While Juglian's world found an unexpected stillness in the warmth of a coffee and a shared embrace, Cristian's universe was reaching a boiling point—a cauldron of cold determination and calculated revenge. For him, football was not a game, a passion, or a refuge. It was an equation, a problem to be solved with maximum efficiency. The pitch was a chessboard, and every player was a piece to be studied, moved, and, if necessary, sacrificed.
The day of the tryout arrived. The Barcelona training ground, once Juglian's kingdom, was to Cristian just another arena. The air was thick with expectation, hope, and an anxiety that did not touch him. The other boys moved with a mix of nervousness and ambition, talking among themselves, laughing, and joking. Cristian remained in silence, his posture upright, his gaze fixed and analytical. Every muscle in his body was a taut string, ready to play the melody of perfection.
The coach approached him, his eyes a mixture of curiosity and veiled skepticism. "You're here for the tryout, kid?" he asked, his voice low.
"Yes," Cristian murmured, his voice cold and devoid of emotion.
"Are you ready?"
"I was born ready," he replied, and a shadow of a smile—one that did not reach his eyes—flickered across his face.
The opening whistle was his signal. The match began, and Cristian moved like a shadow. He didn't run aimlessly but with surgical precision. Every movement, every pass, every dribble was a calculated move. His mind, which once lost itself in labyrinths of numbers and patterns, was now his most powerful weapon. He studied his opponents, their body language, their weaknesses—and he used them against them.
His primary opponent, a tall and robust boy, confronted him with a feint. Cristian didn't react. He simply observed him, and then, with a speed that defied logic, he stripped him of the ball. The opponent looked at him, his gaze a mix of shock and indignation. But Cristian didn't flinch. He simply stared back and then, with a fluid and graceful motion, delivered a shoulder barge that sent the boy to the ground. It wasn't a gesture of anger. It was a gesture of pure logic—a mathematical calculation.
The match continued, and Cristian dominated. Not through brute force, but through strategy. Not through passion, but through coldness. His play was a work of art—a work of art with the sole purpose of revenge.
The climax of the chapter came when the ball found him again. He was in a dangerous position, just a few meters from the penalty area. The entire opposing team moved to encircle him, but Cristian stood still. He simply observed, studied, and calculated. And then, with a swiftness that went beyond logic, he struck the ball. It wasn't a powerful shot. It was a precise shot—one that surpassed human understanding. The ball found the back of the net, and a heavy silence spread across the field.
The coach approached him, his eyes full of wonder and admiration. "You're a genius," he whispered. "A genius."
Cristian turned and looked at him, his eyes pools of profound pain. He said nothing; he had no need for words. He simply glanced at his arm, where the star-shaped birthmark lay hidden beneath his jersey. His revenge was only beginning. And his heart, which was once a black hole consuming him, was now a lighthouse illuminating an infinity of hope. His family—his true family—was there.