The weakness revealed itself slowly.
Azul didn't rush it. He let the game breathe, watching Espanyol's midfield triangle slide left every time Barça built from the right. They were overcompensating—afraid of the winger's pace—leaving a thin seam of space just ahead of their center-backs.
It was small.
Blink-and-you-miss-it small.
But Azul saw it every time.
### **TURNING THE SCREW**
At the 55th minute, he tested it.
A short pass to Marcos.
A quick return.
A disguised body feint.
The Espanyol holding midfielder bit.
Azul slipped into the seam, carried the ball forward three steps, then released it wide again.
No shot.
No glory.
Just information.
Espanyol's bench shouted instructions. The defenders argued. The seam tightened—then opened again.
Azul smiled to himself.
### **THE DERBY TURNS**
In the 63rd minute, Espanyol committed the mistake.
Their right-back surged forward, chasing a moment of bravery. The midfield slid to cover—but half a second too late.
Azul received the ball under pressure.
He didn't look up.
He didn't need to.
The Emperor's Eye had already mapped it.
With one touch, he threaded the ball between two defenders—*not* toward the striker, but into the space where the striker *would be*.
The run was perfect.
The finish was ruthless.
1–0, Barcelona.
For a split second, the stadium went silent.
Then chaos.
Barça's bench exploded. Marcos sprinted straight to Azul, grabbing him by the shoulders.
"You saw that before it existed," he shouted.
Azul barely reacted. His chest thumped, but his face stayed calm.
The job wasn't finished.
### **UNDER SIEGE**
Espanyol responded with fury.
Long balls.
Hard tackles.
Relentless pressing.
Azul took a knock in the 70th minute—studs on his ankle. He winced but waved away the physio.
"Stay with us," Marcos muttered.
"I'm fine," Azul said, teeth clenched.
In the 78th minute, Espanyol nearly equalized. A cross whipped in, a header flashed past the post.
The crowd roared again.
Azul dropped deeper, becoming an extra shield in front of the defense. He intercepted passes not by strength, but by timing—arriving half a second before danger formed.
### **THE FINAL MINUTES**
Five minutes of stoppage time.
Espanyol threw everyone forward.
In the 93rd minute, a loose ball fell to Azul near the corner flag. Two players closed him down.
He could have cleared it.
Instead, he held it.
Shielded.
Turned.
Waited.
He drew the foul.
The whistle blew.
Full time.
### **AFTERMATH**
Barcelona players collapsed in relief.
Marcos hugged Azul tightly.
"That pass," he said, breathless. "That's senior football."
Coach Miravet didn't celebrate wildly. He simply nodded once, eyes fixed on Azul.
That nod meant everything.
### **THE WALK OFF**
As Azul walked toward the tunnel, insults from earlier had turned into silence.
A few Espanyol players glanced at him—not angry.
Respectful.
Back in the locker room, Miravet finally spoke.
"Derbies reveal character," he said. "And today, we found yours."
His gaze settled on Azul.
"You didn't just play. You *controlled*."
Azul sat quietly, heart still racing.
He had passed his first real test.
### **LATE THAT NIGHT**
Back at La Masia, Azul lay in bed, exhaustion finally claiming him.
The pass replayed in his mind—not as a highlight, but as confirmation.
He belonged here.
And somewhere far above this level—
Messi was still playing.
Still creating.
Still watching football the way only geniuses did.
Azul closed his eyes.
*One day,* he thought.
*I'll see the game the way you do.*
---
**Chapter 45 end's here**