The morning was cold, but Rikuo's heart was burning.
He arrived at the Tokyo CF center, the biggest club in the capital.
Modern buildings, immaculate pitches, players in official tracksuits…
The kind of place where dreams are made—or broken.
He took a deep breath.
"Alright… three days. Just three days."
At the entrance, the old man Senda was waiting, leaning against a wall, as if he knew the exact moment Rikuo would appear.
"There you are, kid. Not late, I like that."
"I almost didn't come," admitted Rikuo.
"But you came. And that's what changes everything."
Senda led him toward the building.
They passed professional players jogging around the grounds.
One of them turned his head, curious about Rikuo.
"Don't mind them," Senda whispered.
"If you join this club, you might be playing with them one day."
Rikuo swallowed hard.
The idea felt unreal.
The Locker Room
The room was already noisy.
Fifteen or so young players, aged 18 to 22, some putting on their boots, others chatting.
All wearing the Tokyo CF training kit.
When Rikuo stepped in, silence fell abruptly.
Eyes on him.
Whispers.
Furrowed brows.
"Who's that?"
"Never seen him."
"A new kid? No way, the coach would've said…"
"Maybe a sponsor's kid?"
Pressure built, but Rikuo remained calm.
He had faced worse: national finals in France, U17 international matches…
But here, he was nobody.
Senda clapped his hands.
"Gentlemen! This is Rikuo Amada. Three-day trial. Treat him like one of your own."
A cold-eyed player sneered.
"Yes, Coach Senda. We'll treat him properly."
The old man smiled.
"I'm counting on you. And remember… the pitch speaks louder than words."
The coach
When the players stepped onto the pitch, an imposing man awaited them, arms crossed.
Stern face. Piercing eyes. Heavy aura.
Coach Ryoma Kirishima, head of the academy.
"Very well. I hear we have a guest today."
He fixed his gaze on Rikuo.
No emotion.
No smile.
"Amada, right? Where do you play?"
Rikuo hesitated.
"I… haven't been in any club recently."
Muffled laughter echoed.
Kirishima didn't flinch.
"Position?"
"Number 10."
"Hm. They all say that."
He whistled.
"Alright. Warm-up, then technical drills. Let's see if you can keep up."
The first passes
The young players took their positions.
Controls. Passes. Shots.
Rikuo kept pace, but Kirishima wasn't watching him yet.
He observed the group from a distance.
Then came the individual drills.
Dribbling through tight cones.
Speed with the ball.
Targeted shots.
When it was Rikuo's turn, he felt his breath calm.
The ball was at his feet.
And then… something shifted.
His body remembered its truth.
He moved through the cones like a breeze.
Footwork light, fluid, precise.
Low center of gravity, despite his 1.80m frame.
Every dribble a caress.
Every move natural, divine, instinctive.
Murmurs rose among the players.
"Wait… what is this agility?"
"It's like he's floating…"
"Did you see his speed?!"
At the end of the slalom, he executed a gentle shot, perfectly placed, cleaning the top corner—not with power, but with surgical finesse.
Kirishima squinted.
For the first time… he seemed intrigued.
The Vision
Second drill: triangle passing.
Moving passes, body orientation, instant deflection.
Rikuo played before the ball even arrived.
His field of vision was vast, almost unreal.
He anticipated others' movements before they even began.
The players around him began to falter.
"How did he see that?!"
"He's playing ahead of us!"
"We can't even keep up…"
Senda, standing on the sideline, smiled like a child.
The ScrimmageFinally, the coach blew his whistle.
"Training match. Two teams. Amada, you're in blue. Show us what you can do in real situations."
The match started at an intense pace.
The academy players were fast, technical, aggressive.
They wanted to test him.
Push him.
Break him.
A midfielder charged him violently on his first touch.
Rikuo didn't flinch.
He controlled, angling his foot inward.
One touch, he evaded the opponent.
A second came.
A slight outside hook. Gone.
A third tried a tackle.
Rikuo lifted the ball lightly with his toe, flicked it over the player, trapped it on his chest, and sent a pass into space without even looking.
A magician.
The players froze, stunned.
"What… who is this guy?!"
The ball reached the blue striker's feet perfectly.
Even the striker was speechless.
Kirishima observed in silence.
End of Training
The whistle blew.
The players were exhausted.
But Rikuo… strangely calm.
As if his body had waited for this moment for years.
The coach approached.
All went silent.
"Amada."
Rikuo clenched his teeth.
"We'll see you tomorrow."
Just that.
No praise.
No criticism.
But for a coach like Kirishima, it was almost a sign of recognition.
Senda arrived behind him, hands in pockets.
"Not bad for a first day."
Rikuo shrugged.
"I just… did what I could."
The old man smiled.
"It's not what you can do, kid. It's who you are."
Rikuo lowered his eyes.
He didn't want to believe it yet.
Not before completing the three days.
He went home, silent, heart racing.
No one knew anything.
His father had no idea.
And for the first time in years, Rikuo wanted to keep a secret.
To surprise his father later.