The first kick came early.
Azul felt it before he fully understood it—a sharp jolt against his calf as he released the ball during a midweek training scrimmage. The defender didn't even look apologetic. He just jogged away, expression blank.
Azul stayed on his feet.
Coach Miravet's whistle cut through the air.
"Play on."
And just like that, Azul understood.
The warning had been real.
They knew his name now.
### **MARKED MAN**
Every drill that morning carried an edge. Defenders stepped into challenges harder. Midfielders closed him down faster than anyone else. When he received the ball, there was always a body nearby—sometimes two.
It wasn't random.
It was strategy.
Marcos noticed it too. During a water break, he leaned in.
"They're testing you," he muttered. "Seeing if they can scare you out of rhythm."
Azul nodded, rubbing his calf.
"They won't."
But privately, he wondered if that was true.
Vision didn't stop pain.
Intelligence didn't prevent bruises.
And at this level, nobody cared how young you were.
### **THE COACHES' MESSAGE**
That afternoon, Miravet stopped training early and gathered the squad.
"You all saw it," he said. "When one player begins to influence matches, opponents respond."
His gaze locked onto Azul.
"They'll foul you. They'll talk to you. They'll try to provoke mistakes."
He turned to the rest of the team.
"And it's your job to protect each other. Football is a collective sport."
Azul felt a flicker of relief.
He wasn't alone.
Miravet looked back at him.
"But Cortez—this part is yours."
Azul straightened.
"You don't get to disappear. And you don't get to retaliate. You stay calm. You stay clear."
"Yes, coach."
"Good."
### **THE NIGHT BEFORE**
The next match approached quietly—but with weight.
No derby hype.
No screaming rivalry.
Just tension.
Azul spent the night stretching, icing his legs, visualizing scenarios. Heavy tackles. Tight marking. Limited time on the ball.
He didn't imagine goals.
He imagined survival.
Because that's what this match would be.
### **THE CALL FROM HOME**
His phone buzzed late.
His father.
"You sound tired," his father said after a few seconds.
"I'm fine," Azul replied automatically.
A pause.
Then: "No, you're not."
Azul sighed. "They're kicking harder. Closing space faster."
His father chuckled softly.
"Good."
Azul blinked. "Good?"
"It means you matter now," his father said. "When they ignore you, you're harmless. When they target you, you're dangerous."
Azul leaned back against the wall.
"But don't be stupid," his father continued. "Messi didn't survive because he fought. He survived because he *thought faster*."
Azul smiled faintly.
"I know."
"Then trust yourself."
### **MATCHDAY MORNING**
The bus ride felt different from the derby.
Quiet.
Focused.
Azul stared out the window, legs bouncing slightly.
Marcos nudged him.
"You ready to get bruised?"
Azul smirked.
"Only if it's worth it."
### **THE OPPONENT**
They arrived at the ground—a smaller pitch, uneven grass, narrow sidelines. The kind of place where football became a fight.
The opposing players stared openly. No smiles. No greetings.
One of their midfielders cracked his knuckles as he passed Azul.
Message received.
Coach Miravet gathered the team.
"This won't be pretty," he said. "But control isn't always beautiful. Sometimes it's ugly."
He looked at Azul one last time.
"They'll come for you first."
Azul nodded.
"Let them."
### **KICKOFF**
From the first whistle, the match was chaos.
Hard tackles.
Late challenges.
Shouting.
In the third minute, Azul was clipped from behind as he turned. He stumbled but released the ball.
Play continued.
In the seventh minute, he took a forearm to the ribs while jumping for a loose ball.
No foul.
By the tenth minute, his legs already burned—not from running, but from absorbing impact.
But he didn't rush.
He shortened his touches.
He released earlier.
He repositioned constantly.
The Emperor's Eye adjusted—not seeking openings, but avoiding traps.
### **THE ADAPTATION**
Azul began drifting wider, pulling his marker out of shape. When the defender followed, space opened centrally. When the defender stayed, Azul became free.
Marcos caught on quickly.
The team adapted around him.
Barça didn't dominate possession—but they controlled the *important* moments.
### **THE HALF ENDS**
The first half ended 0–0.
Azul jogged off the pitch, shirt already smeared with grass and sweat.
His legs ached.
His ribs throbbed.
But his mind?
Clear.
In the locker room, Miravet spoke quietly.
"They want to break you," he said. "But they're the ones getting tired."
He looked at Azul.
"You're still thinking."
Azul nodded.
The second half would decide everything.
And as he sat there, breathing slowly, he realized something:
This was the real test.
Not whether he could see the game—
—but whether he could endure it.
---
The end