Late September 2014.
Castilla was on a roll—three straight wins, ten goals scored, only two conceded. Sitting second in the Segunda B table, the team looked sharper than it had all season.
And at the heart of it all was Sae Itoshi.
In every match, he dictated play with unnatural composure. In every training session, he raised the standard. His name had started circulating through Madrid's footballing inner circle—not loudly, but with that cautious reverence reserved for something rare.
To most, it was a rise out of nowhere.
To Sae, it was inevitable.
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Midfield Sovereign
By now, Zidane had reshaped the system around him. Castilla played a 4-3-3 with Sae as the central playmaker, floating between lines, free to manipulate tempo and direction. Every touch he made opened space. Every pass invited movement.
Against Alcorcón B, Sae recorded two assists and a goal. His third-minute lob pass to the left wing split three defenders. His goal came from 25 yards—driven low with surgical precision. The stadium buzzed. Scouts took notes.
Zidane didn't cheer. He only watched.
After the match, he gave one comment.
"You made the game look easy. It never is. Remember that."
Sae nodded, but inside, he disagreed.
It is easy. For me.
---
Fractures Within
But his growing brilliance came at a cost.
The locker room had started to shift. Whispers. Glares. Quiet resentment.
Carlos Domínguez—once Castilla's de facto midfield leader—had now become just another body on the pitch. His passes were ignored. His overlapping runs unnoticed. The ball flowed through Sae now, not him.
And it burned.
"You think you're above us?" Carlos snapped one evening after a close win.
Sae didn't even look up from unlacing his boots.
"I am."
The room fell silent.
Even teammates who respected Sae—like goalkeeper Lucas Cañizares or winger De La Fuente—didn't speak up. What could they say? Sae wasn't wrong. Just arrogant enough to say it.
---
The Zidane Method
Zidane noticed the tension too.
One morning, he approached Sae alone during tactical setup.
"You're losing the locker room."
Sae's gaze remained steady. "I'm winning matches."
Zidane narrowed his eyes. "And what happens when no one runs for you?"
Sae blinked. "Then I'll run through them myself."
Zidane exhaled. "That's not football. That's ego."
You wouldn't say that if you knew what I came from, Sae thought. But he didn't say it. He couldn't. No one here knew about the other world. About Blue Lock. About what he'd sacrificed to become the best.
"Lead them," Zidane said firmly. "Don't just outperform them."
---
A Dangerous Performance
October 4th. Castilla vs. Fuenlabrada.
Tensions boiled over.
Sae was everywhere—dropping deep to start plays, bursting forward to deliver final passes, spinning out of pressure with absurd ease. In the 52nd minute, he nutmegged an opponent and chipped a no-look assist across the box.
The crowd roared.
Carlos, again benched, couldn't take it anymore.
When Sae scored the third goal—a curling strike from the edge of the box—he ran straight past the bench, eyes cold, offering no celebration.
Carlos stood up, yelling at the coaching staff.
"He plays like he's in a movie! Like we're his props!"
Zidane didn't even look his way.
Final score: 3–1. Sae named Man of the Match again.
---
Behind Closed Doors
That night, Zidane called Sae into his office.
"Sit."
Sae complied.
Zidane handed him a video remote. On the screen: match footage. Not of his goals or assists. Just clips of off-ball movement. Of players hesitating to support him. Of teammates gesturing in frustration when ignored.
"You're the best player on the pitch," Zidane said. "But you're turning them into spectators."
Sae's lips parted. "Shouldn't they keep up?"
Zidane leaned forward.
"Cristiano leads by hunger. Modrić leads by rhythm. Zidane—me—I led by presence. How will you lead, Sae?"
The question sank deep into Sae's bones.
He had never cared to lead. Only to win. But in this world, leadership was currency. Influence mattered.
He said nothing. But his silence was no longer indifference—it was reflection.
---
Friction Peaks
At the next training session, Zidane set a trap.
Sae was grouped with two fringe players, both weak passers, and Carlos as defensive mid. Their side was to play against the usual starters.
Zidane watched silently from the edge.
Carlos refused to pass to Sae. The others couldn't keep possession. It was chaos. The starters destroyed them in the first two rounds.
But instead of retreating into individual brilliance, Sae adjusted. He dropped deeper, gave easier options. He slowed the game, guided the rhythm.
By the fourth round, Sae's team won—1–0—after he baited three defenders and squared a perfect assist.
Carlos, breathing heavily, looked over and muttered, "…Why'd you give me that pass?"
Sae didn't smile. "Because I don't need to prove I'm better than you. I already did."
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A Glimpse of the Future
A week later, Sae was called in after training.
Zidane was waiting with an envelope and a faint smirk.
"Ancelotti called. There's a Copa del Rey match next month. Round of 32. Against a lower-league side."
Sae raised an eyebrow.
"They're thinking of using Castilla talent for the second half. You're on the preliminary list."
He took the envelope. Inside, the fixture list. Highlighted in yellow: Real Madrid vs. Cultural Leonesa.
Zidane crossed his arms.
"You're not ready for the first team yet," he said. "But they're starting to ask about you. Make sure when they call… there's no doubt."
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Eyes Watching
In the days that followed, everything sharpened.
Sae's passes became even more precise. His communication clearer. He no longer ignored runs—he commanded them. Players began to follow his instructions without complaint.
Carlos kept his distance, but the hostility was gone. It had shifted into wary respect.
Even Zidane seemed pleased.
But Sae knew this was only a stepping stone.
The real battlefield is the Bernabéu. The Champions League. The World Cup.
And he wasn't reborn just to play.
He was reborn to conquer.
---
End of Chapter 4