The studio lights were blinding.
**El Chiringuito de Jugones**, Spain's most-watched football talk show, had transformed its Madrid headquarters into a circus of speculation and breaking news. Six analysts sat around the iconic hexagonal table, their faces illuminated by the harsh glow of overhead lighting, their voices competing for dominance in the controlled chaos that had made the program a cultural phenomenon. Behind them, massive LED screens displayed the Real Madrid crest in glowing white and gold, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.
It was 9:47 PM on January 15th, 2025.
And Spanish football was about to meet Kurosawa Kaito.
**"¡BOMBAZO!"** The word exploded from host Josep Pedrerol's mouth like a cannon shot, his hands slamming down on the table with enough force to make the microphones jump. **"¡BOMBAZO, BOMBAZO, BOMBAZO!"** His eyes were wild with the particular intensity that only breaking transfer news could produce, his perfectly styled hair somehow remaining immaculate despite the theatrical violence of his movements.
The screen behind him shifted, and suddenly a photograph filled the frame—a fifteen-year-old Japanese boy in a Kawasaki Frontale training kit, his dark eyes staring directly into the camera with an expression that managed to be both innocent and utterly determined. Beneath the image, bold white text declared the impossible:
**OFICIAL: KUROSAWA KAITO - REAL MADRID**
**€10,000,000 - KAWASAKI FRONTALE**
**CONTRATO HASTA 2030**
**"Real Madrid,"** Pedrerol continued, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that somehow carried more weight than his earlier shouting, **"has just announced the signing of fifteen-year-old Japanese midfielder Kurosawa Kaito from Kawasaki Frontale for ten million euros. TEN. MILLION. EUROS. For a child who has never played professional football in Europe. For a boy who three months ago was playing in Japanese youth leagues against teenagers most of us have never heard of."**
The camera cut to Cristóbal Soria, the former Sevilla director known for his passionate—some would say unhinged—commentary. His face was already red, his hands gesturing wildly before he'd even begun speaking.
**"¡Es una locura!"** (It's madness!) Soria's voice cracked with emotion. **"Ten million euros! For a fifteen-year-old! From Japan! Florentino Pérez has finally lost his mind! Real Madrid is supposed to sign galácticos, not—not—"** He gestured at the screen, searching for words. **"—not children from Asia who weigh forty kilos soaking wet!"**
**"Forty-eight kilos, actually,"** interjected Edu Aguirre, the journalist closest to Real Madrid's inner circle, his tone dry and factual. He adjusted his glasses and consulted his phone, where privileged information from club sources glowed on the screen. **"According to the medical examination conducted yesterday. One hundred sixty-eight centimeters tall, forty-eight kilograms. Small, yes. But—"**
**"But WHAT?"** Soria wasn't finished. **"Real Madrid has Jude Bellingham! They have Federico Valverde! They have Eduardo Camavinga! What do they need with a Japanese teenager who looks like he should still be in middle school?"**
**"What they need,"** Aguirre replied calmly, his inside knowledge giving him confidence the others lacked, **"is exactly what they're getting. Have you actually watched him play, Cristóbal? Or are you just reacting to the price tag?"**
The question hung in the air for a beat.
**"I'm reacting to reality!"** Soria shot back. **"The reality that Real Madrid just spent ten million euros—money that could have been used to sign a proven player, someone who could contribute NOW—on a gamble. A hope. A dream that this boy from Japan might, MIGHT, develop into something useful five years from now!"**
**"Then you haven't watched the footage,"** Aguirre said, and there was something almost pitying in his tone. **"Álvaro, roll the highlights."**
The screen behind them shifted again, the studio fading to black as new images took over. A football pitch materialized—not the gleaming perfection of European stadiums, but a more modest Japanese facility, the stands perhaps half-full, the production quality slightly lower than what Spanish audiences were accustomed to. Text appeared at the bottom of the screen:
**KAWASAKI FRONTALE U-15 vs YOKOHAMA F. MARINOS U-15**
**J-LEAGUE YOUTH CHAMPIONSHIP SEMI-FINAL**
**DECEMBER 2024**
The camera focused on a small figure wearing Kawasaki's sky blue kit, number 10 on his back, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Kurosawa Kaito, thirteen months younger than he was now, receiving the ball in midfield with two opponents closing him down.
What happened next made the studio analysts fall silent.
Kaito's first touch killed the ball dead, absorbing the pace with the instep of his right foot while his body was already pivoting away from the first defender. The motion was so smooth it looked choreographed, like a dancer executing a move they'd practiced ten thousand times. Before the defender could adjust, Kaito had dragged the ball across his body with the outside of his left foot, creating just enough space to look up and survey the field.
The Japanese commentator's voice erupted through the speakers, rapid-fire and passionate:
**"KAITO! Migi ni—"** (To the right—) But the pass was already traveling, a perfectly weighted ball that split two defenders and found a teammate sprinting into space on the wing.
**"Increíble,"** (Incredible) breathed Pedrerol from the studio, his earlier theatrics forgotten in genuine admiration.
The highlight reel continued, a carefully curated collection of moments designed to justify the ten million euros Real Madrid had just spent:
**Clip Two:** Kaito receiving the ball with his back to goal, a larger defender pressing into him. The commentator was already excited: **"Kaito, atsui—"** (Kaito, under pressure—) The Japanese boy felt the contact, used it to his advantage, spinning away from the defender with a roulette turn that Zinedine Zidane would have approved of. The crowd gasped. Before the defender could recover, Kaito had played a no-look pass between two opponents, finding a teammate in the penalty area who scored with a simple tap-in.
**"Look at the vision!"** Aguirre was pointing at the screen excitedly. **"He doesn't even LOOK before playing that pass! He knew where his teammate would be before the ball even reached his feet!"**
**Clip Three:** A free kick, twenty-two meters from goal. Kaito stood over the ball, his slight frame somehow not looking out of place despite being surrounded by players who were visibly larger and more physically developed. The Japanese commentator was building anticipation: **"Kaito... karera wa kare ga nani o suru ka shiranai..."** (They don't know what he'll do...)
Kaito ran up to the ball, his approach deceptively casual. His planted foot landed exactly beside the ball, his striking foot made contact just below center, and the ball rose with vicious spin. It curled over the wall, dipped viciously at the apex of its flight, and nestled into the top corner while the goalkeeper watched helplessly, frozen by the perfection of the strike.
The celebration that followed was subdued—Kaito had simply raised one hand to the sky, his eyes closed, his lips moving in what might have been a prayer or a promise. His teammates mobbed him, but even in the chaos of celebration, the camera caught something in the boy's expression that wasn't quite joy. It was relief, maybe. Or determination. Or the weight of expectations that someone his age shouldn't already be carrying.
**Clip Four:** A counterattack, Kawasaki Frontale breaking from their own half with devastating speed. Kaito collected the ball in the center circle, and suddenly the game shifted into a different gear. He drove forward with the ball seemingly glued to his feet, his dribbling style not flashy but ruthlessly efficient—every touch pushing the ball just far enough ahead to maintain momentum while keeping it close enough to change direction at any moment.
Two defenders converged on him. The Japanese commentator was screaming: **"KAITO! Pinchi da—"** (It's dangerous—)
But Kaito saw what they couldn't. At the last possible second, just as the defenders committed to the tackle, he threaded a pass through the impossibly small gap between their legs—a perfectly weighted ball that sent his striker through on goal for an easy finish.
The celebration this time was more animated, his teammates lifting him off the ground despite his protests, the home crowd on their feet in appreciation of a moment of brilliance that had decided the match.
**"Skill,"** Aguirre was saying in the studio, his voice cutting through the highlights. **"Pure technical skill. Look at his first touch. Look at his passing range. Look at how he receives the ball, processes information, and makes decisions faster than players three years older than him."**
**"But can he do it in Spain?"** Soria wasn't convinced. **"Japan is one thing. Europe is different. The pace, the physicality, the tactical complexity—"**
**"Which is why he's going to Castilla first,"** Aguirre interrupted. **"Real Madrid isn't throwing him into the first team tomorrow. He'll develop in Segunda Federación—sorry, Primera Federación now—under Raúl González. He'll learn the European game, adapt to the culture, improve physically. And in two, maybe three years, if he develops the way the club believes he will, he'll be ready for the first team."**
The highlights continued, building to a crescendo:
**Clip Five:** The J-League Youth Championship Final, Kawasaki Frontale versus FC Tokyo. The scoreboard in the corner of the screen showed 2-2, the clock reading 89:34. Injury time. Kaito received the ball thirty meters from goal, surrounded by tired opponents who had spent ninety minutes trying and failing to contain him.
The Japanese commentator was nearly incoherent with excitement: **"KAITO! SAIGO NO CHANSU!"** (Last chance!)
What followed was ten seconds of pure football magic.
Kaito took one touch to control the bouncing ball, a second touch to drag it across his body and away from a lunging defender. He accelerated into space, his small frame somehow generating enough speed to leave two opponents trailing in his wake. Another defender stepped up to challenge, and Kaito destroyed him with a stepover so quick it barely registered on camera—left foot faking outside, right foot cutting inside, the defender left sprawling on the turf.
Twenty meters from goal now. The goalkeeper was screaming at his defenders, organizing, preparing. Kaito took one more touch to set himself, and then he struck the ball with every ounce of technique his slight frame could generate.
The shot rose like a guided missile, curving away from the goalkeeper's desperate dive, bending through the air with impossible precision. It struck the inside of the far post with a sound like a thunderclap and rebounded into the net.
**GOAL.**
The stadium erupted. Kaito's teammates were already sprinting toward him, screaming, crying, losing their minds. But before they could reach him, Kaito had turned away from the goal and was running—not to the corner flag, not to the crowd, but to the sideline where the Kawasaki coaching staff stood in shock.
He dropped to his knees in front of them, his hands pressed together in front of his chest, his head bowed. The cameras zoomed in close enough to see tears streaming down his face, close enough to catch the moment when the head coach—an older Japanese man with gray hair and kind eyes—knelt down beside him and pulled him into an embrace.
The commentator was weeping openly: **"KAITO! KAITO GA YATTE KUREMASHITA! KAWASAKI GA CHANPION DESU!"** (Kaito has done it! Kawasaki are champions!)
The studio had fallen completely silent.
Even Cristóbal Soria, Real Madrid's most vocal critic on the panel, was staring at the screen with an expression that might have been respect.
**"He's fifteen,"** Pedrerol said quietly, and for once there was no theatricality in his voice, just genuine wonder. **"Fifteen years old, and he carries himself like Iniesta. Like Xavi. Like someone who understands that football is not just about skill—it's about timing, and vision, and knowing when to be selfish and when to serve the team."**
**"The question,"** said Antonio Romero, the most tactically astute analyst on the panel, **"is not whether he has talent. Clearly he has talent. The question is whether Real Madrid can develop that talent properly. Whether Raúl can shield him from the pressure that comes with a ten million euro price tag. Whether the boy can handle the loneliness of being fifteen years old and ten thousand kilometers from home."**
The screen cut back to the studio, where Aguirre was consulting his phone again, new information arriving from his sources within Real Madrid.
**"I'm told,"** he said slowly, choosing his words with care, **"that Florentino Pérez himself watched Kaito's highlight reel twelve times before approving the transfer. Twelve times. The president doesn't watch highlight reels. He listens to his scouts, trusts his directors, makes decisions based on data and recommendations. But with Kaito, he wanted to see for himself."**
**"And?"** Pedrerol leaned forward.
**"And after the twelfth viewing, Pérez reportedly said: 'Sign him. Whatever it costs, sign him. We're not buying a player. We're buying the future of Real Madrid's midfield.'"**
The words landed like a bomb in the studio.
**"The future of Real Madrid's midfield,"** Soria repeated slowly, his skepticism finally beginning to crack. **"That's... that's quite a statement."**
**"It is,"** Aguirre agreed. **"And Real Madrid doesn't make statements like that lightly. They believe—and I mean truly believe—that Kurosawa Kaito has the potential to become one of the best midfielders in the world. Not just a good player. Not just a solid professional. One of the BEST."**
**"But the risk—"** Romero began.
**"Is enormous,"** Aguirre finished. **"He could get injured. He could fail to adapt. He could be homesick, or overwhelmed, or simply not as good as the scouting reports suggest. Real Madrid has spent ten million euros on a fifteen-year-old from Japan. If this goes wrong, it will be one of the most expensive mistakes in the club's history."**
**"And if it goes right?"** Pedrerol asked.
Aguirre smiled, and it was the smile of someone who knew something the rest of the panel didn't.
**"If it goes right, we're going to look back on this moment in five years and laugh at how cheap ten million euros was."**
---
The scene shifted.
Ten thousand kilometers away, in a small television studio in Tokyo, a very different conversation was taking place.
**NHK Sports**, Japan's national broadcaster, had interrupted its regular programming for a special segment on the transfer that had stunned Japanese football. The studio was sleeker than El Chiringuito, more professional, less theatrical—but the emotion was just as intense.
Three analysts sat behind a curved desk, their expressions ranging from pride to concern to barely contained excitement. Behind them, the same photograph of Kurosawa Kaito that Spanish television had shown was displayed, but with different text:
**黒澤海斗 - レアル・マドリード移籍決定**
**KUROSAWA KAITO - REAL MADRID**
**移籍金: 10億円**
**TRANSFER FEE: €10 MILLION**
The host, a former J-League player named Nakamura Shunsuke, was speaking with the careful precision of someone trying to process information that didn't quite make sense:
**"To confirm the details one more time for our viewers: Kurosawa Kaito, age fifteen, from Kawasaki Frontale's youth academy, has signed a five-year contract with Real Madrid. The transfer fee is reported to be ten million euros—approximately 1.6 billion yen—making this the most expensive transfer of a Japanese youth player in history."**
**"It's unprecedented,"** said the analyst to his left, a woman named Tanaka Yuki who had spent twenty years covering Japanese football for various outlets. **"Takefusa Kubo went to Barcelona when he was younger, but that was a youth transfer with no fee involved. Take went to Mallorca for five million. Mitoma cost Brighton seven million. But ten million euros for a fifteen-year-old who has never played professional football? This is..."** She paused, searching for the right word. **"...this is a statement."**
**"A statement of what?"** Nakamura asked.
**"That Real Madrid believes Japanese players are not just good enough for Europe—they're good enough for the biggest clubs in the world. That the gap between Japanese and European football, which we've always assumed was massive, might not be as wide as we thought. That a boy from Kawasaki can stand on the same pitch as Vinícius Júnior and Jude Bellingham and not look out of place."**
**"But can he?"** The third analyst, a former national team coach named Honda Kenji, looked skeptical. **"That's not a criticism of Kaito's talent. I've watched him play. He's exceptional. But European football is different. Faster. More physical. More tactical. And Real Madrid—"** He shook his head. **"Real Madrid doesn't accept anything less than perfection."**
**"Which is why they signed him,"** Tanaka countered. **"Real Madrid doesn't make impulse purchases. They don't throw ten million euros at random teenagers. Their scouting network is arguably the best in the world. If they think Kaito is worth this investment, it's because they've analyzed every aspect of his game and concluded that he has the potential to justify the price tag."**
Nakamura gestured to the screen behind them, where footage was already being prepared.
**"We have highlights of Kurosawa's performances this season. Let's watch, and then we'll discuss what Real Madrid might have seen that convinced them to make this historic signing."**
The studio lights dimmed, and Japanese audiences saw what Spanish audiences had just witnessed—but through different eyes, with different context, with the weight of national pride adding layers of meaning to every touch, every pass, every goal.
The footage began with the championship final, the same ninety-minute masterclass that had convinced Real Madrid's scouts that Kurosawa Kaito was special. But before showing the match, the broadcast cut to an interview recorded two weeks earlier, when Kaito had still been just another talented Japanese youth player with dreams of professional football.
The interviewer was off-screen, her voice gentle:
**"Kaito-kun, what's your dream in football?"**
The camera focused on Kaito's face. Fifteen years old but somehow looking both younger and older than his age—younger in the soft roundness of features that hadn't yet sharpened into adult angles, older in eyes that carried weight no teenager should know. He was wearing his Kawasaki Frontale training kit, sitting in a plain room with white walls and fluorescent lighting.
**"My dream..."** His voice was quiet, measured, thoughtful in the way of someone who'd been asked this question many times but still treated it with respect. **"My dream is to play in Europe. To test myself against the best players in the world. To prove that Japanese players can compete at the highest level."**
**"Which club would you most like to play for?"**
A small smile crossed Kaito's face, and for just a moment he looked exactly like what he was—a fifteen-year-old boy being asked to imagine the impossible.
**"Real Madrid,"** he said, and there was no hesitation in his voice, no doubt, no sense that this was anything other than absolute truth. **"My father... he was a Real Madrid fan. He used to show me videos of Zidane, of Ronaldo—the Brazilian Ronaldo, and then later Cristiano. He said Real Madrid was special because they didn't just win—they won beautifully. They played football the way it was meant to be played."**
**"Your father passed away, didn't you he?"**
The smile faded.
**"Three years ago. Car accident."** The words came out flat, emotionless, the product of having to explain this painful fact so many times that the grief had been worn smooth like a stone in a river. **"He never got to see me play in a real stadium, in front of real crowds. But I know he's watching. And I know..."** Kaito's voice caught for just a fraction of a second. **"I know he'd want me to keep going. To chase the dream even when it seems impossible."**
**"And now it's not impossible anymore,"** the interviewer said gently. **"You're one of the most sought-after young players in Japan. European scouts are watching you. What happens if a big club makes an offer?"**
Kaito looked directly into the camera, and his expression was absolutely serious.
**"Then I go. No matter how hard it is, no matter how much I'll miss home, no matter how scared I am—I go. Because this isn't just my dream anymore. It's my father's dream. It's my family's future. It's the promise I made when I was twelve years old, standing in the rain at his funeral, swearing that his death wouldn't be meaningless."**
The interview ended.
The studio lights came back up, and all three analysts were silent for a moment, processing what they'd just heard.
**"He carries a lot,"** Nakamura finally said. **"A lot of weight for someone so young."**
**"Which might be exactly why Real Madrid signed him,"** Tanaka replied. **"Talent alone doesn't get you to the top of world football. There are thousands of talented players. But talent combined with that kind of determination, that kind of purpose—that's rare. That's what separates the good from the great."**
**"Let's watch the final,"** Honda said, and there was something in his voice that might have been pride. **"Let's see what convinced Real Madrid to spend ten million euros."**
The highlights began again, but this time with Japanese commentary, with context that Spanish audiences couldn't fully appreciate:
**"Kaito, representing not just Kawasaki Frontale but all of Japanese football, receives the ball in midfield..."**
**"Watch his first touch—clean, precise, exactly the kind of technique that European coaches love to see..."**
**"And there! The vision to play that pass! He's fifteen years old and he's reading the game like someone with ten years of professional experience!"**
The footage rolled on, building to the same climax—the championship-winning goal in injury time, the shot that bent physics and broke hearts and announced to anyone paying attention that Kurosawa Kaito was different.
When it was over, Nakamura turned back to the camera, his expression serious.
**"Real Madrid's official presentation ceremony is scheduled for tomorrow at their Valdebebas training facility. Kurosawa Kaito will wear the white kit of Real Madrid Castilla, the club's reserve team, and begin his journey toward what everyone involved hopes will be a historic career. For now, all of Japan will be watching. Kaito-kun—"** He spoke directly to the camera now, as if the boy could hear him across ten thousand kilometers. **"—carry our hopes with you. But don't let them break you. You're fifteen years old. You're allowed to make mistakes, to struggle, to be human. Just... don't give up. No matter how hard it gets. *Ganbatte.*"** (Do your best.)
---
Back in Spain, the conversation had shifted to tactics.
**El Chiringuito** had brought up a tactical board, and Antonio Romero was standing in front of it with a marker, drawing formations and player positions with the precision of a professor delivering a lecture.
**"If we assume Raúl continues with his preferred 4-3-3,"** Romero was saying, his marker squeaking against the board as he drew three circles in the midfield, **"then Kurosawa slots in here—"** He pointed to the leftmost circle. **"—as the more creative number eight, paired with a defensive midfielder and a box-to-box player."**
**"But that's Nico Paz's position,"** Aguirre noted. **"And Nico isn't going to give it up easily."**
**"No,"** Romero agreed. **"Which means Kaito will have to earn it. Competition is healthy. It's how players develop. And if Kaito is as good as Real Madrid believes, he'll win that battle through performances, not politics."**
**"Or,"** Soria interjected, his skepticism returning, **"he'll crumble under the pressure. Fifteen years old, alone in a foreign country, competing against players who've been in the Real Madrid system for years. That's a recipe for failure, not success."**
**"You're assuming he's mentally weak,"** Pedrerol said. **"But everything we've heard suggests the opposite. Did you listen to that interview? The one where he talked about his father?"**
**"I did,"** Soria admitted.
**"Then you know this isn't just about football for him. It's personal. It's a mission. And players with that kind of motivation—"** Pedrerol gestured at the screen behind him, where Kaito's face still smiled from the official announcement photo. **"—they don't crumble. They become legends."**
The show continued for another thirty minutes, dissecting every aspect of the transfer—the contract details, the salary (rumored to be €20,000 annually, a modest sum even for Castilla), the release clause (€90 million, a figure that seemed absurd for a fifteen-year-old but made sense if Real Madrid believed he'd one day be worth far more), the performance bonuses tied to first-team appearances and national team call-ups.
Finally, as the clock approached 11 PM, Pedrerol delivered his closing statement:
**"Tomorrow, Kurosawa Kaito will be presented as a Real Madrid player. He'll stand in Valdebebas, surrounded by journalists and cameras and the weight of ten million euros worth of expectations. He'll put on the white kit that legends have worn. And he'll begin a journey that will either make him one of the greatest Japanese players in history or one of the most expensive mistakes Real Madrid has ever made."**
He paused, letting the words hang in the air.
**"I, for one, hope it's the former. Because football needs stories like this. It needs to believe that a fifteen-year-old from Japan can stand on the same pitch as the best players in the world and prove that talent knows no borders, no limits, no impossible barriers."**
**"Tomorrow, the world meets Kurosawa Kaito."**
**"Let's hope he's ready."**
The show cut to commercial, the dramatic music swelling, the screen fading to black on the image of a Japanese teenager who had just become the most expensive fifteen-year-old in football history.
---
Somewhere in a small apartment in Kawasaki, Japan, a phone was ringing.
Kurosawa Yuki stood in the kitchen of the cramped two-bedroom space that had been home for her and her three children since her husband's death, her hands still wet from washing dishes, her body exhausted from another double shift at the hospital and the cleaning company. The television in the living room was on, tuned to NHK, showing footage of her son—her baby, her fifteen-year-old boy who'd left for Spain just three days ago—being discussed by analysts who used words like "historic" and "unprecedented" and "generational talent."
She picked up the phone, already knowing who it would be.
**"Kaito,"** she said, and her voice cracked on his name.
**"Mom."** His voice came through crystal clear despite the distance, the miracle of modern technology making him sound close enough to touch. **"Did you see it? The announcement?"**
**"Everyone in Japan saw it."** She sank into a chair, the strength going out of her legs. **"Ten million euros. They're calling you the most expensive teenager in Japanese football history."**
**"It's just a number."** But she could hear the uncertainty beneath his words, the weight already settling onto shoulders that were still too narrow to carry it properly. **"It doesn't change anything. I'm still just... I'm still just me."**
**"No,"** Yuki said gently. **"You're not. Not anymore. The moment you signed that contract, you became something else. Someone else. And Kaito—"** She closed her eyes, tears threatening to spill. **"—I need you to understand something. This money, this opportunity, this dream you're chasing—it's wonderful. It's everything your father wanted for you. But if it becomes too much, if the pressure breaks you, if you need to come home—"**
**"I'm not coming home."** His voice was harder now, determined in a way that reminded her so much of Takeshi that it physically hurt. **"Not until I've succeeded. Not until I've proven that Dad was right about me. Not until I can bring you and the girls here, to Spain, where you won't have to work two jobs anymore."**
**"Kaito—"**
**"I love you, Mom. Tell Mei and Mio I'll call them tomorrow, after the presentation. I have to go now. The club has me scheduled for media training at six AM."**
**"It's almost midnight there!"**
**"I know."** She could hear the smile in his voice. **"Welcome to Real Madrid."**
The line went dead.
Yuki sat in her kitchen, in the apartment that was falling apart around her, in the life that her son was trying so desperately to escape, and she did something she'd promised herself she wouldn't do.
She cried.
Not from sadness. Not from worry, though she was worried—terrified, really, of what Spain and Real Madrid and the weight of expectations might do to her baby boy.
She cried from relief.
Because for the first time in three years, since the night Takeshi had died and left her alone with three children and a mountain of debt, she had hope.
Real, genuine hope that maybe, just maybe, things were going to get better.
---
The night deepened.
Across the globe, in different time zones and different languages, the story spread. Social media exploded with reactions:
**@RMadridInfo:** *OFFICIAL: Kurosawa Kaito signs for Real Madrid until 2030. Fee: €10M. Welcome to the best club in history! 🇯🇵⚪*
**@LaLigaExpert:** *Either Real Madrid just pulled off the signing of the decade, or they've lost their minds. There's no in-between with a €10M gamble on a 15-year-old.*
**@JapanFootball:** *黒澤海斗,夢実現!レアル・マドリードへ!日本の誇りです!🇯🇵⚽ (Kurosawa Kaito, dream achieved! To Real Madrid! Japan's pride!)*
**@CastillaDaily:** *Kurosawa Kaito joins Castilla. Will debut soon. Raúl has a new project. Let's see if he's worth the hype.*
**@FootballScout:** *Watched Kaito's full matches vs Yokohama and FC Tokyo. The vision is elite. First touch is clean. Passing range is exceptional. Physical stats are concerning but he's 15. Time will tell.*
YouTube videos appeared, fan-made highlight compilations set to dramatic music, analysts breaking down his technique frame by frame, comparisons to other Japanese players who'd made the jump to Europe—some successful, some cautionary tales.
The debate raged on into the early morning hours:
*Is he the next Takefusa Kubo?*
*Can he handle Real Madrid's pressure?*
*Is €10M too much for a teenager?*
*Will he even play this season?*
*Is this Real Madrid's smartest signing in years or their biggest mistake?*
No one knew the answers.
Not the analysts who'd spent hours debating his potential. Not the scouts who'd recommended him. Not the executives who'd approved the transfer. Not even Raúl González, the legendary striker turned youth coach who would be responsible for developing this raw Japanese diamond into something that could survive in the ruthless world of elite European football.
And definitely not Kurosawa Kaito himself, who was fifteen years old and ten thousand kilometers from home and carrying the weight of a €10 million price tag along with the hopes of his family, the expectations of an entire nation, and the promise he'd made to a father who would never see him fulfill it.
Tomorrow, the presentation.
Tomorrow, the real journey would begin.
Tomorrow, the world would watch a Japanese teenager put on the white kit of Real Madrid and take his first steps on a path that led either to greatness or to cautionary-tale obscurity.
But tonight—for these final few hours before dawn broke over Valdebebas and the media circus began—Kurosawa Kaito was just a boy in a small apartment in a foreign country, lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he'd made the biggest mistake of his life or the best decision possible.
Outside his window, Madrid never slept.
The city hummed with life and noise and endless possibility, indifferent to the hopes and fears of one more teenager chasing an impossible dream.
And in the darkness, Kaito whispered words that only he could hear:
**"I won't let you down, Dad. I promise. No matter what it takes."**
The promise echoed in the empty room.
And somewhere, in whatever space exists beyond death and memory, perhaps Kurosawa Takeshi was listening.
---