“The rings move at variable speeds.
It’s designed to simulate how players actually run in a match.”
“And they tilt backward at random moments, blocking your aim.
That simulates defenders cutting off passing lanes.”
Captain Manuel Pasqual spoke quietly, every eye on the level-five rig.
“Captain, how do you even know this thing has a level five?”
“And you said only one Fiorentina player in the last thirty years ever passed it.
Who?”
Pasqual had been at the club for a full decade.
No one else in the squad knew Fiorentina as deeply.
“I know it has a level five because I’ve been here long enough.
But honestly, this machine hasn’t run at its highest setting in years.”
“As for who passed it?
Think for a second.
You’ll figure it out.”
“That’s right.
The greatest midfielder in Fiorentina history.
Rui Costa.”
The name landed like a thunderclap.
But once they heard it, no one argued.
If anyone in Fiorentina’s past could conquer a setting this brutal, it was Rui Costa.
In the late 1990s, Fiorentina stood among the Serie A elite, the legendary “Seven Sisters.” They fought the giants of Italian football on equal ground.
Two men carried that team.
Up front, the club’s all-time leading scorer: Gabriel Batistuta.
Behind him, the midfield engine: Rui Costa.
Batistuta, one of the deadliest strikers of his era, praised Rui Costa’s passing to anyone who would listen.
And when Rui Costa moved to AC Milan, he elevated an already fearsome midfield to a new dimension.
Paired with Andrea Pirlo, the dual-core engine drove Milan to a league title and then to the summit of European football, lifting the Champions League trophy.
“Ten years ago, when I arrived here as a kid, the level-five setting was already rarely used,” Pasqual said.
“Later, the coaches stopped using it entirely.
They didn’t want to destroy players’ confidence.
Over time, everyone just assumed the machine maxed out at level four.”
“My captain back then was Angelo Di Livio.
He’d played alongside Rui Costa.
He took the armband directly from him.”
“I still remember what he told me.
Sometimes the gap between two professionals is bigger than the gap between a professional and an amateur.
That was Rui Costa’s passing.”
“If I remember right, at level five, Rui Costa hit twenty-two out of thirty.
Finished the whole test in ninety seconds.”
“Twenty-two?
Out of thirty?
That’s insane!”
Pasqual’s words sent another shockwave through the squad.
Everyone already knew their own passing had no business being compared to a club legend like Rui Costa.
And Rui Costa had still put twenty-two balls through those rings.
The gap in comprehension was too much.
Every gaze turned back to Ethan Cross.
A sixteen-year-old kid, first day with the team, and he was about to walk into this.
Milan Badelj, who never softened a word, glared at Cuadrado.
“Look what you started.
If you’d kept your mouth shut, the kid wouldn’t be facing this.”
Cuadrado rubbed his nose, embarrassed.
“I didn’t think it would go this far.”
Veteran winger Joaquín spoke up.
“This is brutally hard.
If Ethan struggles, nobody laughs.
He’s young.
His pride matters.”
Pasqual nodded firmly.
“Joaquín’s right.
Anyone who so much as smirks runs ten extra kilometers today.”
The squad nodded in agreement.
At this point, they felt nothing but sympathy for Ethan.
Laughing at him was the last thing on their minds.
Coach Montella looked at Ethan and tried one last time.
“Ethan, if this is too much, you can absolutely…”
“Coach.
Start the machine.”
Montella froze again.
He exchanged a look with sporting director Daniele Pradè.
Pradè shrugged, baffled.
“He’s young.
If he wants to try, let him try.”
Montella hit the button.
The feeder fired a ground ball every two seconds.
No time limit.
A player could settle each ball, adjust, and pass carefully.
There was no need to,
Bang.
Before anyone could react, Ethan drove his instep through the first ball.
No settling touch.
A first-time pass.
Before the shock could settle, the ball ripped cleanly through the ten-meter ring.
“It went through!”
“Ethan actually hit it?”
“Was that just…”
Bang.
Second shot.
Another first-time strike. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
The ball screamed through the fifteen-meter ring.
Every jaw dropped further.
“No way.
That’s…”
Third shot.
Straight through the twenty-meter ring.
Fourth.
Ten meters.
Hit.
Fifth.
Fifteen meters.
Hit again.
The training ground went silent.
Every two seconds, the crack of a struck ball echoed across the pitch.
Each one landed like a thunderclap inside every player’s chest.
Montella’s eyes were wide.
His mouth hung open.
At forty-one, he was a young manager with only a few years on the touchline.
But his playing career had been another story.
Nicknamed “The Little Airplane,” Montella had been a star.
He’d formed Roma’s lethal trident with Batistuta and Francesco Totti, trampling Juventus and the Milan giants to win a fiercely contested Serie A title.
He’d shared a pitch with elite midfielders.
He’d faced passing masters of the highest order.
But what Ethan was doing right now was rewriting everything Montella thought he knew.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
The Fiorentina players stood frozen, their minds struggling to process what their eyes were seeing.
When the first two balls went through, they figured the kid had gotten absurdly lucky.
When he hit a dozen in a row, no one said a word.
In the strange, heavy silence, the truth dawned on them.
They’d started out counting how many he could fluke.
Now, without anyone saying it, they were counting how many he might miss.
And the terrifying, speechless truth was,
He hadn’t missed a single one.
The feeder stopped.
Thirty balls delivered.
The screen read 30/29.
Beside it, a single word glowed: NEW.
The air felt solid.
Every brain in the squad had short-circuited.
Ethan’s performance had stunned them into silence, their ability to form words temporarily gone.
And on every face, the same expression settled.
“That… that’s not even human.”