Lagos, Nigeria – July 2024
It was over before it even began.
Jemil sat on the edge of the cracked cement bench, head in his hands, sweat pouring from every pore of his skin. His boots—cheap knockoffs of a long-outdated Adidas model—were caked in dust. His jersey, once white, was now more brown than anything.
The stadium wasn't even a real stadium—just a dusty community pitch with rusted iron goalposts and crooked white lines that faded after every rainfall. But for Jemil, this was the last shot.
A trial.
A scout from Remo Stars was watching.
He hadn't slept the night before. He'd prayed, fasted, even called his cousin in the UK to ask for advice. He knew he wasn't a star. He didn't dribble like Messi or sprint like Mbappé. But he loved the game. More than anything. And sometimes, heart mattered more than highlights.
Or so he believed.
"Number 14!" the coach yelled, voice sharp like barbed wire. "That was your chance, and you blew it!"
Jemil looked up slowly. His vision was blurred with sweat and shame.
"I… I tried—"
"Tried? Tired is what you look! You missed a bloody empty net, man! That's Sunday league mistake!"
Laughter trickled from the sidelines.
"Guy no sabi ball at all," someone muttered nearby.
Jemil closed his eyes.
In the 64th minute, he'd made a clever run, just as the ball came across the face of goal. He only needed to tap it in. He rushed it. Missed it. Kicked the air instead. Fell on his back. Humiliation, recorded live by someone on TikTok. It was already making the rounds.
When the final whistle blew, no one called his name. No coach approached him. The scout walked past him as if he was invisible.
The walk home was long and quiet.
No bike taxi. No friends. Just the sound of worn-out boots scraping along the pavement.
A group of kids played football in the street with a plastic bottle. One of them pointed and shouted, "Na the guy wey fall like Neymar!"
They laughed.
He kept walking.
This city doesn't care about dreams. Not when you're poor. Not when you're late. Not when you're… average.
He passed a church, still lit from an evening vigil. A dusty billboard read: "If God closes a door, He will open another."
Jemil stopped walking.
He looked up at the billboard, then down at his boots. His knees were still sore from falling. His chest felt like someone was standing on it.
"God," he whispered. "Is this… the end?"
No answer. Just the low rumble of traffic.
A bright light came out of nowhere.
SCREEEEEECH.
He turned his head—too slow.
The last thing he saw was headlights.
Somewhere Else
Silence.
No pain. No air. Just floating.
He couldn't tell if he was standing or lying. Everything was black. But not a terrifying black. Just… still.
He tried to move. Couldn't.
"Is this death?" he whispered.
His voice echoed, but only in his mind.
Then came the voice. Calm, genderless, ancient.
"Not yet."
Jemil's heart—if he still had one—froze.
"Who… who are you?"
"A witness. A judge. A gift-giver, depending on who asks."
He wanted to scream. But part of him didn't feel fear. Only confusion.
"You mean… I'm dead?"
"You were."
The voice paused.
"But your dream refused to die."
"My dream?"
"You gave everything. Even though you had no talent. No support. No future. You still played. That level of devotion… is rare."
"I just didn't want to live a life without football."
"Then perhaps… you shouldn't."
"What?"
"You will get a second life. Not as Jemil the failed player. But as someone who had the world at his feet… and let it slip."
"Who?"
"Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior. Brazil. 2011."
Jemil blinked.
"No way… Neymar?"
"You'll keep your mind. Your memory. Your fire. And more importantly—"
A glowing blue panel appeared before him.
[GOAT EVOLUTION SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
Host: Jemil I.
New Body: Neymar (Age 19)
Timeline: July 2011 — Pre-Barcelona Era
Objective: Rebuild the legacy. Avoid past mistakes. Become the Greatest of All Time.
Jemil stared at the screen.
Then he laughed.
Not a happy laugh. A shocked, exhausted, delirious laugh.
"I get to do it again… as Neymar?"
"Yes. But change too much, and the world will push back. Are you ready?"
He nodded without hesitation.
"I was born ready. Just born poor."
Santos, Brazil – July 2011
The first thing he noticed was the air — humid, sticky, tropical. Like someone had wrapped him in a hot blanket.
He groaned and sat up. His head was pounding.
The room smelled of aftershave and cologne. A fan spun uselessly overhead. Brazilian music thumped faintly from a speaker nearby.
He stumbled to the mirror.
What he saw made him stop breathing.
Lean body. Sharp cheekbones. Messy mohawk. Tattoos.
Neymar.
He ran his hands through the hair, then over his jaw.
"This is insane…"
His voice came out smooth. Brazilian-accented. But his mind was still his own.
[System Notification]
You have inherited Neymar's football attributes.
Stats (Base):
Dribbling: 94
Pace: 91
Finishing: 83
Vision: 76
Stamina: 65
Mentality: 52
Discipline: 44
Flaws:
– Reckless lifestyle habits
– Low injury resistance
– Emotional volatility
First Daily Task:
Attend Santos FC morning training. First impression matters.
Reward: Unlock "Coach's Trust" Passive Bonus
Jemil took a deep breath.
"This is really happening."
A knock at the door.
"O Ney, bora, cara! A gente vai chegar atrasado!"
He recognized the voice from memory — Ganso, Neymar's close friend and teammate.
"Coming!" he called back in fluent Portuguese, surprising even himself.
He pulled on the white Santos FC training kit laid out by the bed. The No. 11 shirt. It fit perfectly. Like it belonged to him.
Because now, it did.
Santos FC Training Grounds – 7:48 AM
The sun hadn't even risen fully, but the pitch was already buzzing.
Young players jogged laps. Coaches shouted instructions. Reporters leaned against fences, waiting for a quote. Everyone's eyes glanced toward Neymar as he stepped onto the pitch.
Except… it wasn't Neymar.
It was Jemil. A failed Nigerian footballer with no business wearing this name.
But he walked like he belonged. Head up. Shoulders square.
He would not waste this gift.
Warm-ups started. Ball work. Short passes. Dribbling drills.
And then the scrimmage.
"Neymar!" the coach barked. "Show me something."
Jemil nodded.
He received the ball on the wing. A defender closed in.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Let's see what these stats really mean."
He flicked the ball up with the outside of his boot — smooth, instinctive — spun around the defender, cut inside with two feints, and curled a shot into the top corner.
The players paused.
So did the coach.
"Esse moleque…" Ganso muttered. "Tá possuído hoje?"
Jemil smiled.
Possessed? Not quite.
Reborn.
That Night
He sat on the rooftop of his new apartment, staring at the stars.
Down below, the streets of Santos buzzed with scooters, laughter, and the sweet aroma of grilled meat.
His fingers tapped absently against a football by his side.
"I don't know why you gave me this chance," he whispered to the sky. "But I swear on everything—I won't waste it."
He checked the system screen.
Tomorrow's Scenario:
Media Day
– Option 1: Tease transfer to Europe
– Option 2: Praise Santos and stay loyal
Each choice shapes your future.
Jemil grinned.
He didn't know exactly what lay ahead.
But he would do what Neymar never fully did.
Finish the story the right way.