The noise of the derby didn't disappear when the final whistle blew.
It followed Azul home.
That night at La Masia, long after the showers had cooled and the laughter in the corridors faded, Azul lay awake staring at the ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, the same images replayed—not the goal, not the crowd, but the moment *before* the pass. The half-second when the world slowed, when the seam in Espanyol's defense opened like a crack in glass.
That was the part no one talked about.
The decision before the execution.
He rolled onto his side, listening to the quiet breathing of his roommate. Juvenil A felt different already. The expectations pressed heavier now—not crushing, but constant. Winning the derby had elevated him in ways he hadn't fully processed yet.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
He just didn't know how much.
---
### **THE MONDAY AFTER**
Monday morning training carried a strange energy.
Winning always did that.
Players moved with confidence, voices louder, shoulders looser. Even the coaches seemed sharper—not relaxed, but satisfied. Azul noticed it during warm-ups: the way teammates looked for him sooner, the way passes arrived at his feet without hesitation.
Trust.
It was subtle, but unmistakable.
Coach Miravet gathered them after rondos.
"Derbies don't define a season," he said. "But they reveal habits. Some of you handled pressure well. Some of you didn't."
His eyes moved deliberately across the group before settling on Azul.
"Cortez. You'll start again this weekend."
No buildup.
No ceremony.
Just truth.
Azul nodded, heart steady. Starting no longer felt shocking—it felt *earned*.
---
### **THE FILM ROOM**
That afternoon, Azul was called into the video analysis room.
Alone.
The lights dimmed as the derby replay began on the screen. The camera followed the ball, but Miravet paused it repeatedly—rewinding, zooming, isolating moments.
"Here," the coach said, freezing the frame before the assist. "What do you see?"
Azul leaned forward.
"The holding midfielder steps too high. The center-back shifts late. The striker's run hasn't started yet—but it will."
Miravet nodded.
"And why didn't you play the obvious ball wide?"
"Because they expected it."
Silence.
Then a faint smile.
"That," Miravet said, "is football intelligence. You didn't react. You *predicted*."
He unpaused the video.
"Do you know what separates good youth players from professionals?"
Azul shook his head.
"Professionals don't chase moments. They *manufacture* them."
The words sank deep.
Miravet turned off the screen.
"You're starting to do that."
---
### **THE SHIFT IN THE LOCKER ROOM**
It wasn't dramatic.
No one suddenly treated Azul like a star.
But things changed.
Marcos began asking for his opinion during drills. The fullbacks adjusted their runs based on Azul's gestures. Even the goalkeeper started shouting instructions *through* him instead of around him.
Azul felt himself becoming a reference point.
That scared him more than pressure ever had.
Leadership wasn't loud.
It was responsibility.
And responsibility meant mistakes mattered more.
---
### **A CALL FROM ARGENTINA**
That evening, his phone buzzed.
A number he didn't recognize.
"¿Hola?"
"Azul Cortez?" the voice asked.
"Yes?"
"This is **Claudio Suárez**, from the Argentine youth federation."
Azul sat up instantly.
"We've been following your progress at Barcelona. Especially your recent performances."
His heart hammered.
"We'd like to invite you to join the **Argentina U-16 preliminary squad** next international window."
The words barely felt real.
"Yes," Azul said immediately. "Of course. Yes."
After the call ended, he stared at the phone in silence.
Argentina.
The shirt he had dreamed of since childhood.
But even as excitement surged, something else followed—pressure, sharp and unavoidable.
Because now, he wasn't just representing himself.
He was representing a country.
---
### **THE SHADOW OF MESSI**
That night, as Azul walked past the first-team training grounds, he slowed unconsciously.
The lights were off now. Empty.
But he imagined it—Messi training there earlier that day, touching the ball the way only he could, seeing lines no one else saw.
Azul clenched his fists.
The comparison followed him everywhere. Coaches didn't say it aloud. Scouts whispered it. Journalists hinted at it.
*Messi's successor.*
Azul hated the phrase.
No one replaced Messi.
But maybe—just maybe—someone could *continue* what he started.
---
### **THE NEXT MATCH LOOMS**
The upcoming opponent wasn't a rival like Espanyol.
They were worse.
A physical side.
Aggressive.
Unforgiving.
The kind of team that tested whether technique could survive brutality.
Coach Miravet made it clear during training.
"They'll kick you," he said. "Especially you, Cortez. Because now they know your name."
Azul nodded.
He knew.
And strangely… he welcomed it.
Because vision alone wasn't enough anymore.
Now, he needed resilience.
---
### **A QUIET PROMISE**
That night, Azul wrote in his notebook—something he rarely did.
*I will not disappear when it hurts.*
*I will not rush when they provoke me.*
*I will see the game clearly—even when chaos tries to blind me.*
He closed the notebook and lay back, exhaustion finally claiming him.
The derby had announced his arrival.
But staying?
Staying would require more than talent.
It would require becoming unbreakable.
And somewhere inside him, the Emperor's Eye sharpened—not just as a gift, but as a responsibility.
The road ahead was longer now.
Harder.
But for the first time, Azul wasn't chasing the dream.
He was walking straight into it.
---
The end.