The fastest way to make a friend in football isn't by being nice. It's by destroying their pride on the pitch and forcing them to respect you.
In Lancashire, the rain hadn't stopped for three days.
Rio sat on a small plastic stool in the equipment room, violently scrubbing dried mud off the first team's boots. It was the humiliating reality of his bottom-rung contract. His knuckles were raw, and the smell of wet leather filled the tiny room.
The heavy door creaked open.
Davies, the 6-foot-3 center-back, ducked to fit through the doorframe. He was carrying his own pair of boots and a scrubbing brush. He didn't say a word. He just pulled up a stool next to Rio, dipped his brush into the soapy water, and started scrubbing.
For ten minutes, the only sound was the harsh scraping of bristles against leather.
"My ribs are still bruised," Davies finally grunted, not looking up from the boot.
"They'll heal," Rio replied coldly, his jaw set.
Davies stopped scrubbing and looked at the Indian striker. The hostility from the trial was gone, replaced by a heavy, begrudging respect. In the English leagues, you didn't respect a player for their stepovers; you respected them for how hard they hit back.
"Most trialists who come here from overseas fold the second I put a shoulder into them," Davies said, his voice a low rumble. "But you... when we went up for that header, it felt like I hit a brick wall. Like I was being crushed by a shadow."
Rio stopped scrubbing. He recognized what Davies was talking about. Davies had felt the pressure of his Will.
"If I'm going to be the striker for this academy," Rio said, staring straight ahead, "I don't just need to score. I need a backline that won't leak goals while I'm up top. I need a monster guarding the net."
Davies grinned, a slow, dangerous smile. His own Will began to resonate—a heavy, suffocating aura that felt like thick stone walls locking into place. "I am the wall, mate. You just focus on tearing the net apart. I'll make sure nobody gets past the halfway line."
He held out a massive, calloused hand. Rio looked at it for a second before gripping it firmly. The Spear and the Shield of Blackburn Rovers had just formed an alliance.
Meanwhile, in Valencia, the blistering afternoon sun was finally starting to dip below the horizon.
The Castellón B-Team training pitch was empty, except for two figures. Leo was standing near the center circle, practicing his first touch by pinging a ball against a wooden rebound board. He was exhausted. His lungs burned, and his legs felt like lead. His physical stats were still drastically behind the rest of the team.
He misjudged a rebound. The ball bounced awkwardly off his shin and rolled away.
Before Leo could jog after it, a foot stepped on the ball, stopping it perfectly.
It was Mateo, the blonde Spanish midfielder from the rondo drill.
Leo tensed, expecting another insult about his lack of speed or physical weakness. Instead, Mateo picked up the ball and walked over, his expression serious.
"I watched the tape of the scrimmage," Mateo said, dropping the ball at Leo's feet. "When you intercepted my pass... you weren't guessing. You moved before I even knew I was going to pass it."
"I read your hips," Leo said simply, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You play with rhythm, Mateo. But rhythm is predictable. Once I found your tempo, I just had to step into the empty spaces of your beat."
Mateo crossed his arms. His pride had been bruised, but he was a Spanish midfielder—he respected tactical genius above all else.
"You have the mind of an absolute monster," Mateo admitted. "But your body is fragile. If you play in the center, the defensive midfielders in this league will snap you in half before you can thread a pass."
Mateo took a step closer, his own Will beginning to spark. It wasn't explosive like Rio's, and it wasn't a calculated grid like Leo's. Mateo's aura felt like a rushing river—smooth, continuous, and impossible to pin down.
"You need a runner," Mateo stated. "Someone who can carry the ball through the heavy tackles, draw the defenders, and then give it to you in the exact pocket of space you need."
Leo's eyes widened slightly. The grid of his Architect's Domain flickered to life in his mind. He instantly saw the mathematical possibilities. If Mateo used his flawless dribbling to break the defensive lines, it would give Leo the crucial three seconds of untouched space he needed to deliver a lethal through-ball.
"You draw the aggro. I drop the bomb," Leo said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
"Exactly," Mateo smiled, tossing Leo a water bottle. "You might be the brain of this midfield, chico, but I am the engine. Let's show these reserves how to really play."
Thousands of miles apart, the lone wolves had found their packs. The survival phase was over. Now, it was time to conquer.