Chapter 2: Spirits Like Water
May.
Evening.
London was wrapped in a thin drizzle, the kind that clung to coats and blurred the glow of streetlights. Pedestrians hurried along wet pavements, collars raised, footsteps echoing softly in the damp air.
At the corner of a narrow street in East London stood a small, aging pub.
Old John's Tavern.
On most days, its business was quiet. A handful of regulars, a few pints, low voices, and the occasional argument about football.
But tonight—
The tavern was packed.
Because tonight was no ordinary night.
It was the final of the 2007–2008 UEFA Champions League.
And both teams were English.
Manchester UnitedvsChelsea F.C.
With the domestic season already over, this match was the last spectacle before the long summer break.
Fans flooded into pubs across London.
They came to drink.
To shout.
To argue.
To live every second of the game together.
Yet inside Old John's Tavern—
It was strangely quiet.
Not silent.
But unnaturally restrained.
The smell of beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke still filled the air. Glasses clinked. The television flickered.
But the usual roar of football fans…
Was missing.
Because everyone's attention was fixed on one man.
He sat alone in the corner.
Dressed in black.
A long coat collar partially hid his face. His posture was relaxed, yet there was something about him that made people uneasy.
Even sitting down, his height was obvious.
Over six feet.
His skin was dark, his jaw sharp, and his eyes—when visible—carried a calm intensity that made others instinctively look away.
On the table in front of him—
Seven empty bottles of whiskey.
And counting.
He lifted his glass.
Tilted his head slightly.
And drank.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.
The strong British whiskey—often called the "water of life"—went down like… actual water.
No hesitation.
No reaction.
The surrounding drinkers swallowed unconsciously.
"Which bottle is that?" someone whispered.
"Seventh… maybe eighth."
"That's not normal, man…"
The match continued on the television.
But almost no one was watching it.
Compared to a slow-paced final—
A man drinking whiskey like water was far more entertaining.
Clink.
Another bottle emptied.
The man finally turned slightly.
And now his face was clearly visible.
Strong features.
Sharp eyes.
A calm, dangerous presence.
This was not someone to provoke lightly.
Several drinkers quickly averted their gaze.
Then—
A voice broke the silence.
"Wait… isn't that Chelsea's youth coach?"
Another man leaned forward, squinting.
"Yeah… yeah, I've seen him before!"
"The Jamaican one, right?"
"He's the guy who won the FA Youth Cup!"
A few people exchanged looks.
Recognition spread.
Joshua Smith.
Head coach of Chelsea U18.
The man who had led the youth team to victory at Old Trafford just two weeks ago.
A rising figure.
A name beginning to circulate quietly in football circles.
But then—
Another voice cut in.
"Wasn't he sacked?"
The tavern fell quiet again.
"I heard he got into trouble with one of the directors."
"Yeah… something about refusing to play a certain player."
"Typical Chelsea politics…"
A man wearing a Chelsea jersey snorted.
"They win a trophy and sack the coach. Brilliant."
"Blame the owner," someone muttered. "That Russian doesn't care."
The conversation turned messy, fueled by alcohol and frustration.
But the man at the center of it all—
Joshua Smith—
Didn't react.
Not even slightly.
"The bartender."
Joshua snapped his fingers.
A fresh bottle of whiskey was placed in front of him almost immediately.
He poured a glass.
Raised it.
Drank.
Smooth.
Effortless.
Compared to the harsh, burning intensity of Jamaican overproof rum—
This was nothing.
Joshua leaned back slightly.
His eyes drifted toward the television.
The score read:
Manchester United 1 — 0 Chelsea
The goal had come from Cristiano Ronaldo—a powerful header earlier in the match.
Since then, the game had slowed.
Chelsea held possession.
But their attack lacked sharpness.
It was exactly as Joshua remembered.
Because he had already lived this match once.
"Oi, coach!"
A loud voice interrupted his thoughts.
A fat man staggered over, holding a beer bottle.
His belly shook with each step.
"Look at me," the man grinned. "What position do I play?"
Joshua frowned slightly.
Then—
Something appeared.
A translucent light screen.
Visible only to him.
Name: KennyExplosive Power: 20Stamina: 22Speed: 18
Joshua's lips twitched slightly.
Terrible.
Then more data appeared.
Goalkeeping: 55
Joshua paused.
That… was unexpected.
A level of 55 wasn't bad at all for amateur football.
He looked at the fat man again.
Slow.
Heavy.
No mobility.
But—
As a goalkeeper?
It made sense.
The light screen flickered slightly, then disappeared.
Joshua exhaled quietly.
This ability…
He still hadn't fully understood it.
But one thing was clear—
It was extremely valuable.
He could see player attributes.
Like a real-life database.
Like a living version of a football simulation.
The only limitation—
He could only use it once per day.
And today…
He had wasted it on this drunk.
Joshua raised his glass.
Drank.
"You're a goalkeeper," he said calmly.
The fat man blinked.
"…You serious?"
"With your body?" Joshua shrugged. "That's the only position you can survive in."
The surrounding drinkers burst into laughter.
"Of course he's a keeper!"
"He can block the whole goal just standing there!"
Kenny scratched his head, grinning.
"…Fair enough."
Then he pointed at the TV.
"What about this match?"
Joshua didn't hesitate.
"Chelsea will equalize."
The tavern quieted slightly.
Some people frowned.
"Not likely."
"Halftime's almost here."
"United won't give them a chance."
Joshua didn't argue.
He simply drank.
Because he already knew what would happen.
This match—
Every moment of it—
Was carved into his memory.
"Let's make a bet!" Kenny grinned.
"If Chelsea scores before halftime, I pay for your drinks!"
"And if they don't?"
Joshua looked at him calmly.
"Then you drink for free."
"Deal?"
"Deal."
Joshua raised his glass slightly.
"As someone who's already seen the future…"
He murmured quietly—
"…this is easy money."
On the screen—
Time ticked toward the end of the first half.
Then—
A long-range shot from Michael Essien.
It deflected.
Once.
Twice.
Chaos in the penalty box.
The ball dropped.
And then—
Frank Lampard arrived.
A clean strike.
The net rippled.
1 — 1.
The tavern exploded.
Cheers.
Shouts.
Curses.
Hands slammed against tables.
Some celebrated wildly.
Others groaned in frustration.
But quickly—
Everyone looked back at Joshua.
He had called it.
Exactly.
Kenny stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
"Drink all you want tonight, coach! It's on me!"
Joshua didn't respond.
He simply watched the screen.
Watched Lampard point to the sky in celebration.
And in his mind—
The rest of the match unfolded.
Second half.
Extra time.
Penalties.
John Terry slipping.
Manchester United lifting the trophy.
Everything.
Already decided.
Joshua tightened his grip on the glass.
His knuckles turned white.
Two timelines overlapped in his mind.
Past.
Future.
Reality.
Memory.
If everything stayed the same—
Then nothing would change.
But now—
He was here.
Alive.
With knowledge.
And something else.
That strange…
System.
Joshua lowered his head slightly.
Rain tapped softly against the tavern windows.
His voice was barely audible.
"…Let's see…"
"…if fate can be rewritten."
(End of Chapter 2)