The Castellón training pitch echoed with a sound the Spanish players weren't used to: pure, unfiltered Italian rage.
"Is this a football team or a retirement home?!" Giovanni screamed, hanging from the crossbar like a madman.
A Castellón reserve striker had just fired a shot from the edge of the box. Giovanni didn't just save it; he caught it entirely with one hand, twisting his body mid-air to kill the momentum before landing gracefully on the turf. He immediately threw the ball at the defender's feet.
"If they get inside the box again, I will personally cook your boots in the oven! Move!" Giovanni barked, clapping his taped gloves together.
Leo watched from the center circle, a slow smirk spreading across his face. The Italian was completely psychotic, but his Will was a beautiful thing to look at. To Leo's eyes, Giovanni projected an aura of thick, spiked iron gates covering the entire penalty box. It was the absolute opposite of Castellón's previous, nervous goalkeeper.
"Alright, Architect," Mateo panted, jogging up beside Leo. "The back door is locked. Let's see if the front door opens."
Coach Silva blew the whistle to restart the 11-on-11 scrimmage.
Leo received the ball. Instantly, The Architect's Domain expanded. The cyan-blue grid overlaid the pitch.
He didn't need to bark orders anymore. Mateo, reading Leo's body language, surged forward, his River aura drawing two defenders away. A passing lane opened up.
Leo looked up. At the top of the penalty box, standing perfectly still amongst the chaotic movement of the defenders, was Lukas. The German striker hadn't yelled for the ball. He hadn't waved his arms. He had simply calculated the exact blind spot of the center-backs and stepped into it.
Golden line established. Probability: 99%.
Leo swept his left foot through the ball, delivering a low, rapid pass that skimmed the wet grass.
It was a fast pass—so fast that Torres, the old striker, would have undoubtedly taken a heavy touch and lost it.
Lukas didn't take a touch. He didn't even look at the goal.
As the ball reached his right foot, Lukas's body shifted with terrifying, mechanical precision. His hips snapped. His foot connected with the ball in one fluid, emotionless motion.
Thwack. The ball rocketed into the top left corner of the net, clipping the underside of the crossbar. Giovanni didn't even dive for it. It was mathematically unsavable.
Lukas didn't celebrate. He just turned around and jogged back toward the center circle, his face entirely blank. He pointed a single finger at Leo, a silent acknowledgment of the perfect pass.
Leo felt a chill run down his spine. The math worked. The blueprint was finally flawless.
Coach Silva blew his whistle, signaling the end of training. He looked at his assistant coach, both of them sharing a look of absolute disbelief.
"Put them in the starting lineup for Saturday," Silva muttered. "All three of them."
Two days later. London, England.
Ewood Park was intimidating, but The Den—home of Millwall FC—was a literal nightmare. It was a stadium built on hostility, freezing rain, and a fanbase that genuinely wanted to see the opposing team bleed.
It was the 65th minute. The score was 0-0. Blackburn Rovers were getting battered physically.
Rio stood on the touchline, waiting for the substitution board. He bounced on his toes, feeling the terrifying, heavy density of his new body. He was five pounds heavier, all pure muscle, his center of gravity significantly lower.
The board went up. Number 47 IN.
Rio jogged onto the pitch. The Millwall fans immediately started jeering, shouting insults that would get a man arrested on the street.
"Welcome to hell, kid," a Millwall center-back sneered as Rio jogged past him. The defender was 6-foot-4, heavily tattooed, and built like a brick wall.
Rio didn't say a word. He just smiled. It wasn't his usual arrogant smirk. It was the smile of a predator that had finally been let off its leash.
Five minutes later, Blackburn's giant defender, Davies, cleared a heavy ball up the center of the pitch. It was a terrible pass—a 50/50 ball bouncing dangerously in the midfield.
Rio sprinted toward it. The tattooed Millwall center-back charged from the opposite direction, dropping his shoulder, intending to send the young striker straight into the medical tent.
On the Blackburn bench, Coach Harrison held his breath. He remembered Rio's knee buckling against Stoke City.
The two players collided at full speed.
CRACK. The sound of the impact echoed around the stadium.
But Rio didn't fall. He didn't even stumble.
Rio had lowered his stance at the exact millisecond of impact, bracing his newly forged core and tree-trunk thighs. He absorbed the hit like a shock absorber. The Millwall defender, expecting to run right through the teenager, bounced off Rio's shoulder as if he had run into a concrete pillar, stumbling backward and falling onto the wet grass.
The Den went dead silent.
Rio didn't even look back at the fallen giant. He tapped the bouncing ball forward with his knee, accelerating instantly.
His Will activated. But it wasn't the chaotic, self-destructive, massive aura from a month ago. This time, the abyssal black smoke of the Apex Predator didn't leak into the air. It clung to his skin, wrapping around his muscles like dark, dense armor. The pressure wasn't radiating outward; it was entirely focused inward.
He was in complete control.
Rio surged toward the penalty box. A second Millwall defender slid in, aiming his metal studs directly at Rio's ankles.
Rio simply hurdled the tackle without breaking his stride, landing heavy on his left foot right on the edge of the box.
Lock the ankle. Annihilate.
He didn't put 100% of his power into it. He didn't need to break his knee anymore to score. He only needed 80%.
His right boot connected with the ball. The black-red distortion warped the air around the strike. The ball flew like a laser beam, an absolute flat trajectory with zero spin, and smashed into the back of the net before the Millwall goalkeeper even finished diving.
1-0 Blackburn.
Rio stood at the edge of the box. He looked down at his right leg. There was no pain. No micro-tears. The cage held the monster perfectly.
He looked up into the stands of the most hostile stadium in England, raising a single fist into the freezing rain. The Millwall fans were completely silent.
Back on the touchline, veteran striker Briggs chuckled, shaking his head.
"Heaven help the Championship," Briggs muttered to the manager. "The kid figured out how to use his brakes."