The world felt unreal.
Azul stood on the pitch, boots planted in the grass, but everything around him seemed to shimmer — like a scene from a dream that might dissolve at any moment. It was Lionel Messi.
*Lionel Messi.*
Just meters away.
The greatest player Azul had ever known.
The man who shaped his childhood, his ambitions, his heart.
Messi spoke briefly with Coach Navarro, then walked toward the center of the field, relaxed, hands on his hips, the same posture he had before every brilliant moment of his career.
Azul couldn't look away.
He didn't dare blink.
"Eyes up," Pablo whispered beside him, giving him a tiny shove. "You look like you're about to cry, hermano."
Azul swallowed hard, forcing a breath.
"I might."
The squad jogged forward as Navarro called out:
"Warm-up rondos! Groups of eight!"
Azul's group formed quickly.
But everything felt different — tighter, heavier, as if gravity itself had increased.
Every player around him stole glances toward Messi, pretending they weren't, and immediately messing up their touches.
The rondo started.
The ball zipped around.
Two players in the center chased.
When it came to Azul, touches that normally felt effortless suddenly felt *too loud*, too heavy, too noticeable.
His chest tightened.
He received the ball—
and Messi's eyes flicked toward him.
Just for a second.
Azul's heart stuttered.
He played a clean pass, but his legs trembled.
Pablo whispered, "Bro. Relax. Relax. Relax! You're overthinking."
But how was he supposed to relax?
How could anyone be calm when Lionel Messi — the myth, the legend, the man Azul wanted to follow — was watching every single movement?
---
### **Messi Approaches**
Halfway through warm-ups, Messi walked toward Azul's rondo group.
No one breathed.
The ball slowed.
Feet hesitated.
Even time seemed to stop.
Messi casually stepped into the circle, smiling lightly.
"Don't freeze," he said. "Keep playing."
His Spanish was soft. Gentle.
But the command behind it? Firm.
The boys restarted instantly, terrified of messing up.
Messi watched their touches, nodding slightly, then his gaze slid to Azul.
It lingered.
Azul felt heat rush through him.
He did his best — quick one-touches, clean controls, small feints to open angles.
He didn't do anything flashy.
Just pure, efficient football.
Messi's expression changed.
Not shock.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
He had noticed.
Azul's pulse thundered.
Suddenly, Messi stepped into the center of the rondo.
The group gasped.
"Come steal it," Messi said softly.
The boys looked at each other, terrified.
Pablo mouthed, "We're dead."
Azul stared, frozen.
He was being challenged — directly — by his idol.
"Go," Messi encouraged.
Azul stepped in.
And the world sharpened.
---
### **The Rondo Against Messi**
The ball started moving.
Azul tracked it immediately — the Emperor's Eye activating like a supercomputer.
Movement patterns.
Angles of receipt.
Passing tendencies.
But Messi wasn't normal.
Messi wasn't predictable.
Messi was chaos and magic wrapped inside calm touches.
Azul lunged at the first pass — Messi shifted his weight, barely, and the ball was gone.
He tried again.
Another micro-touch from Messi, and Azul missed by inches.
But Azul wasn't discouraged.
This was Messi.
Even *being close* felt like an honor.
He recalibrated.
Adjusted his steps.
Read Messi's hips, his body lean, the timing.
Then — a moment.
A half-second opening.
Azul lunged—
And Messi *nutmegged* him.
The group erupted in shouts and laughter.
Azul stumbled forward, mortified, but then he felt a hand tap his shoulder.
He turned.
Messi was smiling.
"Buena presión," he said.
"Good pressure."
Azul's lungs nearly collapsed.
Praise.
From *him.*
Pablo grabbed Azul the moment Messi walked away.
"You just got nutmegged by Messi! THAT'S A BLESSING!"
Azul couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face.
It felt unreal.
Like he could float.
---
### **The Scrimmage Begins**
After warmups, Navarro gathered the players.
"Two teams. High intensity. Full-size pitch. Messi will observe positioning and decision-making."
Messi folded his arms, studying the field.
His presence alone made everyone twice as focused.
Azul was placed as the left interior midfielder — his natural role.
From there, he could dictate tempo, control rhythm, connect lines.
The whistle blew.
And Azul forced himself into focus.
*Don't think about Messi watching.*
*Just play.*
*Play your football.*
---
### **A Deceptively Simple Start**
Azul received his first ball in midfield.
A defender closed in quickly.
Azul used a small shoulder drop —
Fake right.
Pivot left.
Smooth.
Clean.
Controlled.
Messi's voice came quietly from the sideline:
"Bien."
Azul nearly tripped from the shock.
Messi was watching him specifically.
He passed to Pablo, then moved into space.
Simple.
No risk.
Building rhythm.
He wasn't trying to impress with tricks.
He was trying to impress by being *Barcelona.*
By being the mind, not the spectacle.
Messi nodded again.
Another pass.
Another turn.
Another perfectly timed release.
With every touch, Azul felt more in his element — listening to the game, not to his nerves.
---
### **The Moment of Real Recognition**
Twenty minutes into the scrimmage, Azul saw something —
a pattern forming at the far side of the pitch.
An overload.
A trap.
An opening.
The Emperor's Eye pulsed.
He understood everything instantly.
Azul called for the ball.
A teammate passed it to him under pressure.
Azul didn't hesitate.
He took one touch to pull a marker, then sliced a diagonal through-ball across the pitch —
a pass so sharp, so unexpected, so perfectly weighted —
that the winger ran onto it in full stride, beat the fullback, and squared the ball for an easy tap-in.
Goal.
The entire field went silent for a heartbeat.
Even the coaches froze.
Then Messi spoke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But clearly enough that everyone heard it:
"Eso fue muy Messi."
"That was very Messi-like."
Azul's soul nearly left his body.
The greatest player in the world —
the man Azul modeled his entire game after —
just said Azul reminded him of *him.*
Pablo screamed, "AZUL, WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?!"
The scrimmage restarted, but Azul felt like he was floating.
Messi watched him now with intent —
not as a random academy kid,
but as someone worth observing.
Someone with potential.
---
### **After the Scrimmage**
When the session ended, the players lined up to thank Messi for attending.
One by one, they shook his hand.
When Azul stepped forward, Messi held his gaze a moment longer.
"You read the game very well," he said.
"Better than most your age."
Azul felt heat rush up his neck.
"Gracias, Leo. I… I learned by watching you."
Messi nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful.
"You have vision," he said. "Real vision. Keep it. Don't force it. Use it to help the team."
Azul swallowed hard.
"I will."
Messi smiled gently.
"I'll be back to watch again."
Azul's heart thundered.
Messi.
Messi wanted to watch *him* again.
When Messi walked away toward the facility, Azul stood frozen, barely able to process what had happened.
Pablo grabbed him in a chokehold from behind.
"BRO. YOU GOT A CALLBACK FROM MESSI."
Azul didn't even argue.
Because it was true.
Messi saw him.
Messi noticed him.
Messi recognized him.
And Azul knew—
This was only the beginning.
---
**End of Chapter 30**