Naples, Italy.
2016.
The whistle cut through the afternoon air, sharp and final.
On the U17 training pitch at the Iannello Youth Academy, the scattered figures slowed, then stopped.
Luca sat on the artificial turf, stretching his hamstrings with slow, deliberate movements.
He chewed his gum lazily, rolling his ankle and feeling the faint feedback from tired muscles.
Around him, the mood was tense.
Conversations were hushed.
Faces tight.
Contract day.
Luca leaned back on his elbows, unconcerned.
He had secured his professional contract at fifteen.
His talent had made certain of that.
As the undisputed prodigy of Napoli’s youth setup, he had a head start most could only dream of.
Only he knew the truth buried beneath that talent.
A soul from ten years in the future.
He had been an ordinary fan in 2026, watching an epic Champions League clash between Paris Saint-Germain and Bayern Munich on a summer night.
He had gone to bed buzzing, unable to sleep.
When he opened his eyes, the world had flipped.
He was seventeen, Italian, and wearing Napoli blue.
“Luca, how long left on your contract?”
The voice belonged to Matteo, the team’s Italian center-back.
He was frowning, fingers picking at the grass.
Luca grabbed his water bottle and took a swig.
“Two years.
Full contract.”
Matteo sighed.
“Lucky bastard.” He glanced at the other boys in blue, his voice dropping.
“Mine’s up in a month.
If I don’t get renewed, I’m done.
Don’t know who else would take me.”
“That’s football.” Luca stood, flicking the ball up with his instep and catching it on his laces.
He began juggling, rhythmic and easy.
“Don’t overthink it.
Just have a good session.”
He moved away from the gloom, ball dancing at his feet.
Matteo watched him go.
The kid was tall, lean, with unruly dark hair that lifted as he ran.
Something about the silhouette, the way he carried himself, reminded Matteo of Andrea Pirlo.
Not just the hair.
The calm.
The way Luca dictated play like he had all the time in the world.
At seventeen, Luca already had vision, passing range, and close control that made coaches stop and stare.
Luca reached the training poles and began weaving through them.
The ball stayed glued to his feet, darting between the plastic markers like it was on a string.
Muscle memory.
Instinct.
His mind drifted.
This body’s original owner had been dealt a brutal hand.
Born in a poor neighborhood of Naples.
His father had been killed in a street shootout.
His mother had died of illness not long after.
A classic transmigrator’s opening.
His only guardian now was his uncle, a blue-collar worker with a modest income.
Football, a sport that demanded money and connections, should have been out of reach.
But talent cannot stay hidden.
At twelve, his school had visited Napoli’s facilities for a friendly against the youth team.
It was supposed to be a formality.
Instead, this boy named Luca scored five goals and assisted seven more, leaving the academy kids shell-shocked.
Napoli signed him immediately.
All expenses covered.
Drag, roll, turn, La Croqueta.
The moves flowed through him, automatic and precise.
He broke from the poles, sprinted into open space, and struck a shot into the empty net.
Then he jogged to collect the ball and did it again.
Boring, but necessary.
Every touch built the feel.
He played midfield.
Attacking or defensive, he could do both.
Two-footed, so coaches sometimes used him wide.
A versatile weapon.
One meter seventy-five.
Sixty-five kilograms.
Not the fastest or strongest, but his acceleration, passing, and dribbling were elite for his age.
Luca figured he could already hold a rotation spot at a mid-table club in one of Europe’s top five leagues.
The future was bright.
“Luca!”
He stopped, wiped sweat from his neck, and turned.
Domenico, the U17 head coach, stood at the office building entrance, waving him over.
Bald, broad-shouldered, a former player.
Luca’s pulse quickened.
He knew what this was about.
He scooped up the ball and jogged over.
First team promotion.
It had to be.
Last season, he had dragged the U17s to a league title.
His performances had been the difference.
The contract had clauses.
The agreement was clear.
Finally.
Serie A.
He pushed open the door to Domenico’s office.
The coach sat behind a desk buried in paperwork.
His bald head gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
The room was simple, but the posters on the wall demanded attention.
Luca’s eyes went straight to the center poster.
Every Napoli fan knew it by heart.
The 1986-87 season.
Napoli’s first Serie A title.
In the middle of the image, a figure held the trophy aloft like a god.
Arms raised.
Smile wild and triumphant.
Diego Maradona.
Around him, teammates celebrated, faces pure joy.
Luca stared at the poster for a long moment.
Then he looked at Domenico.
The coach gestured to the chair across from him.
“Sit down, Luca.
We need to talk.”