The second half began without ceremony.
No tactical shifts.
No dramatic changes.
Just violence disguised as football.
From kickoff, the opponent pressed higher, harder. Their midfield line stepped up aggressively, compressing space, daring Barcelona to play through pain instead of patterns.
Azul felt the first hit within thirty seconds—a late shove as he released a pass. He staggered, caught himself, kept moving.
He didn't look at the referee.
He didn't look at the player.
He looked at the *field*.
### **PLAYING THROUGH THE STORM**
Azul adjusted his rhythm again.
One touch instead of two.
Angles instead of dribbles.
Movement instead of resistance.
When a defender rushed him, he wasn't there anymore.
When they tried to trap him, the ball had already moved on.
It frustrated them.
And frustrated players made mistakes.
In the 54th minute, Azul dropped unusually deep, almost alongside the center-backs. His marker followed—exactly as Azul expected.
That single step created a hole.
Marcos stepped into it immediately, receiving the ball between the lines with space to turn. He drove forward, forcing the defense to collapse.
Azul sprinted past him, ignored by defenders who still believed he was retreating.
Marcos slipped the ball back.
Azul didn't shoot.
He squared it.
The winger arrived late.
Shot.
Saved.
But now the opponent was scrambling.
### **THE TURNING POINT**
The breaking moment didn't come from brilliance.
It came from fatigue.
At the 62nd minute, the same midfielder who had been kicking Azul all game hesitated—just a fraction too long—before closing him down.
Azul felt it instantly.
He turned.
Not fast.
Not flashy.
*Decisively.*
The midfielder reached—but his legs were gone.
Azul accelerated into space, drawing two defenders toward him.
The Emperor's Eye exploded into clarity.
Three options.
One correct.
He chipped the ball delicately over the defensive line—not a through-ball, but a *drop* into space.
The striker met it on the run.
Goal.
1–0, Barcelona.
Azul didn't celebrate.
He bent forward, hands on knees, lungs burning.
But inside—
Relief.
### **PAYBACK COMES QUICKLY**
The opponent didn't respond with tactics.
They responded with anger.
Two minutes after the goal, Azul was hacked down near the sideline. This time, the referee had no choice.
Yellow card.
The fouler shouted something as he walked away.
Azul didn't respond.
He got up slowly, brushed grass from his shorts, and repositioned himself.
Marcos jogged past him.
"You good?"
Azul nodded.
"I'm not leaving."
### **THE FINAL TWENTY**
The last twenty minutes stretched endlessly.
Barcelona dropped deeper, protecting the lead. Azul became the outlet—the release valve when pressure mounted. Every time he touched the ball, two players converged.
He welcomed it.
Each foul burned seconds.
Each smart touch drained their energy.
In the 78th minute, a miscontrol nearly cost them everything. The ball bounced awkwardly off Azul's thigh and spilled loose.
A striker pounced.
Azul recovered instantly, sliding across the passing lane instead of diving in. The striker hesitated.
That half-second allowed the center-back to clear.
Azul lay on the grass for a moment afterward, chest heaving.
Mistakes were inevitable.
Recovery was everything.
### **THE LONGEST MINUTES**
Stoppage time: **four minutes**.
The crowd roared.
The opponent launched one final assault.
Cross after cross.
Bodies flying.
Voices screaming.
In the 92nd minute, the ball broke loose at the edge of the box.
Azul saw it first.
He didn't sprint.
He *arrived*.
One touch to control.
Second touch to shield.
A defender smashed into him from behind.
The whistle blew.
Foul.
Azul stayed down for a moment, staring at the sky.
Not in pain.
In exhaustion.
Marcos pulled him up.
"That's it," he said. "You killed the game."
### **FULL TIME**
The final whistle came like mercy.
Barcelona players collapsed.
Azul walked slowly toward the bench, legs trembling, body bruised.
Coach Miravet met him halfway.
He didn't speak.
He simply placed a hand on Azul's shoulder and squeezed once.
Approval.
In the locker room, silence ruled—not celebration, but respect.
Miravet finally addressed them.
"Some matches you win with quality. Some you win with courage."
His eyes locked onto Azul.
"Today, we learned which one you have."
### **AFTER THE MATCH**
Later that night, Azul sat alone on his bed, ice wrapped around his knee, ribs sore, ankles tender.
He had taken more punishment in ninety minutes than in the last six months combined.
But he hadn't disappeared.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his father:
**Saw the highlights. You stayed standing. Proud of you.**
Azul smiled faintly.
He looked at his reflection in the dark window.
Still young.
Still learning.
Still far from the top.
But now he knew something important.
Vision was only the beginning.
To succeed—to truly follow in Messi's footsteps—he would need to endure everything that came with being seen.
And tonight, battered but unbroken, Azul Cortez had proven he could.
---
The end