The last whistle of his life didn't blow on a pitch. It echoed in a quiet, sterile hospital room.
Side Sebuka had spent his final days staring at the cracked ceiling of a Bujumbura clinic, coughing blood into tissues and watching his body deteriorate. He'd once sprinted past defenders, danced with the ball between his feet like it was an extension of his soul. But now, even lifting a spoon felt like lifting a mountain.
He was 28. And dying.
The doctors had called it late-stage stomach cancer. Diagnosed at 26, just when everything had seemed ready to change. He still remembered the offer. A scout from Yanga FC, one of Tanzania's most prestigious clubs, had seen him during a local league tournament and had been impressed. They were ready to bring him in. Black and gold—the club colors—had flooded his dreams that week.
But then the blood in his vomit turned darker. The cramps became unbearable. He went to the hospital expecting something small. What he got instead was a death sentence. "You're already at stage four," the doctor had said with a grim look. "You should focus on treatment now."
Yanga FC withdrew their offer. Sebuka understood. No one signs a dying man.
He didn't blame them.
He died in silence. No fans, no applause. Just the quiet hum of a broken fan spinning overhead and his mother's sobs muffled behind a hospital curtain.
---
Then, nothing.
Or rather, something stranger than nothing.
He opened his eyes, but there was no ground beneath him. No ceiling, no sky. Just a void. A massive expanse of swirling blackness, dotted with fragments of stars that blinked and disappeared like they were afraid to be seen. It was not warm. It wasn't cold either. It just… was.
And then he saw it.
Floating in the darkness was an entity. Not human. Not god. It looked like a condensed black star—an orb of shimmering darkness, sucking light toward it but never reflecting any. Its presence alone seemed to press on Sebuka's chest.
It spoke, but not with a voice. The words pressed into his mind like thoughts that weren't his.
"Side Sebuka. Son of Ally and Salha. A soul filled with resilience, cut short unjustly."
Sebuka flinched. "What… what is this?"
"A second chance. For one chosen by fate."
"Chosen?" Sebuka looked around. "Where am I? Am I… dead?"
"You were. But your life, though short, burned bright. You had the heart of a fighter, and fate favors those who never give up."
Before Sebuka could respond, five objects floated toward him, glowing faintly in the darkness. They orbited around the Black Star like moons.
1. A black pen with glowing blue edges.
2. A cracked radio, faintly humming with static.
3. A basketball spinning slowly.
4. A thick stack of black banknotes.
5. A black-and-gold football, radiating a quiet pulse.
The entity spoke again.
"Five paths. Choose one."
Sebuka stared at them. "What are they?"
"Paths of mastery. Lives reborn. Each object represents a talent, a profession you may pursue again."
He pointed. "The pen?"
"Mox – The path of the thinker, the scholar, the teacher."
"The radio?"
"Mix – The path of rhythm, the musician."
"The basketball?"
"Mux – The path of the court, the athlete of the hoop."
"The money?"
"Mex – The path of business, the investor and entrepreneur."
Finally, Sebuka's eyes landed on the football.
"Max – The path of the field, the footballer."
A silence hung as the five objects floated gently.
He stared long and hard at the black-and-gold football. The same colors as Yanga FC. The same dream that had slipped away.
His heart ached.
He reached toward the football.
"I want Max."
The star pulsed.
"Then name it."
Sebuka hesitated. The football glowed faintly in his hands, heavy with meaning. So many emotions bubbled in his chest—grief, regret, longing.
"Ball," he whispered. "Your name is Ball."
"So it shall be."
The football shimmered. Gold veins pulsed through its black surface like electricity. It levitated, hovering beside him.
"Ball will assist you. He will measure your growth, track your stats, propose quests, and reward effort. He is your guide."
!!!
#Ball
Name : Sebuka
Fate: footballer
Age : 6y
Position: none
Overall attributes' stats : F
Stats:
Stamina(Rank F): 4/20
Speed(Rank F): 5/20
Control(Rank F-): 2/20
Vision(Rank F+): 6/20
Reflex(Rank F-): 2/20
Mental(Rank A-): 1/20
Skill : none.
Quest : none
Sebuka stared at the orb. "Stats? Quests?"
The football floated forward, spinning. A soft whirrrr echoed.
Then, like magic—or technology far beyond his understanding—an elegant black-and-grey hologram projected in front of him.
Sebuka blinked. "This… is me?"
"Your baseline. Progress is earned. Stats rise through effort or quest rewards. At Rank 20, your stat resets to 1 and increases its tier."
He reached toward the floating screen, trying to touch it. His fingers passed through. "And skills?"
"Earned through trials. Some hidden. One ultimate."
Sebuka narrowed his eyes. "What's the ultimate?"
"Time Regress. A power to turn back the clock… once. Hidden. Conditional. Locked behind special achievement. You will learn when worthy."
Sebuka let out a breath. Everything was too much. Too strange. Too unreal. He wasn't a man of fantasy.
He was a boy from Buyenzi.
And yet, this power… it felt real.
---
His vision darkened.
Then light.
And sound.
He opened his eyes to the familiar scent of charcoal smoke, dusty streets, and distant radios playing from open windows.
Buyenzi.
His childhood bed.
His small, crumbling room.
A small hand reached up to his face. His hand. Six-year-old fingers.
He looked at the old calendar on the wall.
2015.
He was back.
And by his side, floating gently, was Ball.
A black-and-gold football. Silent, but watching.
His second chance had begun.