Pitter.
Patter.
Pitter. Patter.
The rhythmic sound of raindrops began to drum against the earth, a soft yet persistent beat that filled the night air as Eric Maddox wandered aimlessly through the deserted streets.
Each droplet struck the pavent with a delicate splash, weaving a lancholic symphony that mirrored the turmoil swirling within him.
The taste of the press room still clung to the back of his throat, tallic and bitter. The questions, the flashes, Crowther’s ambush—all of it played on loop in his mind, spliced with scenes from the match like so cruel highlight reel.
Now, hours later, the chill of the evening air bit at his skin, the damp grass from the pitch still clinging stubbornly to his boots.
Maddox sighed, a deep exhale that mingled with the mist rising from the wet streets, and forced himself to set the chaos aside for a mont. Only then did he register his drenched state—his jacket sodden, his hair plastered to his forehead, and water trickling down his neck in cold streams.
The rain had soaked through to his clothes, but then, a sudden waft of an aromatic scent jolted him from his reverie. His stomach rumbled audibly, a hollow growl that reminded him he hadn’t eaten all day, the adrenaline of the match having masked his hunger until now.
The sll which was rich with the promise of warm spices and sizzling at—drew him like a beacon, pulling him toward a narrow alley where a small, unassuming restaurant glowed faintly through the downpour.
The flicker of a neon sign painted the puddles in red and green light.
—Benny’s All-Night Diner.—
It looked more like a converted garage than a proper restaurant, but Maddox didn’t care. The warmth inside was visible even through the glass.
"Perfect."
He pushed through the door, and the ding of a bell marked his arrival. The door creaking softly as he entered, escaping the relentless rain.
A waitress by the door barely looked up as she handed him a towel. "Sit where you want."
Maddox nodded, looking around curiously.
The interior was sparse, its scanty occupancy limited to just three patrons huddled at distant tables, their murmured conversations blending with the gentle patter against the windows.
The dim lighting cast long shadows across the wooden floors, but Maddox didn’t mind the quiet solitude.
He quickly found an empty seat near the rain-streaked window, the glass a canvas of cascading water that reflected the flickering streetlights outside. He peeled off his coat, wiped his face with the towel, and finally felt like he could breathe.
Another waitress approached, her apron damp from the weather, and he ordered a hearty al—a steaming plate of roasted at, buttery potatoes, and a side of crusty bread, paired with a mug of dark ale to wash it down.
Monts later, the food arrived, its aroma enveloping him like a warm embrace, and he dug in with a hunger that bordered on desperation, the first bite a burst of comfort against the night’s trials.
As he ate, Maddox seized the opportunity to sift through the fragnted mories of his predecessor, the man whose body and life he now inhabited.
The al provided a grounding rhythm—fork scraping against plate, the crunch of bread, the rich taste of ale, allowing his mind to wander into the complex details of this world.
First off, he went through the tiline and era of this world, Terra Regalia, which was a stark departure from the Earth he once knew. The current year was 132 A.E. (After Establishnt), a reckoning that began with the Unification of the Ga, when football supplanted war and politics as the central pillar of civilization.
This pivotal mont, etched into the world’s history, marked the dawn of a new order where the sport reigned supre. The month was April 132 A.E., a ti of renewal that felt oddly fitting for his second chance at life, his transmigration into this younger body a gift he was only beginning to unravel.
Secondly, the world’s governance structure astonished him. The Supre Football Council (SFC) stood as the singular ruling body, a monolithic entity that had replaced traditional governnts with a global authority centered on the beautiful ga.
The SFC’s tendrils reached far—overseeing continental federations, crafting world and club laws, establishing managerial ranks, and even controlling the Global Football Laws, Tactical and Coaching Schools, and Academies.
It also bestowed titles of nobility upon elite coaches and players, a hierarchy of prestige that elevated the sport’s icons to near-mythic status, and facilitated intercontinental diplomacy through club fixtures rather than political treaties.
Maddox marveled at the intricacy, the sheer audacity of a world where every law, every rivalry, every dream revolved around football. The new terms and rules, though initially unbelievable, sparked a curious excitent within him—a younger man’s enthusiasm for a second life filled with unique challenges.
Thirdly, the major international competitions diverged dramatically from Earth’s traditions. The grandest event, the World Sphere Cup, occurred every four years in June, with the next iteration slated for 134 A.E., two years hence.
Forty nations would vie for the title, a spectacle that Maddox mused might be the equivalent of Earth’s World Cup, though infused with this world’s singular obsession.
Additionally, Continental Championships unfolded every three years: the Crown of Nations for Europe, set to begin in two months; the Sapphire Cup for Asia; the Savanna Star Cup for Africa; the Andean Summit Cup for South Arica; the Golden Coast Cup for North Arica; and the Pacific Unity Cup for Oceania.
Winners reaped SFC-funded bonuses for infrastructure developnt over the subsequent four years, a reward that underscored the sport’s role as the lifeblood of progress.
The scope of it all—grand tournants, global governance, and the promise of legacy—left Maddox both awed and inspired, his mind buzzing with the possibilities of what he could achieve in this football-centric realm.
Outside, the rain intensified, its —pitter-patter— now a steady roar against the window, mirroring the storm of thoughts within him.
The conference room drama replayed in his mind and the weight of public sentint, with 51% blaming him, pressed down, but the taste of the al and the warmth of the restaurant offered a fleeting refuge.
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