Rage was no longer a fire consuming him, but a cold, calculated energy coursing through his veins. It was an engine that had replaced the sadness, confusion, and anxiety that had tormented him for years. His mind, once a prison of rituals and obsessive thoughts, was now a strategic battlefield with a single, unmistakable objective: to surpass and destroy the man who bore the same mark on his back. Cristian had begun his shadow training.
Every morning, his body moved with a new precision. He didn't run to escape anxiety, but to build his endurance. Every sprint, every jump, every touch of the ball was a calculated move. His posture, once hunched to retreat from the world, was now a reflection of his mind: focused and ruthless. His teammates watched him with a mix of awe and confusion. He spoke to no one, never joked, and never smiled. He simply played, and his game was no longer a joy, but a martial art—an act of war.
After practice, his ritual remained unchanged. He would return home, sit at his desk, and immerse himself in a world of old football videos. They were videos of Juglian, the "King" he had never known. Cristian studied his movements, his feints, his power. He analyzed every goal and every pass, not as a fan, but as an investigator.
His strength is his weakness. Too much confidence in his physique. Relies on speed, not strategy. An extra touch. A moment of hesitation. A gap in his game.
His notes were a complex grid of data and observations: pros and cons, strengths and weaknesses. His mind, which had found order in the chaos of numbers and letters, now found its purpose in decoding his opponent. The star-shaped mark on Juglian's back, once a symbol of a painful bond, was now a target. He no longer hated him; he scrutinized him. He admired his strength and determination, yet simultaneously viewed him as a problem to be solved, a challenge to be overcome.
One evening, after a match he had dominated with cold precision, a man in an elegant suit waited for him off the pitch. He was a talent scout, just like the ones Cristian had seen in so many videos. Cristian didn't get excited; he didn't smile. He stood still, his posture slightly curved, his hands joined. The man complimented him, telling him he was a rare talent and that he should consider joining a high-level youth academy. "I have friends at Barcelona," the man said. "I could get you a trial."
Martina, standing beside him, held her breath. To her, it was an opportunity—a sign that her son would have a brilliant future. But for Cristian, it was the perfect move. His gaze, once lost in sadness, was now fixed on the man. He didn't answer with words, but with an expression that left no room for doubt. It was a challenge, an acceptance. A silent yes.
As they drove home, Martina tried to talk to him, to ask if he was happy. But Cristian did not respond. His mind was already elsewhere, inside the glass labyrinth he had created for himself. His rage was a lighthouse, his hatred a compass. He didn't want glory, he didn't want success, he didn't want love. He wanted only one thing. Revenge. And revenge had a face, a body, and a star-shaped birthmark. The match had begun. And Cristian was ready to win.