The next morning arrived with no mercy.
Azul woke before the alarm again, the words *Tomorrow… I'll be better* still echoing in his mind. His muscles ached from the previous day's session, a dull reminder that Juvenil A would demand more from his body than he was used to.
He stretched quietly, pulled on his training kit, and stepped into the corridor of La Masia.
Today wouldn't be just training.
Today was a test.
**THE ANNOUNCEMENT**
Coach Miravet gathered the squad after warm-ups, clipboard tucked under his arm.
"Listen carefully," he said. "This weekend, we play against **Espanyol Juvenil A**."
A few players grinned.
Others cracked their necks.
Derbies mattered. Even at youth level.
Miravet continued, "Some of you will start. Some of you won't. But everyone here is being evaluated."
His gaze landed on Azul.
"Cortez."
Azul straightened.
"You're in the matchday squad."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the group.
Azul felt his heart pound—but he didn't look away.
"Yes, coach."
Miravet nodded.
"Whether you start or not will depend on how you train today."
That was all.
No guarantees.
No favors.
**THE PRESSURE TIGHTENS**
The session intensified immediately.
Small-sided games.
High pressing.
Minimal rest.
Azul could feel eyes on him—coaches, teammates, opponents all measuring him. One bad pass could undo everything. One hesitation could send him back to the bench.
He focused on the simple things.
Positioning.
Angles.
Timing.
The Emperor's Eye worked silently, predicting pressure before it arrived, guiding him away from danger.
A midfielder pressed from behind—Azul spun away.
A defender stepped out—Azul released early.
A winger stalled—Azul directed him with a hand gesture.
The game flowed through him.
Not flashy.
Not reckless.
Controlled.
**THE MOMENT THAT COUNTS**
Near the end of the session, Miravet split the team into starters and reserves for a full-pitch simulation.
Azul started with the reserves.
He didn't react.
The whistle blew.
Five minutes in, the starters dominated possession, pressing high, moving with cohesion.
Then Azul intercepted a pass near midfield.
He didn't rush.
He lifted his head.
The Emperor's Eye flared—seeing the starter's defensive line shift too far right, leaving space behind the left-back.
Azul struck the ball with precision—a diagonal pass curling perfectly into the run of the reserve winger.
The winger crossed.
Goal.
Silence.
Miravet scribbled something on his clipboard.
Ten minutes later, Azul orchestrated another move—this time dropping deep, pulling a marker with him, opening a channel for a striker to burst through.
Another goal.
The starters were no longer smiling.
**AFTER THE WHISTLE**
Training ended with players gasping for breath.
Miravet called everyone together.
"Good session," he said. "Some of you stepped up. Others didn't."
His eyes landed on Azul again.
"Cortez. Good decisions today."
Azul nodded, breathing heavily.
That was all the praise he needed.
**THE LOCKER ROOM**
As players changed, conversations buzzed.
"He might start."
"Coach likes him."
"Did you see that pass?"
Marcos sat beside Azul again, tying his boots slowly.
"You know what you did today?" he asked.
"What?"
"You made it impossible to ignore you."
Azul smiled faintly.
"I just played."
Marcos chuckled.
"That's the best way to do it."
**ALONE WITH THE NIGHT**
That evening, Azul lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Espanyol.
Derby.
Crowd.
Pressure.
He imagined the pitch.
The noise.
The tackles.
Would he start?
Or come off the bench?
Either way—
it would be his first real test at this level.
And for the first time since arriving in Spain, Azul didn't just *hope* he was ready.
He believed it.
As sleep finally claimed him, one thought stayed with him:
*If I can control a derby… I can control anything.*
---
**Chapter 43 end's here**