Reincarnated As A Wonderkid-Chapter 584: Pharaoh

It was a dry, dusty, relentless heat that seeped into the cracks of the buildings and the bones of the people. It smelt of exhaust fumes, spices, and the river Nile.

Karim sat on the edge of a flat rooftop in the Imbaba neighborhood. He was kicking his legs over the edge, watching the chaotic traffic below.

He was ten years old. Again.

He looked at his hands. They were tanned, dusty, and calloused. He was wearing a counterfeit Liverpool shirt that said SALAH 11 on the back, but the 'S' was peeling off so it just said ALAH.

"I pressed 'No'," Karim whispered to the smoggy horizon. "I swear to God, I pressed the 'No' button."

He remembered the hospital bed. The peace. The end. He was ready to sleep.

But the System—that glitchy, blue bastard—had other plans.

[SYSTEM ALERT]

[WELCOME TO LIFE #4.]

[LOCATION: CAIRO, EGYPT.]

[CURRENT STATUS: STREET RAT.]

[DIFFICULTY: SUICIDAL.]

[NOTE: USER SELECTED 'NO'. SYSTEM INTERPRETED THIS AS 'PLAY HARD TO GET'. REBOOT INITIATED.]

"Fuck you," Karim muttered at the floating blue text. "You are a piece of shit software."

He lay back on the warm concrete roof.

He had done it all. He had won the Premier League with Arsenal. He had lifted the World Cup with England. He had conquered Serie A with Como. He had been a manager, a father, a legend.

And now?

Now he was a ten-year-old kid in Cairo with holes in his sneakers.

"I am tired," he thought. "I don't want to do the grind again. The academies. The trials. The media training where they tell you not to say 'fuck' on live TV."

He closed his eyes.

Maybe he could just... not play?

Maybe he could be a doctor. Or an architect. Or a professional sleeper.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound of a ball hitting a wall echoed from the alleyway below.

Karim's ear twitched.

It was a rhythmic sound. A heartbeat.

Thump. Scuff. Thump.

"Don't do it," Karim told himself. "Don't go down there. If you touch the ball, it starts again. The addiction."

Thump.

"Ah, shit," Karim sighed. He stood up. "Who am I kidding?"

He climbed down the rusty ladder on the side of the building.

The alleyway was narrow. Lines of laundry hung overhead like bunting. The ground was uneven asphalt, cracked and treacherous.

A boy was kicking a deflated plastic ball against a wall.

The boy was skinny. He had hair that stuck up in every direction like he had been electrocuted. He was wearing sandals that were taped together with duct tape.

He kicked the ball. He chased it. He kicked it again. He was fast.

Really fast.

Karim watched him.

The boy trapped the ball, spun around, and tripped over a loose cobblestone. He face-planted into a pile of cardboard boxes.

"FUCK!" the boy screamed. "THE GROUND ATTACKED ME!"

Karim smiled. A genuine, weary smile.

It was him.

Different face. Different language (Arabic, which Karim could suddenly speak fluently, thanks to the System). But the same soul.

"Hey," Karim said, stepping out of the shadows.

The boy scrambled up. He wiped dust off his face. "Who are you? Are you a spy? Are you from the Zamalek youth team?"

"I am Karim," Karim said. "And you are fast. But you have the balance of a drunk camel."

"I am aerodynamic!" the boy argued, puffing out his chest. "I am Hassan. The Cheetah of Cairo! The Pharaoh of Velocity!"

"Hassan," Karim nodded. "Of course."

"Do you play?" Hassan asked, pointing at the sad, deflated ball.

"I used to," Karim said. "In a past life."

"You talk like an old man," Hassan frowned. "You are ten. Come on. Let's play 'Posts'."

"Posts?"

"We hit the lamppost," Hassan explained. "If you hit it, you get a point. If you miss, you have to buy me Koshary."

"Koshary?"

"Rice! Pasta! Lentils! Spicy sauce! Fried onions!" Hassan's eyes lit up like high beams. "It is the fuel of gods! It makes me run faster than the tuk-tuks!"

"Carbohydrates," Karim muttered. "The universal language of Mark."

"Who is Mark?"

"An old friend," Karim said. "He liked pizza."

"Pizza is okay," Hassan shrugged. "But Koshary... Koshary is life."

Just then, a group of older boys walked into the alley. They were thirteen, maybe fourteen. They looked big. Mean.

The leader was a kid with a buzz cut and a Real Madrid jersey.

"Well, well," the leader sneered. "If it isn't the Cheetah."

"Go away, Tarek," Hassan said, stepping back. "We are training."

"Training for what?" Tarek laughed. " The Clown Academy?"

He kicked Hassan's ball. It sailed over a wall and disappeared.

"Hey!" Hassan shouted. "That was my ball!"

"Now it is a bird," Tarek grinned. "This is our pitch. Get lost."

Karim felt a familiar heat in his chest.

He had dealt with Roy Keane. He had dealt with Sergio Ramos. He had dealt with the media.

He wasn't going to be bullied by a teenager in a knock-off Madrid shirt.

"Pick it up," Karim said.

Tarek looked at Karim. He looked down at the small boy.

"What did you say, little mouse?"

"I said," Karim stepped forward. His eyes were cold. "Go get the ball. Bring it back. And apologize."

Hassan grabbed Karim's arm. "Karim, don't. He is big. He eats rocks."

"I have eaten bigger rocks," Karim said.

Tarek laughed. He signaled his two friends. They stepped forward, cracking their knuckles.

"How about we play a game?" Karim said calmly. "2 vs 3. First to three goals. The goal is that garage door."

"And if we win?" Tarek asked.

"You keep the alley," Karim said.

"And if you win?"

"You buy us Koshary," Karim said. "Double portion. Extra onions."

"And you get my ball back!" Hassan added from behind Karim's shoulder.

Tarek spat on the ground. "You are on, mouse. Prepare to cry."

The game started.

The ball was a tin can Tarek found in the trash. It rattled when you kicked it.

The surface was terrible. Glass. Stones. Dust.

It was perfect.

Tarek rushed at Karim. He tried to bully him off the can.

Karim didn't use speed. He used memory.

He remembered the 'La Pausa' he taught his players in Como.

He stopped.

Tarek ran past him, momentum carrying him into a pile of trash bags.

Karim flicked the can to Hassan.

"Run!" Karim shouted.

Hassan ran.

He was a blur of sandals and dust. He flew past the second defender.

"I AM A SANDSTORM!" Hassan screamed.

He kicked the can.

It hit the garage door with a loud CLANK.

"GOAL!" Hassan yelled. "ONE ZERO!"

Tarek got up. He was angry. "Lucky!"

The game got rough. Tarek kicked Karim's shins. He pulled Hassan's shirt.

"This is not football!" Hassan cried. "This is wrestling!"

"Adapt," Karim whispered.

It was 2-2. Next goal wins.

Karim had the can. He was backed into a corner by two defenders.

There was no space.

He looked up. He saw the fire escape ladder hanging above him.

He saw Hassan standing near the garage.

Karim didn't pass along the ground.

He scooped the can up.

He kicked it against the wall. It ricocheted off the bricks, flew over Tarek's head, and landed at Hassan's feet.

"Geometry," Karim smirked.

Hassan stared at the can.

"SHOOT, YOU IDIOT!" Karim yelled.

Hassan panicked. He closed his eyes. He swung his leg.

He missed the can with his foot. He hit it with his other shin.

The can wobbled. It rolled slowly.

The goalkeeper (the third bully) dived. He landed on a banana peel. He slipped.

The can hit the garage door.

Clank.

Game over.

Hassan fell to his knees. "I AM THE CHAMPION OF THE ALLEY! KNEEL BEFORE ME!"

Tarek stood there, breathing heavy. He looked at Karim. There was fear in his eyes now.

"Who are you?" Tarek asked.

"I am the Professor," Karim said, dusting off his hands. "Now go get the Koshary. Extra onions."

An hour later.

They sat on the curb, eating steaming bowls of Koshary. It was spicy, carb-heavy, and absolutely delicious.

"This is good," Karim admitted, wiping sauce from his chin.

"I told you!" Hassan said with his mouth full. "It is the fuel of legends."

They watched the sun set over the dusty buildings. The call to prayer echoed through the city. It was haunting and beautiful.

"You are good," Hassan said, looking at Karim. "You play like you have eyes in the back of your head."

"I have played a lot of games," Karim said.

"Do you think..." Hassan hesitated. "Do you think we could play for Al-Ahly? Or Zamalek? The big clubs?" 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

Karim looked at the pyramids visible in the smoggy distance.

He had done it all.

But looking at Hassan's messy hair and sauce-covered face, he felt that old spark again.

The glitch. The itch.

"Al-Ahly?" Karim laughed. "Think bigger, Hassan."

"Bigger?"

"We are going to Europe," Karim said. "We are going to make them dance."

"Europe?" Hassan gasped. "Do they have Koshary in Europe?"

"We will bring our own," Karim said.

Suddenly, a man walked out of a shop. He was wearing a suit made of... fake Rolex watches? They were ticking loudly. Tick-tick-tick.

"TIME IS MONEY!" the man screamed. "AND I HAVE BOTH! ALEX! I MEAN, KARIM! I FOUND YOU!"