Chapter 811: Out For Months!

Yang stumbled and caught himself.

And laughed.

It was a small sound. Barely a huff of air. But it was real.

Magnus’s eyes widened. He said nothing. But something in his posture relaxed.

The passing drill began. Then the rondos. Then the small-sided game.

Yang stayed in the middle at first—hesitant, careful, protecting himself. But somewhere in the second rotation, he found himself pressing. He stepped in, intercepted a lazy pass, and—without thinking—released a one-touch pass to the wing.

His teammate controlled it and kept the possession.

Yang stood still, watching the ball move.

It was just a pass.

Nothing special. Nothing that would make a highlight reel.

But it was the cleanest touch he had felt in weeks.

He pressed again. Won the ball again. Released it.

The movements came back to him—not the brilliance, not the speed, not the desperation. Just the ordinary rhythm of the game. The way his body knew where to position itself. The way his feet found the ball without his brain getting in the way.

By the time the session ended, he was drenched in sweat.

He walked to the sideline, grabbed his water bottle, and stood there, breathing hard.

Magnus was leaning against the fence, watching.

"Not bad," Magnus said.

Yang shook his head. "I was slow. My touches were heavy. I messed up three passes."

"Yep."

Magnus pushed off the fence and walked toward him.

"But you stayed."

Yang looked at him.

"You stayed the whole session," Magnus repeated. "You didn’t run. You didn’t hide. You didn’t spiral. You just... played."

He shrugged.

"That’s more than you could do last week."

Yang looked down at his hands.

They were steady.

He looked back at the pitch—at the goalposts, the fading lines, the cones being collected by the staff. The morning light had shifted, and the shadows were growing shorter.

"I used to love it here," Yang said quietly.

"Used to?"

"Still do. I think." He paused. "I just—I forgot what it felt like."

Magnus didn’t answer. He just stood there, letting the silence speak.

A gust of wind rolled across the pitch, carrying the smell of grass and earth.

Yang exhaled.

And for the first time in weeks, the first time since that whistle, since the tackle, since everything—he felt like he was still breathing.

He didn’t know if he would ever forgive himself. He didn’t know if Hiro would ever play again. He didn’t know if he’d ever be the player he had been before.

But he was here.

On the grass.

In the light.

Still present. Still standing. Still fighting.

That was enough for the time being.

**** ****

The hospital room was quiet.

Hiro lay in the bed, his leg elevated and wrapped in a compression bandage. The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the sterile white walls. He had been staring at the ceiling for the past hour, his mind circling the same questions.

How bad is it?

Will I play again?

What happens to the system?

The door opened. Dr. Nakamura entered, a tablet in one hand and a folder in the other. His expression was unreadable—the practiced neutrality of someone who had delivered bad news many times before.

Hiro sat up slightly. His heart began to race.

"Doctor."

"Hiro." Nakamura pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. He set the tablet down and opened the folder. "I have the results."

Hiro swallowed. "Tell me."

Nakamura paused. He was a man in his late fifties, silver-haired, with kind eyes that had seen too much suffering. He had treated professional athletes for decades. He knew what this moment meant.

"You have a severe tear in your medial collateral ligament." He spoke slowly, carefully. "It’s not a complete rupture, but it’s close. The good news is—this is repairable. With surgery and proper rehabilitation, you can return to playing."

Hiro’s breath caught. "How long?"

"Surgery will be scheduled within the week. Recovery time is estimated at six to eight months."

Six to eight months.

Hiro did the math in his head. That meant he would miss the rest of the UCL season. He would miss most of the domestic campaign. But he might—if everything went perfectly—be ready for the World Cup.

He would have started to panic had he not steeled his heart.

"That’s..." He stopped. "That’s not the end."

"No," Nakamura agreed. "It’s not. But it will require discipline. Patience. And—" He hesitated. "—a willingness to accept that you may not be the same player you were before."

Hiro’s jaw tightened. "What do you mean?"

"The MCL is essential for stability, especially in a sport like football. You will regain full function. But your body will remember this injury. Some players compensate. Some change their style. Some—" He paused. "—some never return to their previous level."

Hiro stared at him.

This sounded like the kind of wound that would leave a lifelong scar.

"I don’t believe you’ll be in that last category," Nakamura added quickly. "But I want you to be realistic. The injury is significant. The recovery will be difficult. And there are no guarantees."

Hiro nodded slowly. He didn’t trust his voice.

"Is there anything else?"

Nakamura studied him for a moment. Something flickered in his gaze like curiosity, perhaps, or concern.

"You’ve been unusually calm," he said. "Most players, when they hear news like this—they react. Anger. Denial. Tears. You just... nodded."

Hiro looked away. "I’ve had time to think."

"That’s not the same as accepting it."

Hiro didn’t respond.

Nakamura sighed. "I’ve seen players with more talent than you fall apart on the news like this. And I’ve seen players with less talent rise above it. The difference is never physical." He tapped his temple. "It’s here."

He stood.

"Surgery is on Friday. I’ll have the nurses prepare the paperwork. If you want to talk—about anything—my door is open."

Hiro nodded. "Thank you, Doctor."

Nakamura paused at the door. "One more thing."

Hiro looked up.

"The World Cup is next year. If you want to be there—really be there—you need to start believing it now. Not when you’re off the crutches. Not when you’re back on the pitch. Now."

He left.

Hiro sat alone in the quiet room, the morning light painting long shadows across his face.

He stared at his leg, wrapped in bandages, immobilized.

Six to eight months.

He closed his eyes.

I can do this. I’ve done it before. I can do it again.