The air at Cidade do Galo was thick with more than just the scent of cut grass; it tasted of pure, unadulterated ambition. As Thiago laced up his borrowed boots—which were a half-size too small and pinched his toes—he felt like an imposter in a temple.
Around him, thirty of the finest young prospects in the state were stretching. They moved with the feline grace of athletes who had been groomed since birth for this. Thiago, meanwhile, sat on the grass, his mind whirring like a supercomputer.
[ ANALYSIS MODE: ACTIVE ]
[ SCANNING TARGETS... ]
"Hey! You're the 'Tongue' from the video, right? That rainbow flick was clean, brother!"
A hand slapped Thiago's shoulder with the force of a falling brick. Thiago looked up to see a kid with a perpetual grin and hair bleached a blinding shade of peroxide blonde.
This was Beto. From Thiago's mental database, he knew Beto was a tireless box-to-box midfielder—not the most gifted technician, but a human lung who covered every blade of grass.
"I'm Thiago," he managed, wincing at the shoulder slap.
"I'm Beto! Don't mind the others," Beto chirped, nodding toward a group of players who were intentionally ignoring Thiago. "They think you're just an internet fluke. Show 'em you've got more than just one trick, eh?"
In stark contrast stood Otávio. He was a mountain of a center-back with a buzz cut and eyes that seemed to view everyone as a personal insult. He was the academy's "enforcer," a player whose reputation for snapping shins was almost as great as his defensive positioning. He caught Thiago's gaze and mimed a "talking" motion with his hand before pointing at the dirt. The message was clear: Today, I bury the Mouth.
"GIVE ME THREE LINES! NOW!"
The head coach, a grizzled veteran named Commander Rocha, screamed with a voice that sounded like gravel in a blender. His assistants, younger men in sleek tracksuits, immediately set up the grids.
The drills began with a brutal, high-intensity passing circuit. One-touch, two-touch, movement into space.
[ SYSTEM BUFF: 'ACADEMY PROSPECT PACKAGE' STABILIZING... ]
Thiago wasn't the fastest. He wasn't the strongest. But while the other players were focusing on their own feet, Thiago was looking at the entire grid. Thanks to his [A+ Vision], he saw the passing lane three seconds before the ball was even played.
"Move the ball, don't massage it!" Rocha roared, pacing between the lines. "Santos! Good awareness. Keep your head up!"
Thiago was hovering in the top three of every drill. He wasn't dominating, but he was efficient. When a teammate made a sloppy pass, Thiago adjusted his body before the ball arrived, making the transition look seamless. He was like a ghost in the machine—always where the ball needed to go next.
The intensity peaked during a "Rondo" drill—six against two in a tight space. Thiago was in the middle with Otávio.
Thiago saw the trigger. The player on the outside telegraphed a pass. Thiago stepped in, intercepted it cleanly, and with a soft touch, knocked it through Otávio's open legs—a nutmeg in the tightest of spaces.
The onlookers gasped. Beto let out a loud "OHHHH!"
Otávio spun around, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson. He lunged at Thiago, grabbing him by the bib. "You think this is a circus, you little rat? Do that again and you won't walk off this pitch."
"Maybe if you kept your legs closed as much as you keep your mouth open, it wouldn't happen," Thiago retorted, the 'Jazzing' instinct overriding his survival instinct.
"ENOUGH!" Rocha's whistle pierced the air like a gunshot. "Save the blood for the match. Assistants, get the vests. We're going eleven-on-eleven."
As the players huddled, the coaches began assigning roles. Almost every boy stepped forward when "Center Forward" was mentioned. They all wanted the glory, the goals, the headlines.
Thiago stood back. He knew his body. Even with the system buff, he didn't have the raw strength to wrestle with a beast like Otávio for ninety minutes in the box.
"I'll take the AMF (Attacking Midfielder) spot for the White Team," Thiago said firmly.
Rocha looked at him, surprised. "The '10' role? That's the engine room, Santos. If you don't distribute, your team dies."
"I don't want to just score," Thiago said, glancing at the simmering Otávio. "I want to dismantle the defense."
Beto grinned, joining the White Team. "I'll do your running for you, Tongue. You just find the gaps."
The teams were balanced: Beto's energy and Thiago's vision against Otávio's iron-clad defense. As they walked toward the center circle of Pitch 1, the scouting staff lined up along the fence, iPads ready.
Thiago felt the System hum. This wasn't a village bet anymore. This was the cathedral.