The problem with making a dramatic pact to conquer Europe is that Europe is exactly 7,500 kilometers away from Kolkata. And neither Leo nor Rio had the money to bridge that gap.
For three months, their lives turned into an obsession.
They quit their local club. The coach hadn't even noticed they were gone until a week later. Instead, they took over an abandoned, concrete futsal court under a highway overpass. The surface was unforgiving. If you fell, you bled. It was the perfect place to forge weapons.
Rio's routine was pure, unadulterated punishment. He strapped makeshift sandbags to his ankles and ran sprints until his lungs felt like they were inhaling glass. He would kick a battered football against the concrete wall a thousand times a day, practicing the exact same striking motion. Plant the left foot. Lock the right ankle. Strike through the center. Over and over until the wall cracked.
He was building the machine.
Leo's routine was entirely different. He didn't just train his body; he trained his brain. He set up a tripod and an old, cracked Android phone, recording every single movement they made. At night, he sat in his cramped bedroom, ignoring the noise of the city outside, and edited the footage.
He wasn't making flashy compilations with heavy music. He was making surgical, analytical tapes. He highlighted Rio's top speed, his jump height, and the sheer velocity of his shots. For his own tapes, Leo drew digital lines on the screen, showing how he manipulated space, the timing of his passes, and his reaction speed under pressure.
They sent the tapes to everyone. Premier League academies. La Liga giants. Second divisions, third divisions, youth camps.
For eighty-nine days, the response was a deafening silence.
Then came day ninety.
It was monsoon season. The rain was hammering against the tin roof of the local tea stall where Leo and Rio were huddled, sharing a single cup of cutting chai.
Leo's phone buzzed. It wasn't an email from Real Madrid or Manchester United. It was an email from a third-party scouting agency that specialized in placing "high-risk, high-reward" international players into struggling European clubs desperate for cheap talent.
Leo opened the email. His eyes scanned the text, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Well?" Rio demanded, leaning over the small plastic table. "Did they say no again?"
Leo looked up, the glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes. "They didn't say no. But they didn't offer us a contract either. They offered us trials."
Rio snatched the phone. He read the screen, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face.
Player 1 (Target Man/Striker): Trial offer extended by Blackburn Rovers U-18s. Location: Lancashire, England.
Condition: No travel expenses paid. No accommodation provided. You have three days to prove you can survive English football. If you fail, you go home immediately.
Player 2 (Attacking Midfielder/Playmaker): Trial offer extended by CD Castellón B. Location: Valencia province, Spain.
Condition: No travel expenses paid. No accommodation provided. You will play in a full-contact scrimmage against the senior reserves. Survive the midfield, or your trial ends on day one.
"Blackburn," Rio whispered. It wasn't the glamorous Premier League, but it was the English Championship pipeline. It was a notoriously physical, gritty club. It was exactly what he wanted. "Three days to prove I can survive? I'll break their starting center-backs in half on day one."
Leo took the phone back, staring at the Spanish offer. CD Castellón. Lower-division Spanish football. A meat grinder of technical passing where a single bad touch meant you were benched forever.
"They aren't paying for our flights," Leo pointed out, the reality of the situation setting in. "We have to pay our own way. If we fail, we are stranded with nothing."
"Then we don't fail," Rio said instantly. There was zero hesitation in his voice. "Sell the bikes. Empty the savings. Borrow the rest. We are not dying on a dirt pitch in India, Leo. This is the 1% chance. We take it."
Leo looked out at the pouring rain, feeling the heavy, suffocating air of the city. Then he looked back at the screen.
"Okay," Leo said, his voice hardening. "We go."
Two weeks later, the humidity of Kolkata was replaced by the sterile, freezing air conditioning of the international terminal at the Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Airport.
They stood at the intersection of two different departure gates. Gate 12 for London Heathrow. Gate 14 for Madrid-Barajas.
They both wore cheap tracksuits. Their entire lives were packed into single duffel bags slung over their shoulders.
"They play a heavy defensive block in England," Leo said, adjusting the strap of his bag. "Don't just run blindly into the box. Use your stepovers to create an angle, then shoot before the center-back can close his stance."
Rio scoffed, adjusting his own bag. "I don't need tactics, Leo. I'm just going to hit the ball harder than their keeper can see it. You just worry about surviving Spain. The defenders there are going to try and snap your ankles because you're too small. Play one-touch. Don't hold the ball."
"I never hold the ball longer than I need to," Leo replied smoothly.
The intercom crackled above them, announcing the final boarding call for the flight to London.
This was it. The absolute split. The moment their shared path broke into two separate, brutal journeys.
Rio turned to face him. The usual arrogance in his eyes was replaced by a burning, intense respect. He held out his fist.
"Don't get sent home, Architect," Rio said. "I'm not waiting up for you."
Leo met his fist with his own. "I'll see you at the top, Machine. Try not to break your legs in the mud."
They turned away from each other, walking toward their separate gates without looking back. The pact was no longer just words spoken on a dirt pitch.
The European campaign had officially begun.