Standing dead-center in the stadium, Mateo rested one foot lightly against the ball. The roar of over twenty thousand voices swirled around him—chants, whistles, camera shutters snapping in rapid bursts—but he didn't hear any of it.
Under the pale floodlights, he was dressed in Barcelona's dark navy marine away kit, the long sleeves hugging his arms snugly. The faint shimmer of sweat caught on the fabric made the jersey seem almost metallic in the light. A slow smile tugged at his lips, his breath misting faintly in the cool evening air.
"Finally," he muttered to himself, the word almost lost beneath the echoing noise of the crowd.
Before him, floating in that space only he could see, the familiar translucent interface appeared—sharp lines, golden glow pulsing faintly as if alive. HE didnt want to say but ,He had been waiting for this.
[Sign-in location found: Estadi Ciutat de València]
[Successful sign-in at Valencia City Stadium]
[Host receives Special Ability: Cruyff Turn]
His eyes lingered on the words, reading them twice. Cruyff Turn? The name alone stirred something in him—iconic, elegant, unmistakable. A little chuckle slipped out.
He was happy—not because the move was new to him. In truth, since unlocking Neymar's skill set, the Cruyff Turn was already well within his grasp. He could execute it without thinking, even weave it into combinations that would make defenders dizzy. It wasn't that the turn itself changed anything.
What pleased him was something else entirely—proof. Proof that the system still worked while he could still see his status, still cared to reward him, even if he had stopped relying on it so heavily. He had made up his mind to forge his own path on the pitch, but he couldn't deny it: the system had been a massive part of why he was here today. Without it, maybe he wouldn't be standing under these lights, in this stadium, about to make yet another memory.
And even now, it seemed, it hadn't finished with him.
But before Mateo could even finish his thought, something unexpected jolted through his mind—a second chime.
[Ding!]
Two abilities in one match? That had never happened before.
[System critical overload: As congratulations for a flawless international debut, the system has selected the perfect ability for the host.]
[Congratulations, host. You have received: Johan Cruyff – Total Vision and Understanding of Football.]
Mateo's eyes widened. For a second, he thought maybe he'd misread it, but the golden text hung there, unwavering, confirming the impossible.
[Cruyff: Total Vision and Understanding of the Game]
A holistic mastery of football's tactical essence. The host perceives the pitch as a living organism—reading player positioning, space occupation, passing lanes, and opposition patterns in real-time. Gain an instinctive grasp of transitions, press triggers, defensive shapes, and attacking rotations. Develop Cruyff's unique perspective: football as a flowing chess match, where every piece moves with purpose, and every action shapes the game's next five moves.
Mateo felt his brain light up. Shapes and patterns began forming around him in faint, ghostly outlines—opposition defensive lines tilting just a fraction too much, midfield gaps opening and closing like breathing lungs, the optimal passing options flashing in subtle glows. It wasn't just seeing tactics—it was understanding them in their purest form, as if every player on the pitch was a note in a grand symphony only he could conduct.
"No way… it really is," he whispered to himself.
The shock was enough to freeze him in place. All this, and the referee hadn't even blown the whistle yet. He must have been standing there too long, because a cameraman zoomed in on him, catching his wide-eyed, borderline goofy expression. Seconds later, social media around the world lit up with clips of "Mateo looking like he just saw God," fans laughing at his cartoonish reaction without the faintest clue of what was really happening.
But Mateo knew.
Johan Cruyff's Total Vision and Understanding of Football. This wasn't just a skill—it might be the greatest gift he had ever received. R9's explosive speed, Neymar's joga bonito, and now Cruyff's mind… this was the holy trinity of his system the three most influential abilities he had gotten.
And for a La Masia graduate like Mateo, the significance was not lost. This didn't make him faster, stronger, or more agile—but in many ways, it was even deadlier. Cruyff wasn't just a legend; he was the blueprint. The man whose philosophy shaped modern football. Barcelona's spiritual architect. Pep Guardiola's godfather.
Even the author, in his infinite wisdom, decided it would be a waste of ink to explain tohis readers who he deemed football fans—especially Barcelona fans—just how rare and valuable this was. To do so in this book would almost be an insult to their intelligence. If you were holding these pages and didn't understand Cruyff's legacy, the author silently judged you… but kindly, of course he couldn't let his fans and most especially his piggybanks angry and leave.
Mateo's grin was practically carved into his face now, that sort of sharp-edged smile that could mean anything from "I'm about to score a hat-trick" to "I just thought of something evil."
The referee, meanwhile, squinted at him from the center circle. What's his deal? he wondered. With a small shake of his head, he scanned the pitch, eyes sweeping across the twenty-two players. Almost all of them carried the same expression—a low, coiled seriousness, like soldiers before a battle. That was how it should be, he thought with professional satisfaction.
But as his gaze inevitably drifted back to Mateo, he froze.
That grin. That unnerving, almost… menacing grin. The kind a fox gives a hen before deciding how to eat it. The kind that shouldn't be on the face of an eighteen-year-old about to play in a top-flight match. A tiny bead of sweat slid down the ref's temple.
Well… I guess for a kid this young to be playing at such a high level, he's not exactly going to be normal… right?
He sighed, reached for his whistle, and thought with a small, self-deprecating chuckle, Alright then… let's get this over with before he starts levitating or something.
The silver whistle met his lips.
FWEEEEEEEEET!
Oblivious to the odd and mildly concerned thoughts running through the referee's head, Mateo's own focus sharpened like the click of a lens. The moment the whistle's sharp FWEEEET! sliced through the air, it was as if something clicked inside him. Whether it was the lingering blessing of his lucky charm or simply his new-found resolve, his whole demeanor shifted in an instant.
The grin vanished, replaced by an expression of cold precision. His first touch was immediate—a quick, crisp pass backward, the sound of boot against ball echoing faintly beneath the roaring crowd. Without hesitation, he surged forward into space, long strides eating up the green turf.
As he reached the front line, he glanced over his shoulder, a quiet, fierce "Let's go" echoing in his mind.
But that fire dimmed for just a second when he noticed movement—three defenders had reacted to him instantly. They weren't waiting to see what he'd do; they'd already collapsed inward, closing ranks like a trap snapping shut. Their formation wasn't random either—it was deliberate, with one shadowing him tightly, another cutting off his inside lane, and the third waiting to pounce on any mistake.
Guess we can't just pull the PSG trick again, he thought, recalling the slick, improvised combination play that had won them their first goal in that famous match. This time, they'd clearly studied him.
His mind adjusted instantly. Fine… let me see where the ball is.
He let his eyes drift across the pitch—and then his pupils widened slightly.
Because what he saw wasn't the same as before.
Like a master clockmaker suddenly noticing the gears within a watch, he could now see patterns—lines of movement connecting players, threads of passing options, subtle rotations happening even before the ball reached them. But it wasn't just static positioning; it was the flow, the living current of the game.
Even the smallest changes leapt out at him—a winger shifting half a meter wider, a midfielder leaning slightly onto his back foot, a center-back glancing toward his keeper for just a moment too long. He saw the opposition's intentions before they were acted on, their defensive net tightening in certain areas, loosening in others, all in real time.
His brain processed it with mechanical speed, mapping spaces, predicting movements, calculating cause and effect with an almost surgical clarity.
In dismay to the referee—who glanced back just in time to see it—the same devilish grin slid back onto Mateo's face.
"This," he muttered under his breath, barely audible over the noise, "is going to be something else."
"It's underway here at the Ciutat de València!" the commentator's voice rang out over the broadcast. "Barcelona, in their deep navy marine kits tonight, lining up in the same shape we've seen from them over the last few matches."
From the very first exchanges, it was clear—Koeman wasn't changing a thing. Despite Mateo's brilliance on international duty, the Dutchman stuck to the approach that had been racking up wins. The midfield dictated tempo, and when the opportunity came, they used the raw, cutting speed of their young prodigy to break lines and create chaos. For Koeman—keenly aware of the fragile climate within Barcelona's boardroom—there was no point experimenting. Stability was survival, and survival meant not fixing what wasn't broken.
Mateo understood his role perfectly. Even within the framework given to him, he executed it with deadly precision—like a marksman stalking his prey. Time and again, he waited on the shoulder of the last defender, then burst into life with those surging sprints that left casual fans grinning in disbelief. To them, it was a thrill show. They didn't need to understand the intricacies—seeing him blitz down the flank or slice through a backline was enough to make them jump from their seats.
But the seasoned eyes in the stadium—the scouts, the former pros the Brillant coaches—they noticed something subtler. His running was… different. The top speed was still there, but the violence in it was gone. His bursts weren't constant haymakers anymore; they were timed, targeted. He wasn't just charging at defenders—he was bending their shape, baiting them, opening pockets of space for others.
Before, Mateo had been like a wild predator—powerful enough to simply rip through anything in his way. Now, the predator was thinking. Calculating. Waiting for the exact moment to pounce so the kill was clean. His runs began to mirror the flow of the midfield, syncing with passing lanes, creating space not only for himself but for the entire attack.
No one felt this shift more than a man sharing the pitch with him—Antoine Griezmann.
In recent weeks, Griezmann's role had evolved into something almost selfless—a shadow striker, an auxiliary forward whose primary task was to shield Mateo, draw defenders away, and open channels for him to exploit. That hadn't changed tonight. But what had changed was the way the game felt around him.
Mateo's newfound intelligence in his movement was like a fresh wind at Griezmann's back. Spaces seemed to open earlier, transitions felt smoother. Whenever Griezmann peeled off into a half-space, Mateo was already adjusting, shaping his run to pull markers away from him. Pass-and-move chains linked cleaner than before, and the pitch suddenly felt lighter, less congested.
It was a difference the Levante players would feel soon enough.
The opening quarter-hour of the match had been a tense chess game, Barcelona moving the ball patiently, probing Levante's defensive shell for any gaps. Then, in the 15th minute, the breakthrough began to take shape.
Messi, drifting in from the right, collected the ball in that familiar pocket between Levante's midfield and backline. With a sudden acceleration, he glided past one challenge, then another, hips swiveling, feet caressing the ball as if it were tied to his laces. A drop of the shoulder wrong-footed Radoja, and in a blur, he was threading a pass through the smallest of channels toward Pedri at the edge of the final third.
Pedri didn't take long to weigh his options—his sharp eyes had already caught Mateo ghosting in from deep, timing his run to perfection. The pass was weighted like a scalpel cut, slicing between Postigo and Duarte. Mateo's blazing pace meant there was no time for hesitation. But instead of lunging for the ball, he let it roll, the feint alone enough to send a ripple of panic through the Levante backline.
The ball, spinning forward on the immaculate grass, became a race against physics itself. The defenders were left flat-footed, their reaction coming half a second too late—an eternity against someone like Mateo. Even Aitor Fernández, seeing the ball's trajectory, braced for the inevitable one-on-one.
But just as everyone expected the young forward to pounce, Mateo did the unthinkable. With a sudden hop, he skipped over the ball entirely, his body language selling the idea that he'd overrun it. The keeper froze in disbelief, and the defenders hesitated, unsure of what had just happened.
That was all the space needed. To Mateo's left, in acres of freedom, Antoine Griezmann had followed the play perfectly. Mateo had known it from the moment he started his run; the skip wasn't a mistake—it was a deliberate invitation. Every pair of eyes in the stadium had been locked on him, and now they were forced to watch helplessly as the ball rolled into Griezmann's stride.
For a player of his caliber, even in a rough patch of form, an empty net from that distance was a gift. One smooth touch, one clean strike, and the ball kissed the back of the net.
Camp Nou erupted—1-0 to Barcelona, Pedri the architect, Griezmann the finisher.
And for Mateo a Remance of Sasuke Uchiha the shadow Hokage, for levante it was just the beginning.
The game resumed at a furious tempo after the opening goal. Levante, stung but unbroken, began pushing higher, trying to disrupt Barcelona's rhythm and claw their way back.
23rd minute – Levante nearly caught Barça on the break. Morales, ever dangerous on the wing, exploded past Sergi Roberto, cutting inside with a burst of pace. His low cross had venom, skimming toward Roger Martí at the near post—but Ter Stegen read it early, diving low to smother it before it could become a real threat. In a heartbeat, Barcelona transitioned. Busquets gathered the clearance and released it to Mateo in space. He didn't keep the ball long—just a single touch forward before driving toward the right flank. Two defenders were immediately drawn to him like iron to a magnet, but before they could close him down, he slipped a short pass to Messi, who now had a huge lane to operate in. Although the move ended without a shot, the message was clear: Levante couldn't let Mateo roam free.
27th minute – Another lightning surge from Barcelona. This time, Pedri and De Jong worked the ball neatly through midfield, finding Mateo in the half-space. He accelerated, but rather than taking on the backline head-on, he angled his run diagonally, pulling both centre-backs out of their shape. Griezmann made the opposite run into the gap Mateo left, and Messi ghosted in behind him. The Argentine collected a return pass from Pedri and unleashed a curling effort from 25 yards that whistled just over the crossbar. The crowd roared at the audacity, but more importantly, Levante's defensive line looked rattled—every time Mateo moved, space seemed to open like a trapdoor.
31st minute – Levante had their best chance yet. Bardhi found space on the edge of the box and let fly a thunderous strike, forcing Ter Stegen into a fingertip save that drew applause even from the visiting bench. From the ensuing corner, Barcelona broke with surgical speed. Mateo started deep in his own half, sprinting past two markers before switching play to the opposite flank with a crossfield ball that landed perfectly for Jordi Alba. Though the move ended with a blocked shot, Levante's midfielders were now visibly gasping for air—chasing Mateo was draining them.
37th minute – This was where Mateo's influence became art. Messi received the ball just inside Levante's half, but the entire defensive shape seemed to bend toward Mateo, who was making a high, arcing run down the right. Two defenders followed him instinctively, leaving a yawning gap in the centre. Messi didn't need an invitation—he stepped into the void and unleashed an outrageous outside-foot shot from distance. The ball bent wickedly, curling inside the far post. The stadium erupted. 2-0. Mateo didn't touch the ball in the sequence, yet his run had carved the path.
40th minute – Levante refused to fold. Morales again tested Roberto with a darting dribble, cutting in and firing low, but Ter Stegen's positioning was immaculate. On the counter, Mateo was everywhere—dropping deep to collect, accelerating past midfielders, then slowing suddenly to let support arrive. It was a maturity in his play that was catching even Koeman's eye. Rather than charging headlong, he waited for Messi to arrive, then flicked a quick backheel into his path. Though the shot was blocked, the crowd was eating up the flair.
42nd minute – Barcelona nearly added a third. De Jong broke through midfield and spotted Mateo drifting between the lines. Receiving the ball, Mateo feinted left, drawing both centre-backs toward him, then spun right, releasing Griezmann down the channel. Griezmann's cross was cut out at the last moment by Postigo, but again the danger had originated from Mateo's gravitational pull. Levante's defenders were beginning to look like they were chasing shadows—shadows wearing the number on Mateo's back.
The halftime whistle was still minutes away, but already the pattern was clear: Mateo didn't need to be on the scoresheet to dominate a match. His runs were the threads pulling Barcelona's tapestry together, while Levante scrambled to keep the whole thing from unraveling.
The game carried its same relentless rhythm into the second half, the intensity hardly dipping even after the restart. By the 46th minute—barely a minute into play—Mateo was already making his presence felt again. He darted toward the right channel, his first touch a caress that killed the pace of a zipping pass from Pedri, before exploding past his marker with a sudden burst of acceleration. His run dragged two defenders with him, their eyes fixed on the ball but their bodies bending to match his every stride.
When the cross came in from the left, Mateo was there—timing his leap perfectly. His aerial prowess wasn't just in the height he could reach, but in the way he seemed to hang there for a fraction longer than anyone else. The defenders jumped too, but they were reacting; Mateo was dictating. At the apex of his leap, instead of trying to smash a header at goal, he angled it deliberately into the path of Messi, who was ghosting into space at the edge of the box.
Messi, with the touch of a pickpocket, brought the ball under control and instantly slid a pass into the feet of Griezmann. The Frenchman needed no second invitation. One touch to steady himself, one strike to send the ball fizzing past Aitor Fernández. 3-0. His second goal of the night. And, just like that, the match felt sealed.
Koeman clearly thought so too. The Dutchman, whose sideline expression rarely gave much away, broke into a decisive wave of his hand toward the bench. This was no time for unnecessary risks. The coming fixtures were too important, and Mateo's tendency to fade in away games—his stamina still not built for the full grind—was no secret inside the camp. Without hesitation, Koeman called the number.
Mateo, cheeks faintly flushed from exertion, jogged off to warm applause from the home crowd. A small grin tugged at his lips as he zipped up his jacket and took his seat among the substitutes.
Today might have seemed uneventful to some — one of those rare matches where he hadn't registered a goal or assist — but Mateo knew, with absolute certainty, that this was one of his finest performances yet.
The stat merchants on SofaScore were already screaming online: How does he have an 8.5 rating with no goal or assist?
But those who understood the game knew.
And for them, that smile on Mateo's face made perfect sense. This had been one of the best matches of his short, yet already impactful, professional career.
Barcelona kept up the pressure, even with changes rolling in. By the 70th minute, Messi was also withdrawn, but not before adding another goal to his tally. It came from a moment of generosity: Griezmann, sitting on two goals himself and with a hat-trick at his mercy, chose instead to thread a low pass across the face of goal to the Argentine. For Messi, it was the easiest of finishes—a simple tap-in into an empty net. A taste of his own medicine, one could say, delivered with a smile.
From the bench, Mateo watched the final act unfold. Levante, pride stung and desperate to at least make a dent in the scoreline, pushed forward in search of a consolation. Barcelona's backline held firm, but the intensity of Levante's push was real—every loose ball chased, every half-chance fired toward goal. As Mateo sat there, hands tucked into his sleeves for warmth, a single thought took shape in his mind…
He had seen the chatter online—threads, posts, and clips dissecting his performances frame by frame. They all seemed to circle back to one criticism: Koeman wasn't using him to his full potential. Some were blunt, calling it a waste. Others dressed it in numbers and charts. Mateo didn't need them to tell him. Deep down, he already knew.
Yes, he was scoring. Yes, the team was winning. And for a long time, that was enough for him. He had told himself that results were the only metric that mattered, that as long as the scoreboard looked right at the final whistle, the details in between were just noise. But now, sitting there, watching the match from the bench while Dembélé drifted into his role on the pitch, the truth hit differently.
The internet trolls—the same ones he had ignored, laughed at, or occasionally muted—were right. Completely right.
With this new tactical awareness he had been developed—the vision to see spaces not just for himself but for the team, the patience to time runs and create openings instead of tearing into defenders blindly—he realized just how much of his ability was being chained. Koeman's setup didn't just limit his freedom; it was reducing him to less than half of what he could offer. Not even 50%.
And it wasn't just him. Griezmann, for all his movement and work rate, was shackled into service rather than allowed to create for himself. Pedri, whose talent for slipping passes through impossible angles could change the entire tempo of a game, was made to play safe more often than not. Even Messi—Messi, with his supposed free rein—was still anchored deep as a playmaker, feeding others when everyone in the stadium knew what he could do if allowed to roam closer to goal.
Restrictive. For all of them.
Mateo exhaled sharply and shook his head, forcing the thought out before it grew teeth. This wasn't the time to think he knew better. He wasn't about to walk into Koeman's office and challenge him—not yet. Not with the season poised on the edge of something massive.
And certainly not with what lay ahead.
Because next week, on Wednesday, Barcelona would travel to Germany. And not just anywhere in Germany—to face the reigning kings of the Bundesliga, the red-clad machine that had dismantled so many before them.
From this moment on, every stray thought, every distraction, every post-match reflection was swept aside. The only thing on his mind—and on the mind of every player wearing the crest of FC Barcelona—was boiled down to two words.
Bayern Munich.
A/N
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