My Ultimate Gacha System

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.

"I..." Demien started, then stopped, then laughed at himself because he had no idea what to say. "I'm sorry, I don't even know what to do right now. Should I shake your hand again? Should I sit down? I'm genuinely shocked that you're here looking for me."

Holland laughed, warm and genuine, and the younger man with the notepad smiled too while Gasperini leaned back in his chair with an expression that suggested he'd expected exactly this reaction.

"Please, sit," Holland said, gesturing to the empty chair beside him. "And relax. This is a good conversation, I promise."

Demien sat, his kit bag dropping to the floor beside his feet, and he reached for the water bottle on Gasperini's desk without thinking—his throat had gone completely dry.

"I'll be honest with you," Holland said, settling back into his own chair and crossing one leg over the other. "We were in Milan last week to watch Fikayo Tomori. Scouting report, checking on his form before the next international window."

Demien nodded slowly, the water helping his throat but not his racing thoughts.

"But then we watched you play against Milan," Holland continued, and his eyes sharpened with something that looked like genuine admiration. "And I found myself ignoring Tomori completely because there was an eighteen-year-old in Atalanta's midfield doing things that made me forget why I was there in the first place."

The younger man flipped open his notepad. "We sent video clips to Gareth that same night. Full highlights of your performance. The through balls, the pressing, the way you manipulated space—and that goal that got disallowed by VAR. We saw everything."

"And Gareth's response," Holland said, leaning forward slightly, "was immediate. He asked if you were representing any national team. We checked and saw that you weren't capped at any level, that you'd never been called up by England or Italy, and he told us to keep watching you."

Demien's mouth opened but nothing came out.

"So we came back today for the Lecce match," Holland continued, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "And you scored. And you assisted three times. And you controlled that match like you'd been playing Serie A for ten years. The performance against Lecce today—I'm not going to lie to you, Demien—that was exceptional. Genuinely exceptional."

"We're very impressed," the younger man added, his pen moving across the notepad. "More than impressed. We think you have something special."

Holland's expression shifted to something more serious, more direct. "We want you to play for England, Demien. We want you to be part of what we're building. The talent you have, the potential we see in you—we believe you can bring glory to the national team. We believe you can be among the greats."

The words hung in the air.

Demien sat there trying to process what was happening, trying to reconcile the reality of two England coaching staff members sitting in Gasperini's office telling him he could be among the greats, and David Drinkwater's memories stirred somewhere deep in his consciousness because the journeyman who'd never been good enough for anything was now being recruited by England.

"I really appreciate this," Demien said finally, his voice steadier than he expected. "But can I think about it? This is... this is a lot to process."

"Of course," Holland said immediately, nodding with understanding. "Take your time. This isn't a decision that should be made in five minutes."

"I should mention," the younger man added, "Italy will likely be contacting you soon as well. You're eligible for both nations, and performances like today's don't go unnoticed by either federation."

Holland stood and extended his hand again. "We would really appreciate if you chose England. I genuinely believe we can achieve something great together—you, Gareth, the squad we're building. Think about it carefully, talk to your family, talk to your agent, and let us know."

Demien stood and shook his hand, then the younger man's, and both England representatives nodded to Gasperini before walking toward the door.

Holland paused at the threshold and looked back. "Whatever you decide, Demien—congratulations on the performance today. It was a privilege to watch."

Then they were gone, the door clicking shut behind them, and Demien stood there in Gasperini's office feeling like the ground had shifted beneath his feet.

He turned to look at the manager, his expression somewhere between shock and disbelief.

"Wow," Demien said quietly. "I can't believe that just happened."

Gasperini's face remained neutral, but there was something knowing in his eyes. "I'm not surprised. I told you—performances like yours attract attention. This was inevitable."

Demien sank back into the chair, his legs suddenly feeling weak. "What do you think I should do?"

Gasperini was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping slowly against the desk, and when he spoke his voice was measured and careful.

"This is your decision, Demien. Not mine. I can't tell you which country to represent—that's something only you can figure out. England, Italy, both have merits. Both would be lucky to have you."

He leaned forward slightly. "My advice? Go home. Sit down with your mother. Talk to Marco. Think about what you want your legacy to be, what shirt you want to wear when you play in World Cups. This isn't a football decision—it's a life decision."

Demien nodded slowly, absorbing the words.

"Whatever you choose," Gasperini continued, "I will support you. You're my player, and I want what's best for your career. If that's England, I'll help you prepare for their system. If that's Italy, the same. But the choice has to come from you."

"Thank you, Mister," Demien said, and the words felt inadequate for everything he was feeling.

Gasperini nodded once, sharp and final. "Now go home. Rest. You've earned it."

Demien stood, grabbed his kit bag, and walked toward the door, his mind still spinning with everything that had just happened—the match, the goals, the assists, and now England knocking on his door asking him to represent them.

He stepped out of the office and made his way through the corridor toward the exit, the stadium quiet now with staff finishing their post-match duties and the stands long empty.

The team bus had already left for players who wanted the ride, but Demien needed time to think, needed the solitude that came with public transport rather than the noise of twenty teammates celebrating.

He walked out into the Bergamo afternoon, the sun still bright in the sky after the morning kickoff, and he found the bus stop three blocks away where a handful of locals waited without recognizing him.

The bus arrived seven minutes later, and Demien climbed on, tapped his card, and found a seat near the back where he could lean his head against the window and watch the city lights pass by.

His phone sat heavy in his pocket, full of messages he hadn't read and notifications he hadn't checked, but he left it there untouched as the bus rumbled through the streets toward home.

England wanted him.

Italy would probably call soon.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, David Drinkwater was laughing at the absurdity of it all—the journeyman who'd never been good enough was now being fought over by two nations.

The bus turned a corner, and Demien closed his eyes, letting the motion rock him gently while Bergamo passed by outside the window.