The second half didn't start with a roar; it started with a sickening thud.
Within two minutes, the Black Team earned a corner. Otávio, fueled by a simmering rage from the first-half nutmeg, rose like a titan above the White Team's defense. His forehead met the ball with the force of a falling mallet, burying it into the back of the net.
1-3. The Black Team screamed in triumph, while the White Team's morale shattered like glass. The youngsters' shoulders slumped. The scouts began closing their iPads. The "dream" was drifting into the gray Minas Gerais sky.
But Thiago stood in the center circle, his eyes glowing with a cold, analytical fire.
[ SYSTEM WARNING: STAMINA AT 12% ]
[ ADAPTIVE MODE: THE BEACON OF HOPE ACTIVATED ]
Thiago demanded the ball. He began to weave through the midfield, not with speed, but with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. He was "jazzing" with his feet now.
In the 60th minute, Thiago lured Otávio into a trap. He dangled the ball like bait. Otávio, desperate to end the "Mouth" once and for all, launched into a crunching, late tackle. Thiago felt the bone-shaking impact, rolling across the turf as the referee's whistle shrieked.
Free kick. Twenty-five yards out.
The White Team stood around the ball, trembling. No one wanted the responsibility. Thiago stood up, limping, wiping the red clay from his cheek. He pushed through the huddle and claimed the ball.
In the minds of the spectators, if Peter Drury were perched on the fence, the air would have vibrated with his prose: "A boy from the dust, standing before the gates of the gods! He doesn't just kick a ball; he interrogates the physics of the heavens!"
Thiago took a long, diagonal run-up. He struck the ball with the inside of his boot, a "Knuckleball" technique he had watched Juninho Pernambucano execute in a thousand slow-motion replays. The ball rose high, seemingly heading for the clouds, before suddenly dipping and swerving violently to the left. The keeper didn't even dive; he just watched as the ball kissed the post and tucked itself home.
2-3. Hope flickered.
The match turned into a frantic, end-to-end war. The Black Team, sensing the shift, pushed forward and scored a scrappy fourth goal after a defensive scramble. 2-4. The air went out of the White Team again.
"It's over," someone muttered.
"It's never over until the odds are settled!" Thiago hissed.
Minutes later, Thiago received the ball under heavy pressure. He spun—a 360-degree "Marseille Turn"—and without looking, threaded a pass that seemed to defy the laws of geometry. It cut through four defenders, finding Beto in stride. Beto didn't miss.
3-4. The bench was on its feet. Commander Rocha was chewing his whistle. The intensity was so thick you could carve it with a knife.
The clock hit the 90th minute. The fourth official signaled two minutes of stoppage time. The White Team was throwing everything forward. The Black Team was parked in their own box, a forest of legs and desperation.
Thiago picked up the ball near the halfway line. He could barely breathe. His vision was tunneling. The System was screaming red alerts, but he silenced them. He saw the gap.
One last time.
He surged forward, bypassing a tired midfielder. He was thirty-five yards out. The crowd—the scouts, the assistants, the laundry staff—held their breath.
"He approaches the summit!" the imaginary Drury roared. "The boy with the tongue of a gambler and the feet of a king! One final throw of the dice!"
Thiago didn't aim for the corners. He unleashed the Power Shot once more. It was a strike of pure, unadulterated fury. The ball traveled in a straight line, a white blur that seemed to warp the very air around it.
WHAM.
It tore through the air, past the outstretched fingers of the diving keeper, and nearly broke the netting in the top right corner.
4-4.
The White Team didn't just celebrate; they committed a riot of joy. They tackled Thiago, piling on top of him as if he were the World Cup winner himself. The Black Team sat on the grass, shells of men, staring at the boy who had just turned a trial into a legend.
[ MATCH ENDED: 4-4 ]
[ INDIVIDUAL RATING: S+ ]
The referee blew the final whistle—a long, shrill sound that signaled the end of the war.
Thiago lay at the bottom of the human pile, his chest heaving, his eyes staring at the sky. The overwhelming exhaustion hit him like a tidal wave. The System flickered one last message before he blacked out from effort:
[ YOU HAVE MADE HISTORY. NOW, THE WORLD WANTS A PIECE OF IT. ]