The bus ride to São Paulo was longer than Thiago expected. Eight hours of cracked roads, changing landscapes, and the occasional stretch of silence that made his thoughts echo too loud inside his head.
He sat by the window, the business card still tucked into his pocket like a lifeline.
Clara had hugged him so tight that morning he nearly missed the bus. His mom didn't say much—just handed him a bag with some clothes, a used toothbrush, and a single ten-real note folded so carefully it looked like it would fall apart.
"Don't come back without proving them wrong," she'd said.
He didn't plan to.
The Palmeiras academy wasn't like anything Thiago had ever seen.
The moment he stepped off the bus, it hit him—green grass so clean it looked painted, buildings that didn't lean, and players who walked like they belonged here. Even the air felt different. Thinner. Sharper.
"Name?" the man at the gate asked.
"Thiago. Thiago Luis da Silva. From Rocinha."
The man scanned a clipboard, nodded, and pointed toward the dorms.
"Room 204. You're with the other new entrants. Trial starts tomorrow."
The room smelled like detergent and new beginnings.
Two bunk beds, four lockers, one cracked window that opened just enough to let in noise from the nearby pitch.
Thiago dropped his bag on the lower bunk and looked around. Nobody else had arrived yet. For a moment, it felt like the calm before the storm.
He sat on the edge of the bed and whispered, "System."
The interface opened smoothly in his mind.
Level: 3EXP: 35 / 100Skill Points: 2Attributes:Pace – 67Dribbling – 64Shooting – 55Passing – 58Physicality – 61Mentality – 52
Sub-Attributes:Ball Control – 66Trick Execution – 57Vision – 59Stamina – 59Focus – 54Composure – 51
No new quests.
No system messages.
Just a clean, empty path ahead.
The first drill the next morning started at 6:30 a.m.
No ball. Just running.
Sprints. Ladders. Resistance pulls. The kind of cardio that didn't care how much flair you had.
By the third lap around the training grounds, Thiago's lungs were burning. His legs felt like stone.
But he didn't stop.
Pain Resistance I — active.
It dulled the edges, but didn't kill the fatigue.
Around him, the other kids—fifteen, sixteen, some already six feet tall—kept their pace. Most of them wore branded cleats and headbands, sweat-wicking shirts, and had that look in their eyes: not desperation, but expectation.
They were here because they were meant to be.
Thiago was here because he refused to stay where he came from.
"Let's go, da Silva!" barked a voice from the sideline.
Coach Moreira.
He looked like a man who had eaten gravel for breakfast—square jaw, salt-and-pepper stubble, arms crossed like they were part of his body's permanent formation. He didn't raise his voice often, but when he did, it cut like a blade.
Thiago pushed harder.
After training, they sat in a half-circle on the turf while Moreira paced in front of them.
"You've all been brought here because you have potential. Not because you've earned anything yet," he said.
His gaze moved slowly from one face to the next. It landed on Thiago for half a second before moving on.
"Tomorrow, we'll separate you by position. Until then, you're runners. Not players. If that offends you, good."
He turned and walked off.
The group sat in silence for a moment. Then someone leaned closer to Thiago.
"You're the favela kid, right?"
Thiago looked over. The boy was tall, fair-skinned, perfect teeth.
"Guess so."
"I'm Guilherme. Played for the São Carlos U15s. What do you play?"
"Winger."
Guilherme laughed, not unkindly. "Don't bother saying that too loud. They'll probably stick you at fullback."
Thiago frowned. "Why?"
"They always do with the fast kids. Especially if you're poor."
Thiago didn't respond.
He just looked toward the main pitch, where the senior academy players were warming up. They moved like machines. Controlled. Disciplined. Sharp.
A different world.
That night, after dinner, Thiago sat outside by the vending machines while Caio's voice echoed in his head.
Play smart. Make them see your brain, not just your feet.
He pulled up the System again.
He had two skill points unspent. No new quests. No automatic boosts.
He hovered over Dribbling, then stopped.
"System," he thought. "What's the recommended upgrade?"
Response: Based on current environment and tactical requirements:Recommended Stat: PassingRecommended Sub-Attribute: Short Pass / Tactical Vision
He clenched his jaw.
He didn't want to be a passer.
He wanted to dribble. To dance. To fly down the wing.
Still… he had a trial tomorrow.
And no one cared about what he wanted. Not yet.
"Fine," he muttered.
He applied one point to Passing.
Passing – 59 → 60
The second point, he saved.
The trial match was 7v7. Half-pitch, high pace.
Thiago's team was called first.
He jogged out onto the turf, hoping—just hoping—they'd let him play wide.
Moreira called his name.
"Thiago. Left fullback."
He almost said something. Almost.
But he just nodded and jogged to position.
It felt wrong.
He could see the wing just ahead—his real position. But instead of running into space, he was tasked with tracking back. Holding shape. Cutting passing lanes.
He did it. He listened. Followed instructions.
But every time the ball got near him, it was like his instincts wanted to take over.
He intercepted a pass and immediately beat one man with a stepover, driving into space.
"Pass it!"
The shout came from Moreira.
Thiago froze for a half-second—then squared the ball to the nearest midfielder and retreated back.
"Play position. Not hero ball."
The rest of the match passed in flashes. Some good touches. A clean tackle. One blocked cross. Nothing spectacular.
Nothing memorable.
Back in the locker room, the mood was mixed.
Some kids laughed, stretching and cracking jokes. Others sat still, staring at the floor like they'd been benched in their own lives.
Thiago peeled off his shirt, skin sticky with sweat, mind heavier than before.
"System," he thought. "Evaluation?"
System Response:Tactical Execution: 74%Coach Rating: NeutralCurrent Role: Defensive SupportQuest Unlocked: Earn Your PlaceObjective: Complete 5 Tactical Drills at Above 80% EfficiencyReward: +1 Tactical Vision, +2 Coach FavorPenalty: None
He exhaled through his nose.
They didn't care if he could dribble. Not yet.
First, he had to become what they needed him to be.
Then he could show them who he really was.