The difference between training and an actual European league match is the intent to destroy. In training, players want to win the ball. In a real match, they want to end your career.
Rio felt it the moment he stepped off the team bus at the Deepdale stadium training grounds. It was the Lancashire U-18 Derby: Blackburn Rovers vs. Preston North End.
For the first sixty minutes, Rio sat on the freezing wooden bench. He watched his team get battered. Preston was playing "Route One" football—smashing long balls over the top and physically bullying Blackburn's defenders. The score was 1-0 to Preston, and Blackburn's starting striker was currently limping off the pitch with a twisted ankle.
Coach Harrison turned around, his face grim. He pointed a thick finger at Rio.
"Machine. Get warm. You have thirty minutes to prove you aren't just a training pitch wonder."
Rio ripped off his tracksuit pants. The cold air bit into his legs, but his blood was already boiling. He didn't stretch; he just walked to the touchline, his eyes locked on the Preston center-backs. They were laughing, celebrating another successful clearance.
The fourth official held up the substitution board.
Rio stepped onto the pitch. The grass was thick and wet. He took a deep breath, and instantly, the atmosphere around the halfway line grew heavy.
Three minutes later, Preston launched another long ball into the Blackburn penalty box.
"Not this time!"
Davies, Blackburn's giant center-back, stepped up. His Will flared to life. To Rio's eyes, the space around Davies suddenly hardened into a solid, impenetrable fortress of gray stone. Davies didn't just head the ball; he absolutely demolished the Preston striker in the air, sending a thunderous, looping clearance deep into Preston's half.
"Go!" Davies roared from the backline.
The ball was floating perfectly into the space behind the Preston defense. It was a footrace between Rio and the Preston captain—a massive, bearded eighteen-year-old who looked like a lumberjack.
The captain shoved his shoulder into Rio, expecting the smaller Indian player to bounce off.
But Rio didn't budge.
His Will activated. The abyssal black smoke poured from his shoulders, taking the shape of the roaring panther. The heavy, crushing pressure of the Apex Predator descended on the Preston captain. The lumberjack suddenly felt like he was running through knee-deep water, his instincts screaming at him that he was being hunted.
Rio accelerated, his cleats tearing the turf to shreds. He overtook the captain in three terrifying strides, letting the ball bounce once in front of him.
The Preston goalkeeper rushed out of the box, throwing his body on the ground to smother the ball.
Rio didn't slow down. He didn't try to chip the keeper.
Lock the right ankle. Annihilate.
Rio swung his leg with horrifying velocity. The impact sounded like a gunshot. The black-red aura wrapped around the ball, turning it into a distortion of pure kinetic energy. The ball ripped through the tiny gap between the keeper's ear and his shoulder, grazing his glove with enough force to spin him around before nearly tearing through the back of the net.
1-1.
Rio jogged to the corner flag, his chest heaving. He didn't smile. He just stared at the Preston bench, his black aura slowly dissipating in the rain. At the other end of the pitch, Davies pumped a massive fist in the air.
The Blackburn trialist had arrived.
A thousand miles south, the air in the Villarreal B-team stadium was thick and humid. The "Yellow Submarine" academy was famous across Spain for producing some of the most technical midfielders in the world.
And right now, they were suffocating CD Castellón.
The score was 0-0 in the 80th minute. Castellón hadn't managed a single shot on target. The Villarreal players were pressing like a pack of wild dogs, giving Leo zero time on the ball. Every time Leo received a pass, two players instantly collapsed on him, forcing him to play it backward.
He was breathing hard, his physical stamina pushed to the absolute limit.
"They are too disciplined," Leo gasped, jogging next to Mateo as Villarreal circulated the ball. "Their defensive block shifts perfectly. There are no gaps."
Mateo wiped sweat from his eyes, his blonde hair plastered to his forehead. His Will began to ripple around him, a smooth, surging current of blue water.
"There are always gaps, Architect," Mateo said, his eyes narrowing. "You just need someone to break the dam. Give me the ball, and stay close behind me. When I pull the center-backs, you calculate the kill."
A Villarreal midfielder misplaced a pass. Castellón's defense cleared it, the ball falling to Mateo in the center circle.
Instantly, Mateo's River aura exploded. He didn't pass. He drove straight into the heart of the Villarreal midfield. His dribbling was hypnotic. He glided past the first defender with a flawless roulette, the ball sticking to his feet as if magnetized.
The Villarreal defense panicked. This wasn't in their tactical playbook. Three defenders collapsed inward to stop Mateo's surging run.
The dam was breaking.
"Now!" Mateo shouted, backheeling the ball blindly into the empty space behind him just as he was tackled to the ground.
Leo was already there.
His eyes snapped wide. The Architect's Domain expanded instantly, turning the sunlit stadium into a glowing, cyan-blue geometric grid. Time froze.
With three defenders pulled out of position by Mateo, the Villarreal backline was in chaos. Leo saw the golden probability lines branching out across the pitch.
Option A: Pass to the left winger. 60% chance of a shot. Too low.
Option B: Dribble forward. 10% chance of survival. Useless.
Then, he saw it. A single, glowing golden thread, no wider than a needle, cutting diagonally through the legs of a recovering Villarreal defender, curving around the center-back, and landing perfectly in the path of Castellón's sprinting striker.
It required absolute perfection. A millimeter off, and it was intercepted.
Leo didn't hesitate. He dropped his shoulder, adjusting his body angle to mask his intention, and sliced his left foot underneath the ball, applying a wicked, unnatural backspin.
The ball left his foot. To the naked eye, it looked like a terrible, overhit pass heading straight for the defender.
The Villarreal center-back stuck his leg out to intercept it.
But the ball spun violently on the grass, curving beautifully at the exact millisecond the defender lunged, bypassing his cleats by an inch. It rolled perfectly, losing its momentum right at the penalty spot, waiting obediently for the Castellón striker to arrive.
Thwack. The striker didn't even need to take a touch. He smashed it into the bottom corner.
1-0 Castellón.
The stadium fell deadly silent. The Castellón striker wheeled away in celebration, but the Villarreal coach on the sideline wasn't looking at the goalscorer. He was staring at the skinny Indian midfielder standing quietly in the center circle, analyzing the geometry of the pitch.
Leo looked down at Mateo, who was pulling himself up off the grass with a massive grin.
"Perfect timing, Engine," Leo said, offering a hand.
Mateo took it, pulling himself up. "Flawless calculation, Architect."
In England, a machine had broken the line. In Spain, an architect had dismantled it. The climb from the bottom had officially begun.