Training with Juvenil A felt like stepping into another universe.
The passes were faster.
The challenges sharper.
The spaces tighter.
The intensity relentless.
Azul realized it within the first five minutes: this was not just a higher level—this was a different sport.
But he didn't shrink from it.
He rose.
### **THE FIRST FULL SESSION**
Coach Miravet gathered the players in a semicircle.
"Listen up," he said. "Cortez is with us permanently. Treat him as one of our own."
A few nods. A few unreadable expressions.
Then Miravet clapped his hands.
"Rondos first. Eight v two. One mistake, you're in the middle."
Azul stepped into the circle.
The ball zipped between players like sparks from a fire—one touch, one touch, one touch.
Azul waited.
Watched.
Let the Emperor's Eye activate behind his calm exterior.
A gap opened.
He stepped in at the perfect instant, received the ball, and released it in the same breath—splitting two incoming defenders with a touch so clean it drew murmurs.
Marcos, the older midfielder who had challenged him yesterday, smirked.
"Not bad, chico."
The tempo increased.
Touches shortened.
Passes tightened.
Pressures intensified.
But Azul adapted.
He wasn't the strongest.
Not the fastest.
Not the most experienced.
But his mind—
His mind saw everything.
### **A MIDFIELD BATTLE**
The next drill was a half-field possession game.
Two teams.
No restrictions except one:
**keep the ball or suffer.**
Azul's team started with possession.
Marcos fired him a pass that bounced slightly awkwardly on the turf. An older defender pressed instantly, shoulder-first, aggressive.
Azul cushioned the ball sideways, absorbing the pressure, letting it roll across his body—then snapped a quick give-and-go with the winger sprinting inside.
The defender stumbled.
The coaches murmured approval.
Azul didn't look back.
He accelerated into space, demanded the return ball, and delivered a diagonal switch that opened the entire field.
"That's it," Miravet shouted. "Move it! Faster!"
The tempo rose again.
And again.
And Azul matched it every time.
The older players began calling for him.
"Azul, here!"
"Kid, switch!"
"Turn! Turn!"
Respect was building—not through words, but through trust.
### **THE MOMENT OF DOUBT**
But the session wasn't perfect.
Late in the drill, Marcos fired a pass at him—a rocket.
Azul went to receive.
Too slow.
The ball bounced off his shin and out of bounds.
Marcos clapped loudly.
"Focus, chico! Juvenil A doesn't wait for you."
The words hit Azul harder than the ball.
Mistakes weren't tolerated here.
One slip and the entire rhythm collapsed.
Azul looked down.
Ashamed.
Disappointed.
But only for a heartbeat.
He replayed the mistake in his head.
Adjusted his stance.
Corrected his angle.
When play resumed, he demanded the next pass.
Marcos raised an eyebrow.
"Alright then. Let's see what you do with this."
He fired another rocket.
Azul killed it instantly.
Then flicked it past the incoming defender with a touch so delicate the entire drill froze for half a second.
Marcos barked a laugh.
"Okay! That's more like it!"
### **AFTER TRAINING**
The players filtered into the locker room, sweaty, exhausted, and buzzing with adrenaline.
Azul felt his limbs ache, but in a good way. A proud way. He had survived his first full session. No—he hadn't just survived. He had earned his place.
As he pulled off his boots, Marcos dropped onto the bench beside him.
"You know," he said, grabbing a water bottle, "most kids freeze when they come up here."
He took a long drink. "But you? You adjust."
Azul shrugged. "I try."
Marcos nudged him with his elbow.
"Keep doing that, and you'll be more than just a call-up."
Azul bit back a smile.
"Gracias."
"Don't thank me," Marcos said, standing. "Just keep up."
As he walked away, another older boy—one of the defenders—passed by and tapped Azul on the back.
"Buen trabajo, Cortez."
Azul felt heat rise to his face.
Not from embarrassment.
From pride.
### **THE CALL FROM HOME**
That evening, he called his parents from his room at La Masia.
His mother answered instantly.
"Azul! How was it?"
Azul leaned back on his bed.
"Tough," he admitted. "But… I think I did well."
His father's voice came on.
"You think? Or you know?"
Azul smiled.
"I know."
His mother clapped.
"That's my boy!"
Azul's chest warmed.
He wished they could stay longer, but their flight was in two days.
Still—
they had been here for the most important moment of his life so far.
### **A NEW MISSION**
Before bed, Azul sat at his desk, staring at the city lights outside his window.
Juvenil A was no longer a dream.
It was reality.
But reality came with expectations:
Responsibility.
Consistency.
Excellence.
And beyond that—
There was the shadow of Messi.
The idol he had always dreamed of playing with.
To reach him, Azul needed more than talent.
More than vision.
More than potential.
He needed to grow.
Every day.
Every match.
Every decision.
He closed his eyes, whispering to himself:
"Tomorrow… I'll be better."
And deep inside, the Emperor's Eye pulsed quietly, steadily, preparing for what came next.
---
End of Chapter 42