Winger Again: I can edit my attributes.

September 20, 2016

Manchester United Academy, Training Ground, U-17 Practice Field

A sharp, shrill whistle cut through the air. "Whew—whew!!" It signaled the end of another grueling training session.

Players collapsed to the ground, some sprawled out to recover, others dragging themselves into stretching routines. Amid the scene, one young man remained seated, his gaze fixed on the lush green grass beneath him.

'This can't be real... it's impossible!'

Marcus Hall sat in a daze, panting heavily. He reached up and pinched his cheeks—hard. Pain shot through his face. This wasn't a dream.

It seemed he truly had been reincarnated back to his younger self when he was just a youth player in Manchester United's academy. His last memory from his previous life was falling from the 21st floor. But now… here he was. Alive, breathing, and on a football pitch he once thought he'd never see again.

"Marc, can you help me stretch my ankles?"

The familiar voice jolted Marcus from his thoughts. A short distance away, Carl, a fellow academy player, waved at him while lying flat on his back.

"Yeah, Carl. Coming," Marcus replied quickly, shaking off his shock.

As Marcus carefully adjusted Carl's ankle, the latter let out a tired sigh, staring up at the afternoon sky. "We're nearly at the end, huh?"

"Yeah," Marcus said, nodding faintly. "The six months we were promised are almost up."

Carl rolled his neck and sat up with a resigned shrug. "If we don't get signed by the end of the month, it's over. We'll have to pack up and leave."

Marcus glanced around the field at the other trainees wearing the same iconic Manchester United kits. Carl's words hung heavy in the air. For many, this trial was the dream of a lifetime. For Marcus, it was a second chance. He had no intention of letting it slip through his fingers again.

Carl sighed deeply. "The competition's insane. If I have to go back, I'm not even sure another club will want me."

Go back?

Marcus wanted to say something but he stopped himself. Going back for him meant something far worse than just disappointment. It meant returning to a life of struggle—fighting to survive and abandoning football entirely to scrape by with whatever job he could find.

'Not this time. This time, I won't let it happen. Definitely not!'

In his previous life, Marcus Hall had been a youth player with promise. Born in France, he had lost his parents at an early age—his mother in childbirth, and his father in a tragic accident.

Taken in by an uncle and aunt already burdened with three children, Marcus had pursued football as his dream. But dreams cost money. As the costs of training rose, his relatives gradually stopped supporting him.

That was when Manchester United's six-month trial offer came—a golden opportunity. Unfortunately, Marcus had failed to secure a contract. After returning to France, he lived a mundane life, filled with regrets. It all culminated in his death—a tragic push from the 21st floor by repairmen he had fired.

Now, Marcus was back, standing on the very pitch where his dreams first began to fade.

"I'm going to practice shooting," Marcus announced suddenly, grabbing a few footballs.

Carl watched him go but didn't protest. Marcus dragged his worn-out boots across the grass and returned to the field.

'If my memory's right, we have a friendly against Liverpool's U-17 team at the end of the month. That's my chance—my last shot to prove myself.'

His resolve hardened. If he wanted to stay, every second counted.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The sharp sounds of footballs colliding with the net echoed through the field. Marcus practised tirelessly—dribbling, setting up his position, and striking with everything he had. The process was repetitive and exhausting, but Marcus refused to stop.

At 181 cm and 70 kg, Marcus wasn't physically imposing. His speed was average, his explosiveness unremarkable, and his shooting and passing were mediocre at best. In United's fiercely competitive academy, players like him were overlooked.

But Marcus wasn't going to give up. Not this time.

"Marcus!"

A voice rang out across the field. Marcus stopped, sweat pouring down his face. He looked up to see Hans, the bald, burly head coach of United's U-17 team, standing by his office.

"Come to my office," Hans called out.

Marcus hesitated, glancing down at his feet. His shoes made a faint flap-flap sound as the worn soles slapped against the ground. He still had about 200 euros left, just enough to buy new boots. But if he didn't cut, he'd need that money for a ticket back to France.

'Maybe I can glue them again.'

Reluctantly, he made his way to Hans's office.

"What's your shoe size?" Hans asked the moment Marcus walked in, his sharp gaze fixed on Marcus's feet.

"Uh… size 9.5," Marcus replied, caught off guard.

Hans nodded and stood, rummaging through a nearby rack. "I've noticed those boots of yours are falling apart. You've glued them back together, haven't you?"

Marcus looked away awkwardly but didn't deny it.

Hans pulled out a pair of black boots and handed them over. "Here. These are mine—worn them during training a few times, but they're still in good shape. They'll get you through the rest of the trial."

Marcus stared at the boots, touched by the gesture. "Thank you, coach."

"Don't mention it. Go try them out," Hans said with a smile.

Back on the field, Marcus slipped on the boots. They fit perfectly. A renewed sense of determination coursed through him as he resumed practising.

'If I'm going to make it, I need to master something. Something that sets me apart.'

He focused on long-range shots, determined to improve his power and accuracy. If he could consistently deliver strikes at over 100 km/h with precision, he might just have a chance.

"Bang!!"

The ball sailed through the air but veered far off target. Marcus sighed in frustration and jogged to retrieve the ball.

'My accuracy is pathetic…'

As he bent to pick up a ball, a strange sensation rippled through him.

[Ding!]

A screen appeared in his mind.

[Skill: Long-Range Shooting Lv1]

[Proficiency: 34/100]

[You can edit your attributes after reaching the next level!]

Marcus froze, blinking in disbelief as words scrolled across his vision.

[Description: You've begun to feel the thrill of long-range shots and are practising diligently. However, your power and accuracy are still far from ideal.

[Current Attributes: F-level accuracy, moderate power, F-level balance.]

[Note: Lv1 is the lowest, Lv10 is the highest! Any athletic or physical skill maxed out at Lv10 will reach the pinnacle of human capability!]

'What…? I can edit my attributes?'

Marcus gripped the ball tightly, his heart pounding. This wasn't just a second chance—it was something far greater.