday Realities
Saturday. Season Opener.
Su Dong sat on the bench in his Portugal Sporting tracksuit as his team stumbled to a 1-2 loss against a side expected to finish near the bottom. A disappointing result, but no one seemed especially surprised.
After the match, the assistant coach clapped him on the back. "Next week, you'll play."
In the locker room, though, the vibe was... indifferent.
"Eh, it's the Segunda Divisão," a center-back shrugged, already halfway out of his boots. "We're here for beer money, not trophies."
The others laughed and made plans to hit the pub. For them, this was a paycheck.
Su Dong clenched his jaw. For him, this was life.
Alvalade Pilgrimage
That evening, he took the metro with Rony and Semedo to Alvalade Stadium—Sporting CP's fortress. It was like crossing into another world.
Rony, surprisingly talkative, played tour guide.
"See those cranes? In three years, this place'll hold 52,000. Right now, we've got rats and scaffolding. Our old academy? Sold to horse breeders. Ain't that something?"
But the jokes stopped when they entered the stands.
On the pitch, the stars were already warming up.
Ricardo Quaresma—just 18, with a baby face and swagger of a veteran—struck a warm-up shot that curled in midair like it had a mind of its own. It kissed the crossbar and bounced out. The crowd gasped.
Mario Jardel, towering at 6'4", was a cathedral of muscle and menace. He barely moved, yet defenders bounced off him like rubber bullets.
Helder Postiga, also just 18, danced across the field like royalty, feet whispering sweet nothings to the ball.
Su Dong's mouth went dry. He was staring at demigods.
This wasn't football. This was art. Alchemy. War.
The Chosen Ones
The starting elevens appeared on the big screen.
Sporting CP:
Jardel (9) – The king returns.
Niculae (23) – The €5 million "Romanian Rifle."
Quaresma (7) – The prince wearing Rony's stolen crown.
FC Porto:
Pena (10) – Last year's Golden Boot.
Costinha (6) – A midfield butcher with a surgeon's timing.
Postiga (19) – Portugal's next golden boy.
The fan beside Su Dong leaned over. "That Postiga kid? He'll be worth twenty million in three years."
Su Dong sank lower in his seat. His €50/month contract felt like it had been scribbled in crayon.
First-Half Fireworks
7th Minute: Quaresma made his declaration—an outrageous trivela from 30 yards that rang the crossbar like a church bell.
23rd: Jardel bulldozed a header straight into the back of the net. Violence disguised as beauty.
35th: Postiga slalomed past three defenders with a run that belonged in a highlight reel. Only the keeper's fingertips kept it out.
By halftime:
Shots: 12-4 in favor of Sporting.
Su Dong's jaw? Permanently unhinged.
The Revelation
As the second half began, Rony leaned close, voice low.
"See how Quaresma always checks his shoulder before receiving? That's vision."
"Jardel's runs? Always 45 degrees. He's never where you expect him."
"Postiga's first touch? Like catching an egg with oven mitts. Perfect control every time."
He didn't need to say the rest.
This was the mountain.
They were ants at its base.
Su Dong sat there, eyes wide, knuckles white on his knees.
Not for long, he told himself.