The soreness hit Azul the next morning before he even opened his eyes.
A dull, deep ache in his thighs.
A sharp tightness in his calves.
A heaviness in his shoulders from constant contact.
For a few seconds he lay still, staring at the ceiling, letting the pain spread through him like a slow reminder.
*This is what the next level feels like.*
He pushed himself upright and forced his feet onto the cold floor.
No hesitation.
No giving himself time to doubt.
He had chosen this.
---
By the time he reached the cafeteria, the early sunlight streamed in through the windows, painting long golden lines across the tables. Pablo was already there, scarfing down toast like someone was about to steal it.
"Bro," Pablo said through a full mouth, "you look like you got hit by a bus."
"Feels like it," Azul replied, grabbing a plate.
"So how was Day One? They try to sacrifice you? Send you back in pieces?"
Azul sat down and stretched his sore wrist. "It was… hard."
Pablo waited.
Azul added, "Really hard."
Pablo nodded slowly, as if Azul had just told him he'd discovered fire. "Good."
Azul frowned. "Good?"
"Yes," Pablo said. "Because that means you're where you belong."
Azul allowed a small smile. Pablo's confidence in him always seemed stronger than his own.
---
Training that day began with a long tactical session — a breakdown of pressing triggers and positional lanes. Most boys grumbled under their breath. Not Azul.
To him, tactics were a language.
Patterns.
Shapes.
Cause and effect.
A way to *see* the game.
He absorbed every word, every diagram on the screen, every explanation from Morales, who seemed to take special interest in calling on him.
"Reyes," Morales said, pointing at a still frame, "ball is here. Backline stretched. What's the interior's first responsibility?"
Azul answered without hesitation. "Cover the passing lane, but position the body to threaten a forward press."
Morales nodded. "Exactly."
Some older boys glanced at him, eyebrows raised slightly.
Óscar didn't even look surprised.
---
Later, during the passing carousel drill, Azul found his rhythm sooner than yesterday.
Touches soft.
Timing precise.
Eyes scanning constantly.
Still, Óscar marked him aggressively during transitions, testing his reactions.
In one sequence, Azul received the ball under pressure. Óscar lunged. Azul pulled it away with a last-second drag-back, then flicked it into the next lane.
Óscar smirked.
"Better."
Azul breathed out carefully.
Small improvements.
Not dominance — *progress.*
---
The real conflict of the day came during the positional game later.
The team split into two groups.
Azul was placed on Óscar's team again — but unlike yesterday, Óscar spoke directly to him during play.
"Shift left!"
"Hold the lane!"
"Faster!"
"Don't drop, stay high!"
It wasn't friendly.
But it wasn't hostile either.
It was demanding.
Azul kept up.
Barely.
The speed was higher today. Passes were faster. Movement more coordinated. Azul made mistakes — several — but each time he corrected quickly.
Still… the moment everyone remembered came near the end.
Óscar received the ball in a tight zone. Two defenders collapsed on him. With no clear outlet, he tapped the ball toward Azul — a risky pass, a test.
Azul controlled it with one touch.
In the same motion, he turned — half of the turn was instinct, the other half was the Emperor-like vision that burned through him.
And he *saw* it immediately:
A forward cutting between center-backs.
A passing lane opening for a fraction of a second.
A thread of space, delicate as silk.
Azul didn't think.
He carved the ball through the defenders like a knife slicing water.
Perfect.
Clean.
Weighted like a whisper.
The forward received it alone and buried it.
The whole field paused.
Even Óscar blinked once, sharply.
Morales shouted from the sideline, "YES! That is Barca tempo!"
Azul stared at his own foot for a second.
*That vision… it's growing.*
Not just instinct anymore.
Not just talent.
A sharpened ability.
A weapon.
---
After training ended, the boys dispersed quickly, eager for food or rest. Azul stayed a moment, catching his breath alone on the empty grass.
Óscar approached.
Azul braced himself — he had no idea what mood Óscar was in today.
But Óscar simply stopped beside him and said:
"You're improving faster than I expected."
Azul blinked. "Thank you."
"It's not a compliment," Óscar said bluntly. "It means I need to raise my level too."
Azul let out a slow breath.
This was Óscar's version of respect.
The older boy looked at him directly. "If you keep this up… you might actually belong here."
Azul held his gaze.
"I will."
Óscar nodded once, turned, and walked off.
A small victory.
Quiet.
But real.
---
That night, Azul returned to his notebook.
*Day 2: Hard. But progress. Small reads getting faster. Óscar demanding more. Vision sharpening under pressure. Morales positive. Body exhausted but adapting.*
He paused, pencil hovering.
Then he wrote:
*One day closer to the dream.*
He closed the notebook and turned off the lamp.
Outside, Barcelona hummed under the dark sky — alive, sprawling, eternal.
Azul listened to it for a moment, feeling something inside him align, small and sure.
*The work is slow. But it's happening.*
---
##**End of Chapter 24**##