11 June 2014, Fouda Neighbourhood, Yaoundé
The morning sun began to cast its golden rays over the streets of the Fouda neighbourhood, slowly stirring its residents from their slumber. Among them was a young teenager, Marcel, preparing for what promised to be a pivotal day. He lived in a modest three-storey building, enclosed by a large red gate, the kind that spoke of security and tradition. Inside the courtyard, a vigilant watchman stood at his post, keeping an eye on everything that moved.
This morning, Marcel was in a hurry, fully aware of the importance of the hours ahead.
He had just finished dressing, his school uniform neatly pressed, and was about to head to the kitchen for a quick breakfast when his mother's voice echoed down the corridor.
"Marcel! Hurry up, the driver's waiting. It's already 6:30! Eat something quickly and go. How can you get up so late on the day of your first maths exam for the BEPC?" his mother, Francine Ndonga, called out with a hint of exasperation.
"I'm almost ready, Mum! Just making some breakfast," Marcel replied, hastening his movements as the sense of urgency grew.
Francine, a woman of the Ewondo tribe, was every bit the image of a proud Cameroonian mother. Her skin was a soft shade of ebony, and her long hair, neatly braided, fell elegantly down her back. She wore a vibrant kaba, the traditional dress celebrated on Women's Day. The fabric of her dress was a bold purple, adorned with intricate geometric and floral patterns in bright colors. A vivid green collar added a striking contrast to the dress, which was both comfortable and sophisticated in its simplicity.
Minutes later, Marcel was seated in the back of his mother's black RAV4, ready for the drive to the Collège de la Retraite. Sylvain, their dependable driver, was already at the wheel, his hands resting on the steering wheel, awaiting their departure.
"Uncle Sylvain, we're good to go," Marcel said, closing the car door with a determined look in his eyes.
"Alright, Marcel," Sylvain replied, starting the engine. The car rolled out of the driveway, past the red gate, and into the morning bustle of Yaoundé. As they drove through the winding streets of Fouda, Marcel found himself lost in thought, gazing out at the familiar surroundings.
The streets of Fouda were alive with the usual sights of early morning life. Narrow pathways were framed by houses, their façades a mix of fading paint and lush green vines that clung to the walls. Palm trees and fruit trees provided sporadic shade, and locals were already out and about, some on foot, others on motorcycles or taxis, preparing for the day ahead. The morning light filtered through the trees, dappling the roads with soft, golden hues, while the sounds of distant chatter and the occasional honk of a car filled the air.
As they left the heart of Fouda and approached the busier parts of the city, the landscape shifted. The roads widened, and the buildings grew taller, more imposing. Markets began to appear on the sides of the streets, vendors energetically calling out to passers-by, offering fresh fruit, vegetables, and spices. The vibrant smells of Yaoundé's morning trade—ripe mangoes, ground spices, and the earthy scent of dust—drifted through the open car window, mingling with the cool morning breeze.
After about twenty minutes, they arrived at the gates of the Collège de la Retraite, a prestigious Catholic school that Marcel had attended for several years. The towering pastel blue façade of the school stood before him, its arched windows giving it a grand, almost intimidating presence. The thick walls surrounding the campus, topped with sturdy metal gates, evoked a sense of protection and discipline.
"Goodbye, Uncle Sylvain. See you later," Marcel said with a confident smile, stepping out of the car.
He turned to face the school. Students were already gathering in the courtyard, some in groups exchanging nervous laughter, while others sat in quiet reflection. The tension of exam day hung in the air, palpable and infectious. Marcel waved to a few familiar faces as he walked toward the entrance.
Inside the building, Marcel made his way up the stairs, heading to Class 3e A on the second floor. His footsteps were slow but deliberate, each step filled with anticipation. In the corridor, other students stood leaning against the walls, flipping through their notes in a last-minute attempt to absorb whatever knowledge they could before the test began.
As he entered the classroom, Marcel scanned the room. There were five rows of benches, and only a few students had arrived. The early ones sat in silence, either lost in thought or buried in their maths books, revising quietly. Marcel chose his usual seat in the third row, second bench, where he had always sat.
He placed his schoolbag beside him, pulled out his maths materials, and let his eyes wander around the room. The walls were lined with posters of maps, mathematical tables, and formulae, a silent reminder of all the hours spent studying. The room felt different today—quieter, heavier. Even the usual ambient sounds, like the rustling of papers or the shuffling of feet, seemed subdued.
Moments later, the invigilators walked in, their presence immediately heightening the atmosphere. They moved with authority, their every step a reminder of the gravity of the situation. As the exam papers were distributed, the tension in the room peaked. Marcel took a deep breath, glancing once more at the mathematical formulae he had reviewed the night before.
Just then, two familiar faces appeared by his side—Jordan and Dimitri, his closest friends since primary school. They greeted each other with knowing smiles.
"So, ready for maths?" Jordan whispered, his voice betraying a touch of nervousness.
"We'll do our best, won't we?" Marcel replied, giving a reassuring wink.
Dimitri, as calm and composed as ever, nodded in agreement.
The three of them had shared countless memories since their early school days. They had grown up together, bound by their love for football. Recently, their class had won the Interclass 3e Tournament, with Marcel emerging as the best playmaker and Jordan clinching the top scorer title. The memory of their shared victory filled them with pride, a comforting thought as they prepared for the exam.
After a brief exchange, they returned to their seats, each of them ready to face the challenge ahead.
...
The hours passed, and one by one, the exams came and went. Marcel felt a weight lift from his shoulders as the final bell rang, signaling the end of a long, exhausting day. Leaving the classroom, he found Jordan and Dimitri waiting outside, eager to share their thoughts. They exchanged impressions of the Maths, History, and English tests as they made their way out of the Collège de la Retraite. Marcel spotted Sylvain leaning casually against his mother's black RAV4, a glass of Foléré in hand, the traditional hibiscus drink glistening in the sun. Marcel couldn't help but smile at the sight of Sylvain—a steadfast figure in his life, and today, a reassuring presence in this moment of transition.
After bidding farewell to their classmates, Marcel, Jordan, and Dimitri crossed the street to where Sylvain was waiting. The mood was light, and the conversation flowed effortlessly as the three friends relived their exam experiences, joking about tricky questions and laughing at the mistakes they hoped they hadn't made. The drive was filled with the usual banter, and before long, they arrived outside Le Normalien, a restaurant that held a special place in Marcel's heart.
Le Normalien, the family restaurant Marcel's mother had opened five years ago, stood prominently at the corner of the street. Its distinctive green-tiled roof sparkled in the daylight, surrounded by meticulously trimmed hedges and elegant palm trees. The restaurant's sign, painted in a vibrant green with graceful, cursive lettering, read "Le Normalien"—a nod to the family's deep-rooted belief in education and excellence. The name itself was a tribute to Marcel's mother's dedication to quality, not only in food but in life's values.
As they approached, a gentle breeze carried the enticing aroma of traditional Cameroonian dishes—Ndolé, Poulet DG, and grilled plantains—each scent more tantalizing than the last. Rather than entering through the main dining area, they slipped past the reception and headed straight to the back of the restaurant, where the real action unfolded.
The kitchen was a flurry of activity, with chefs rushing between stations, pots steaming, and pans clattering. Marcel could see his mother's small office through a half-open door. She was on the phone, deep in conversation with a supplier. As soon as she noticed them, she ended the call and greeted her son with a warm smile.
"Mum, I've finished my exams, and I'm sure I did well," Marcel declared, a sense of pride in his voice.
"I never doubted you, my son," Francine replied, her voice filled with affection as she patted him on the shoulder.
Jordan and Sylvain greeted Francine with respect, and after the brief exchange, the group moved to their usual spot—a quiet corner of the restaurant, nearly reserved for them. This small, cozy table had witnessed countless shared meals, conversations, and laughter over the years. It was a haven for Marcel and his friends.
They helped themselves directly from the kitchen, filling their plates with their favorite dishes, before settling down to eat. The comforting taste of home-cooked food, coupled with the relief of finishing exams, made the meal even more satisfying.
...
A few hours later, Marcel sat in the living room of his home, one of the apartments in the modest three-storey building. He was comfortably seated on the sofa, facing his mother. The air was thick with anticipation, and Marcel sensed that something important was about to be discussed.
"Marcel," Francine began, her voice calm but filled with gravity, "I've spoken with your father several times over the past few months about your ambitions in football. Even though we both know that a career in football is far from guaranteed, we've seen your passion and motivation. Your father and I have decided to help you pursue your dream."
Marcel's face lit up with excitement. "Really? Thank you, Mom, thank you!" he exclaimed, barely able to contain his joy.
But Francine held up her hand, signaling for him to temper his enthusiasm. "Wait. Don't get too excited just yet. Five months ago, your father used his connections and paid a considerable amount to get you registered for a trial with Dragons FC Yaoundé. However, this opportunity comes with conditions. In two weeks, you'll have to participate in a trial match and prove your talent. If you don't perform well enough, that will be the end of the road for football as a career. Do you understand? You'll need to prepare yourself seriously for the next two weeks."
Marcel's smile broadened, his mind already wandering to the future. He could see himself playing in Europe, winning the Ballon d'Or, and lifting the Champions League trophy. "Yes, Mom, I'll train hard. I'll be ready," he said confidently.
Francine's expression softened, but her tone remained firm. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a physical trainer working with you. He'll guide you through an intense two-week program to get you ready for that trial. You'll need to follow his instructions closely and take this preparation seriously. Your father has invested a lot to create this opportunity for you, so don't let him down."
"I won't, Mom. I'll work hard and make both you and Dad proud. I'm going to be like Cristiano Ronaldo," Marcel said, his voice serious now, determination clear in his eyes.
After a brief pause, Marcel's thoughts turned to his father. "Speaking of Dad, will he be able to come back to Cameroon this year?" he asked, his tone softening with a hint of longing.
Francine shook her head gently. "No, he's signed a new contract with Bolloré Logistics, and he won't be able to return until next year. But you can call him tomorrow and talk to him about your plans," she replied.
"Okay. I'll call him tomorrow. I want to tell him how I'm going to make him proud," Marcel said, a determined glint in his eye.
After chatting with his mother for a few more minutes, Marcel excused himself and headed to his room. He decided to unwind by playing FIFA 14 on his PS4, his fingers expertly controlling the virtual players on the screen. Later, he switched on the TV to watch a replay of the Cameroon vs. Mexico match from the 2014 FIFA World Cup, a game where Cameroon had lost 1-0. As Marcel watched, frustration welled up inside him. He could see the mistakes his national team had made, and it ignited a fire within him.
"I'll be better than this," Marcel muttered to himself, his eyes narrowing in determination. "I'll train harder than ever, and one day, I'll help Cameroon win the World Cup."
At that moment, Marcel heard a sound in his mind.
Ding!
System activation...
Synchronization with the host Marcel Ndonga...
Initialization System...
Welcome, Marcel, to the Elite Boost System.
Marcel blinked in surprise as he heard multiple sounds one after another. Suddenly, a screen materialized before his eyes, hovering in the air.
"What the...!?" Marcel shouted, recoiling in his bed, nearly hitting the wall with his head in the process.
Hearing his outburst, Francine burst into the room, her face full of concern. "Marcel! Why are you shouting? What's wrong?" she asked, her voice laced with worry.
Marcel, now seeing his mother standing in the doorway, quickly calmed himself. He glanced at the mysterious screen floating in front of him, then back at his mother, realizing she couldn't see it. She hadn't mentioned anything about it, so it had to be invisible to her.
"Marcel! I'm talking to you! What happened? Why did you shout like that?" Francine asked again, her voice growing firmer.
"Uh... it's nothing, Mom," Marcel replied, trying to sound casual. "I was watching a horror movie on my phone, and something spooked me."
Francine sighed and shook her head, placing her hand on her forehead. "How can you scream like a little girl over a movie? You're already 14, Marcel. Don't scare me like that—I was thinking the worst!"
"Sorry, Mom," Marcel said sheepishly.
Francine gave him one last disapproving look before leaving the room, muttering something about "teenagers these days."
Once she was gone, Marcel breathed a sigh of relief and focused back on the strange screen floating before him.
Elite Boost System
Level: 1 (0/500 XP)
Name: Marcel Ndonga
Date of Birth: 17 May 2000 (14 years old)
Height: 168 cm
Weight: 64 kg
Position: Left Winger / Right Winger
Special Boosts: None (Two slots available)
Lottery Tickets: 1
Player Attributes
Market: Locked
Points: 0
"What is this? What are you?" Marcel asked aloud, though his words were directed inward, trying to comprehend what was happening.
A calm, smooth voice answered in his mind. I am Tricera, the AI that will assist you in utilizing the Elite Boost System.
Marcel's eyes widened in surprise but his curiosity took over. "What's the purpose of this system? Why did it choose me?" he asked, still trying to make sense of the situation.
The Elite Boost System is designed to help you become the greatest football player in history, Tricera explained, its tone shifting into something more instructive. It will enhance your abilities and provide advantages to both you and your team. Remember, football is a team sport, and no matter how talented you are, winning requires more than just individual skill.
Marcel's heart raced as he processed the information. "Wait... are you saying this thing can help me become better than Messi and Ronaldo?" he thought. "But why me? There are so many other players out there..."
There was a brief pause before Tricera responded. To be honest, Marcel, you weren't chosen for any particular reason. The truth is... you got lucky.
"Lucky?" Marcel echoed, confused.
Yes, Tricera continued. The Elite Boost System didn't choose you because you were special or the most talented. It could have gone to anyone. You were simply in the right place at the right time. Sometimes, that's just how life works. It's not about being handpicked because you're extraordinary—it's about getting an opportunity and deciding what to do with it.
Marcel stared at the interface floating in front of him, trying to absorb the information. "So... I just won some kind of lottery?"
In a sense, yes, Tricera confirmed. You were fortunate to receive the system, but now it's yours. How far you go from here depends entirely on you. It's a tool that can help you become the best, but only if you're willing to put in the work.
Marcel was quiet for a moment, the weight of the situation sinking in. "Alright... so you're saying this system can make me better, but I still need to put in the effort?"
Exactly, Tricera replied. Allow me to explain how it works.
The interface blinked, and a series of new details appeared before Marcel.
This is the Elite Boost System interface. It tracks your progress, provides boosts, and accelerates your improvement as a player. The key elements are your level, points, XP, and boosts.
Right now, you're at Level 1, which gives you access to basic Bronze Boosts. These provide small, temporary improvements during matches—nothing too drastic, but enough to give you a slight edge. To unlock more powerful boosts like Silver, Gold, or Platinum, you'll need to level up.
XP, or Experience Points, are earned by playing matches, winning trophies, and achieving individual awards. The tougher the competition, the more XP you'll earn. When you gain enough XP, you'll unlock stronger boosts.
Points are earned based on your performance during matches. Scoring goals, assisting, and helping your team win will earn you points, with more points awarded for tougher opponents.
These points are used to purchase boosts in the Market, but the Market is currently locked. You'll need to join a professional team to unlock it.
You also have two boost slots available. As you improve, you'll unlock more slots. Finally, there's a lottery ticket, which can be used to win random boosts or additional points.
So, Marcel, this system is a lucky break that fell into your lap. You weren't chosen because you were special—just lucky. But it's up to you now. You decide how far you go.
Marcel stared at the screen for a while, letting it all sink in. "So... I just got lucky," he muttered. "Now it's up to me to make the most of this."
Exactly, Tricera affirmed. Luck brought you the system, but hard work will determine your success. Are you ready to begin?
Marcel grinned, excitement bubbling within him. "Let's do this."
Feeling eager to explore more, Marcel clicked on the Player Attributes section of the system, eager to see how it evaluated him.
Player Attributes
Pace: 77
Dribbling: 75
Shooting: 62
Passing: 65
Physical: 58
Defending: 25
Tactical Awareness: 60
Overall: Developing Talent – Great potential but needs improvement in several areas.
Marcel nodded in satisfaction. For a player his age, his stats were decent. Sure, there was room for improvement, but that was something he could work on.
"Do you think I'll be able to pass the trial match in two weeks?" Marcel asked Tricera.
With your current attributes, I believe your level is already too high for most youth teams in Cameroon. You're good enough, but playing here won't push you much further. You'll need stronger competition to keep improving, Tricera explained.
"Really? But I still want to win a trophy here in Cameroon before heading to Europe," Marcel replied.
You can improve by playing here, but your progress will be slow compared to the level of competition in Europe. Let's discuss this more tomorrow after your first training session with your physical trainer. For now, you should rest. Recovery is just as important as training.
Marcel glanced at the clock on his phone—it was already 10:30 PM. Realizing how late it had gotten, he decided to heed Tricera's advice. As he lay down, drifting off to sleep, his mind filled with dreams of lifting trophies, scoring goals in the World Cup final, and becoming a football legend.