My Ultimate Gacha System

Saturday, August 31st, 2022

Gewiss Stadium, Bergamo Post-Match

The hot water hit his shoulders and Demien stood under the stream for longer than necessary, letting the heat work into muscles that had spent ninety minutes running the show against Lecce, and the steam filled the shower area while most of his teammates had already finished and dressed.

He turned off the water and grabbed his towel, drying himself slowly as the adrenaline from the match finally began to fade into something calmer, something satisfied, and he walked back to his locker where his kit bag sat waiting with the phone still inside.

The screen lit up when he pulled it out.

Seven notifications from Marco.

He opened the thread and scrolled through the messages, each one timestamped during the second half when he'd been too busy destroying Lecce's midfield to check anything.

Marco: Oi contracts came through from Nike and Adidas

Marco: Told Nike to fuck off like you said

Marco: Adidas one looks decent but I'm not a lawyer so I sent it to the agency guys

Marco: They'll go through everything properly

Marco: Probably take about a week to review it all

Marco: Also watching the match btw you're killing it

Marco: Call me later

Demien typed back quickly, his thumbs moving across the screen while he sat on the bench in just his towel.

Demien typed back quickly, his thumbs moving across the screen while he sat on the bench in just his towel.

Demien: Just saw these. Week is fine let them do their thing

Demien: Thanks for handling Nike

The reply came within seconds.

Marco: Bro 1 goal 3 assists you're making my job too easy

Marco: We talk tomorrow yeah? Go rest

Demien: Yeah tomorrow

He locked the phone and finished dressing, pulling on jeans and a simple black t-shirt before stuffing his match kit into the bag, and as he zipped it closed the phone buzzed again with Instagram notifications that kept appearing faster than he could dismiss them.

He opened the app.

His agency had posted a photo of him mid-celebration after the third goal, arms spread wide with the Curva Nord blurred in the background, and the caption read: "1 goal. 3 assists. 90 minutes of dominance. @demienwalter proving why he's one to watch. Thank you to all the fans for your incredible support! 🖤💙"

The numbers made him blink.

152,847 likes.

5,203 comments.

He scrolled through the comments slowly, recognizing some names and not recognizing others, and the praise felt strange because three months ago he'd been a failed academy prospect with no future and now strangers across the world were typing his name like it meant something.

One username caught his eye: Negamo_1

"This kid is different. The vision, the technique, the composure—he's going to be massive. Remember this comment when he's at a top club in 3 years."

Demien tapped the reply button.

@demienwalter: Thanks for the support 🙏

He kept scrolling and another comment stood out: Hezii_2G

"Watched the whole match. Best midfielder performance I've seen from an 18-year-old in years. The way he controlled the tempo in the second half was elite. Future star."

@demienwalter: Appreciate it. More to come.

Further down he found comments from teammates—Lookman with three fire emojis, Højlund writing "My guy 🔥", Muriel posting "Great service today bro"—and he liked each one without replying because some things didn't need words.

He closed Instagram and opened YouTube, and the algorithm had already done its work because the first recommended video was exactly what he expected: a post-match analysis show with the thumbnail showing his face next to the scoreline.

"ATALANTA 4-1 LECCE | WALTER MASTERCLASS | SERIE A ANALYSIS"

He tapped play and turned the volume low, holding the phone close to his ear while the pundits appeared on screen—three men in suits sitting behind a desk with highlights playing on the screen behind them.

"Let's talk about Demien Walter," the first presenter said, leaning forward with his hands clasped. "Because what we saw today wasn't just a good performance from a young player. This was a statement."

The second presenter nodded and jumped in. "Two goals and five assists this season. He's eighteen years old and he's playing like a ten-year veteran. The composure, the decision-making, the way he reads the game—it's remarkable."

"I'll say something controversial," the third presenter said, and he paused for effect before continuing. "I think we're looking at someone who can reach the very top. Not just Serie A level. I mean Champions League finals, World Cup knockout rounds, that level. The ceiling is enormous."

The first presenter pulled up a graphic showing young Italian talents, and Demien's face appeared alongside names he recognized—Fernandez, Andriano, others who'd been hyped since they were sixteen.

"When you look at the top five wonderkids in Italy right now, Walter has to be in that conversation," the presenter said while gesturing at the screen. "He's performing at the same level as Fernandez and Andriano, players who've been getting attention for years longer than him."

"And the national team question," the second presenter added, his eyebrows raising. "He's eligible for England and Italy. Both federations should be watching closely because a player like this doesn't come around often, and whoever gets him first gains a significant asset for the next decade."

"I hope we get him," the third presenter said firmly, leaning back in his chair. "He plays in Serie A, he's developing here, he understands Italian football. Spalletti should be calling him up before the English even have a chance to make contact. A talent like this wearing the Azzurri shirt? That's my prediction—by the end of this season, he'll have a senior call-up for Italy."

Demien closed the video and locked his phone, the screen going dark as he sat there processing what he'd just heard, and the words echoed in his mind—top five wonderkids, same level as Fernandez and Andriano, national team call-up—and it felt surreal because David Drinkwater had spent thirty-seven years being told he wasn't good enough for anything.

He slid the phone into his pocket and stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he walked toward the locker room exit, and the corridor outside was quieter now with most players already gone.

"Walter."

He turned and saw Gasperini's assistant coach walking toward him, clipboard tucked under one arm and expression professionally neutral.

"Mister Gasperini wants to see you in his office."

Demien's eyebrows pulled together slightly. "Now?"

"Now."

"Okay. Thanks."

The assistant coach nodded once and walked past him toward the staff area, and Demien stood there for a moment trying to figure out why the manager would want to see him after a four-one win where he'd scored and assisted three times.

Did I do something wrong?

He couldn't think of anything.

Maybe it's about the next match. Tactical adjustments. Something specific he wants to discuss.

The walk to Gasperini's office took two minutes, down one corridor and around a corner to where the coaching staff had their rooms, and the door was slightly ajar with voices coming from inside—more than one, which meant Gasperini wasn't alone.

Demien knocked twice on the doorframe.

"Come in," Gasperini's voice called.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, and the first thing he noticed was two men he'd never seen before sitting in the chairs across from Gasperini's desk, both wearing suits that looked expensive and official, both turning to look at him as he entered.

Gasperini sat behind his desk with his hands folded, and something in his expression made Demien's stomach tighten because the manager looked like he was enjoying a private joke that hadn't been told yet.

"Demien," Gasperini said, gesturing toward the visitors. "These gentlemen are here to see you."

Demien looked at the two men, his confusion obvious, and he didn't recognize either of them—one was in his fifties with grey at the temples and a calm, authoritative presence, the other slightly younger with a notepad balanced on his knee.

"Me?" Demien asked, and he couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.

The older man stood and extended his hand, and when he spoke his accent was unmistakably English.

"Hello, Demien. My name is Steve Holland. I'm the assistant manager of the England national team—assistant to Gareth Southgate."

The words hit Demien like a truck.

His hand moved automatically to shake Holland's grip, but his brain had stopped processing properly because this couldn't be real, this couldn't actually be happening, and somewhere deep in his consciousness David Drinkwater was screaming because in thirty-seven years of professional football the England national team had never contacted him, had never shown interest, had never even acknowledged his existence—and now here they were, seeking out an eighteen-year-old version of him like he was someone worth pursuing.

Thank you, he thought toward the system, the words forming without conscious effort.

「You're welcome.」

The response appeared and vanished in his peripheral vision, and Demien realized he'd been standing there in silence for too long while his hand was still gripping Holland's.