The morning sun didn't rise in Vila Rosa; it aggressively intruded through the gaps in Thiago's corrugated roof. Thiago groaned, his body feeling like it had been dismantled and reassembled by an amateur mechanic. Every muscle fiber was singing a chorus of protest, a lingering tax for the ten minutes of god-like agility the System had borrowed from the future.
[ MORNING UPDATE ]
[ PHYSICAL RECOVERY: 15% ]
[ FAME LEVEL: LOCAL LEGEND / INTERNET VIRAL ]
[ ADVICE: CONSUME CALORIES. YOUR METABOLISM IS SCREAMING. ]
Thiago didn't need the System to tell him that. He dragged himself out of bed, his stomach growling with the ferocity of a caged animal.
He wandered toward the village center, his pockets slightly heavier with the winnings from Old Man Jorge—who had handed over the money with the look of a man passing a kidney stone. Thiago stopped at Dona Maria's, a roadside stall that served the best pão de queijo and coxinha in the state.
As he bit into the golden, fried crust of a chicken croquette, the grease acting as a balm for his weary soul, his mind began to drift. He was sixteen. In Brazil, sixteen is the age of crossroads. For most, it was the age you accepted a life of manual labor; for a lucky few, it was the age you signed a contract that moved your mother out of the favela.
Thiago looked at his thin, calloused hands. He remembered the slums of Belo Horizonte—the "favelas" where the air smelled of charcoal and rain. An orphan with nothing but a tattered ball, he had spent his childhood trying to emulate the greats, only to realize by age twelve that he possessed the grace of a newborn giraffe.
The realization had been brutal. He had the "Eye"—he could see the passes before they happened—but his feet refused to cooperate. He had been a "talentless hack" until he turned that bitterness into a weapon: analysis. If he couldn't play, he would predict. If he couldn't score, he would bet.
But now... he thought, chewing slowly. That blue screen changed the math.
Thirty miles away, in a room that smelled of expensive espresso and leather, the atmosphere was far less relaxed. Marcos, the Sporting Director of Clube Atlético Mineiro, leaned over a mahogany table.
"I've run the video through the analytics software," a younger scout said, tapping a tablet. "The biomechanics in that rainbow flick are... anomalous. He shouldn't be able to generate that much torque with that frame."
"And his history?" Marcos asked, his eyes narrowing.
"That's the strange part," the scout replied. "He's known as 'The Tongue.' He's a gambler. A talker. Local reports say he's never played a competitive minute in his life because he's, and I quote, 'technically disastrous.' Then, yesterday, he does this."
Marcos watched the clip of Thiago's header. "Either he's the greatest actor in football history, or he's a late bloomer of legendary proportions. If we don't move, Cruzeiro will. Get me a line to whoever handles him."
Thiago was halfway through his second coxinha when his ancient, cracked smartphone began to vibrate violently on the wooden table. The caller ID was a private number from the city.
He hesitated. Usually, private numbers meant debt collectors or Jorge's angry cousins. But something in his gut—or perhaps a subtle hum from the System—told him to pick up.
"Hello?" Thiago said, his mouth still half-full of pastry.
"Is this Thiago Santos? Also known as 'The Tongue'?" The voice was polished, fast-paced, and carried the unmistakable weight of money.
"Depends on who's asking," Thiago replied, trying to regain his 'Jazzing' persona. "If you're looking for tactical consulting, my rates just went up."
"My name is André Silva. I'm an authorized representative for Clube Atlético Mineiro. We saw your... performance in Vila Rosa. We'd like to invite you for a closed-door trial at the Academy. Tomorrow morning. 8:00 AM."
Thiago nearly choked. The coxinha felt like a lead weight in his throat. He looked around the dusty village square—the stray dogs, the old men on crates, the life he had used words to survive.
"Tomorrow?" Thiago managed to say, his voice cracking. "I... I have a very busy schedule of, uh, analyzing the local markets."
"Thiago," the agent's voice dropped an octave, turning serious. "The video has three million views. The 'market' is coming for you whether you're ready or not. Do you want to keep talking about the game, or do you want to play it?"
[ NEW MISSION DETECTED ]
[ OBJECTIVE: THE PROVING GROUND ]
[ REWARD: PROFESSIONAL CONTRACT / UNLOCK 'PERMANENT STAT BOOSTS' ]
[ FAILURE: RETURN TO THE SLUMS. ]
Thiago looked at the blue screen flickering in his peripheral vision. He swallowed the last of his food and wiped the grease on his shorts.
"I'll be there," Thiago said, his heart beginning to drum that familiar, frantic rhythm. "But tell your coaches to have a high-def camera ready. I don't like to do the same miracle twice for free."