The academy gates closed behind Álex with a soft metallic click.
It was early morning, the kind where the sun had risen but still felt undecided about staying gentle. The air was cooler than Seville, sharper, carrying the familiar scent of trimmed grass and rubber from fresh boots. Álex stood still for a moment, his bag resting against his shoulder, letting the sounds wash over him.
Whistles.
Footsteps.
Balls striking boards and nets.
He had been gone only a few days, yet it felt longer. Long enough for something inside him to shift.
July 12 had come and gone. His fourteenth birthday had been quiet, warm, full of laughter and food and stories told too many times. His mother's cooking. Estrella insisting he make a wish out loud. His father watching him with that steady, unreadable pride. And then the call.
Paco Cuenca's voice had been calm, almost casual.
"Happy birthday, Álex. Enjoy your break. When you return, you train with the under-18s."
No ceremony. No explanation.
Just a fact.
Now, standing back at Paterna, that fact felt real.
Álex adjusted his grip on the bag and began walking.
The under-15 pitch came into view first.
Instinct pulled him toward it before logic could stop him.
The boys were already warming up, moving through patterns that had once defined his entire world. Short passes. One-touch drills. Laughter breaking through concentration. Coach Molina stood near the center circle, arms folded, voice cutting clean instructions through the air.
Someone spotted Álex.
"Hey!"
Heads turned.
A few smiles broke out, followed by a ripple of murmurs. Álex stepped onto the edge of the pitch, suddenly unsure of where to stand. These were his teammates. His brothers in sweat and frustration and triumph. The ones who had run with him through the MIC tournament, who had trusted his passes and followed his runs.
Coach Molina noticed him last.
He walked over slowly, eyes scanning Álex from head to toe. Taller. Broader shoulders. Something firmer in the way he stood.
"So," Miguel said, voice neutral but warm beneath it. "Fourteen now."
"Yes, coach."
Miguel nodded. "They're waiting for you."
Álex hesitated. "I just wanted to—"
Miguel raised a hand, stopping him gently. "No speeches. No goodbyes. You've already said everything on the pitch."
He placed a hand on Álex's shoulder, squeezing once. "Remember who you were here. Then go become something else."
The boys drifted closer, sensing the moment even if they didn't fully understand it. A few quick hugs. A clap on the back. One of them muttered, "Don't forget us when you're famous."
Álex smiled, but his chest felt tight.
"I won't," he said. And he meant it.
Then he turned away.
The path between the U15 and U18 training grounds was narrow, lined with low hedges and white stone. Álex had walked it before, but never like this.
Every step felt heavier, not with fear, but with awareness.
The sounds changed as he approached the U18 area. Fewer voices. Less chaos. The ball moved faster here, struck with purpose rather than excitement. Bodies collided without apology, recovered without complaint.
And standing at the edge of the pitch was Paco Cuenca.
He wasn't pacing. He wasn't watching drills.
He was watching Álex.
"You're late," Paco said flatly.
Álex froze for half a heartbeat, then checked his watch. He wasn't.
"I—"
"You're late to becoming comfortable," Paco continued, cutting him off. "That's good. Means you haven't settled."
He turned and pointed toward the pitch. "Drop your bag. Warm up. No introductions."
Álex nodded. "Yes, coach."
The moment his boots touched the grass, he felt it. The difference. The weight. The speed. A misplaced step here would be punished instantly.
He joined the warm-up line, eyes forward, breathing steady.
No one spoke to him.
No one needed to.
The first drill was simple on paper. Tight-space possession. Two-touch maximum. Pressing immediately after loss.
In reality, it was suffocating.
Álex received the ball with a defender already leaning into him. He shifted his body, shielded, released the pass just in time. The return came faster than he expected. He adjusted. Adapted.
A shoulder clipped him. He stumbled but stayed upright.
"Again," Paco called.
The second time, Álex anticipated the pressure, moved the ball one step earlier. Cleaner.
The third time, he added deception.
Paco's whistle shrilled once. Not to stop the drill. To acknowledge it.
As the session progressed, fatigue crept in. His lungs burned. His legs protested. These players were stronger, smarter in their movement. They didn't waste energy. They punished hesitation.
Álex made mistakes.
He lost the ball once in a dangerous area and had to sprint back, lungs screaming, to recover. He arrived just in time to block a shot, the impact rattling through his frame.
He didn't complain.
He didn't look to the sideline.
He endured.
By the end of training, his shirt clung to him, sweat dripping from his chin. He bent forward, hands on his knees, vision narrowing slightly.
Paco approached.
"You don't belong here yet," he said calmly.
Álex straightened, bracing himself.
"But you're not drowning," Paco continued. "That matters."
He tapped his clipboard once. "Recover properly. Tomorrow, we raise the level."
Then he walked away.
No praise.
No reassurance.
Just expectation.
That night, the academy was quieter than usual.
Álex lay on his bed, muscles aching in places he hadn't known existed. His body felt stretched, tested, reshaped by the day. Outside, the lights hummed softly, illuminating empty pitches that would soon demand everything again.
He closed his eyes, then opened them.
"System," he whispered.
[Yes host.]
"Show me my status window."
[Processing…]
[STATUS]
Name: Alejandro Adeyemi Castillo
Age: 14
Height: 170 cm
Position: Attacking Midfielder (Left)
Technical Potential: Very High
Tactical Awareness: Stabilized
Physical Development: Accelerating
Mental Resilience: Tempered
Current Standing: Valencia U18 Squad
[OVERALL RATING]
OVR: 65
[PHYSICAL]
Acceleration: 62
Sprint Speed: 60
Agility: 66
Balance: 59
Jumping: 52
Reaction: 57
Stamina: 60
Strength: 50
[MENTAL & TACTICAL]
Positioning: 58
Vision: 60
Decision Making: 60
Composure: 58
[TECHNICAL]
Ball Control: 66
Crossing: 60
Dribbling: 67
Finishing: 59
Short Pass: 63
Long Pass: 55
[SPECIAL ATTRIBUTES]
Weak Foot Strength: ★★★☆☆ (3 stars)
Skill Moves: ★★★★☆ (4 stars)
[SKILLS POSSESSED]
• Stepover – Level 3
• Body Feint – Level 2
[POTENTIAL]
Projected OVR: 86
Trajectory: World Class Attacking Midfielder
Álex stared at the numbers for a long moment.
They didn't excite him.
They didn't scare him.
They simply told the truth.
He closed the window.
Tomorrow would be harder.
The day after that, harder still.
But he was no longer standing at the door.
He had crossed the line.