**Z-City. Saitama's Apartment.**
**3:14 AM. Temperature: 29°C (84°F).**
**Z-Valhalla. District of Strength (Formerly Olympus Gym).**
**Wednesday. 9:00 AM.**
Barcelona.
Camp Nou Stadium. 99,000 seats. A cathedral of football worship.
The air inside smelled of roasted nuts and ancient victory.
Soccer walked onto the pitch for the warm-up. He wore the navy PSG kit. **#29**. (He picked it because 2+9=11, and 11 is two lines, like a mountain path. Logic).
The stadium was deafening. *Barça! Barça! Baaarça!*
"It's loud," Soccer said to Noel Noa, who was stretching beside him.
"It is hostile," Noa corrected. "They hate us. We bought their best player four years ago."
Soccer looked across the midfield line.
The Barcelona team was warming up. They wore the classic stripes. Blue and Red.
In the center, doing keepie-uppies with effortless grace, was **Carlos Silva**.
The Magician had changed. He wasn't smiling. He had cut his hair short. He looked serious.
"Hey Samba!" Soccer shouted.
Silva looked over. His eyes widened. Then narrowed.
Silva jogged over to the midfield line. He didn't cross it.
"Jumping Bean," Silva said. "I see they fixed your leg."
"Titanium," Soccer tapped his boot. "Indestructible."
"We'll see," Silva pointed to the stands. "This isn't a high school field in Paris. This is Catalonia. We play possession here. We keep the ball until you cry."
"I don't cry," Soccer said. "Except when I stub my toe. But now my toe is metal, so the furniture cries."
Silva shook his head, suppressing a grin. "Good luck, Yankee. Don't trip."
***
**Kickoff: Champions League Group Stage.**
**Barcelona vs PSG.**
The whistle blew.
The Champions League anthem played. *Die Meister! Die Besten!*
Goosebumps. Literal chills.
Soccer stood next to Noa.
"Ready?" Noa asked.
"Always."
Game on.
Barcelona started with the ball. *Tiki-Taka*. It was suffocating.
Silva controlled the midfield. He passed, moved, passed, moved. He was the metronome.
PSG chased. Noa pressed efficiently. Soccer pressed frantically.
Minute 10.
Silva threaded a through-ball that sliced the PSG defense like a hot knife.
A Barcelona striker latched onto it.
Goal.
**Barcelona: 1 - PSG: 0.**
The crowd roared.
Noa walked back to the center circle. He didn't look bothered.
"They are over-committing," Noa said to Soccer. "Silva is pushing high. The space behind him is vacant."
"The Void?" Soccer asked.
"The killing field." Noa pointed. "When I drop deep... you run."
"Where?"
"Through the wall."
***
**Minute 25.**
PSG restarted.
Noa dropped back into the midfield. He acted as a playmaker. This drew the Barcelona defenders forward.
"Press him!" Silva shouted.
Noa received the ball. He held it. Shielded it against two players.
He waited.
Soccer saw the gap. The two center backs had split to cover the wings. The middle was open.
Soccer launched.
**Spring Start.**
He exploded from a standstill. The acceleration was violent.
Noa didn't look. He flicked the ball over his shoulder with his heel.
Perfectly weighted into Soccer's path.
Soccer ran onto it. He was through.
But a shadow loomed.
A new defender. A massive center back recently transferred from England.
**Arthur Sterling.**
Wait. England?
No. Sterling hadn't transferred. That was false info.
It was **Jean-Luc Pierre**. The French pro from the Gauntlet. He played for Barca now.
"The Bouncer!" Soccer recognized him.
Pierre stepped in. "Not this time, rabbit."
Pierre was fast. He matched Soccer's speed. He used his long arms to shield the ball.
"Mine!" Pierre grunted, leaning into Soccer.
Soccer felt the lean.
*He's bracing for impact.*
Soccer didn't hit him.
Soccer hit the brakes.
**The Friction Stop.**
He dug his titanium cleats into the turf so hard a chunk of grass flew up. He stopped instantly.
Pierre, expecting resistance, fell forward. He stumbled over his own momentum.
Soccer let Pierre slide past him.
Then Soccer accelerated again. *0-100.*
He left Pierre in the dust.
He was one-on-one with the keeper. **Ter Stegen.** (Or a regen equivalent).
The keeper stayed big.
Soccer looked at the corner.
He remembered Marcus. The Spear. *Don't be fancy. Be effective.*
Soccer smashed it.
No curve. No chip.
Power.
The ball hit the keeper's hand. It folded the glove back. It powered through.
**GOAL.**
**PSG: 1 - Barcelona: 1.**
The Camp Nou went silent.
Soccer ran to the corner. He pointed at Noa.
"Your pass was pretty!"
Noa jogged up. "Your finish was ugly. But functional."
Silva watched from midfield. He touched his earpiece.
"Mark #29. Don't let him run."
***
**Minute 40.**
Barcelona adapted. They put a "man-marker" on Soccer. A defensive midfielder whose only job was to stand on Soccer's toes.
Every time Soccer moved, the shadow moved.
"He's annoying," Soccer complained to the ref. "He's touching me."
"It's football," the ref shrugged.
Soccer couldn't shake him. The guy held his jersey, stepped on his heels, whispered insults in Catalan.
Soccer stopped running.
He stood near the sideline.
"Hey," Soccer said to the shadow.
"Que?"
"Look up."
The shadow looked up.
The ball was flying over their heads. Noa had switched play.
Soccer jumped.
**Titanium Vertical.**
He leaped. He climbed the shadow like a ladder (hands on shoulders, illegal? Ref missed it).
He won the header. He knocked it down to...
**Noel Noa.**
Noa caught it.
He was inside the box.
Goal.
**PSG: 2 - Barcelona: 1.**
Noa pointed at Soccer. "Nice ladder."
***
**Halftime.**
The PSG locker room was professional. Calm.
"We control the pace," the Coach said. "Noa, Soccer, excellent link-up. Second half, they will press hard. Exploit the counter."
Soccer drank his electrolyte slushie.
"Silva is quiet," Soccer said. "He hasn't done a magic trick yet."
"He's saving mana," a veteran player joked.
"No," Soccer stared at the floor. "He's waiting for the drum."
***
**Second Half. Minute 60.**
Silva woke up.
He received the ball. He didn't pass.
He dribbled.
Past the PSG midfield. Past the defenders.
He entered the box.
Noa tracked back. "Stop him!"
Silva did the **Elastic-Flip**. He scooped the ball up *during* an Elastico motion. It popped over Noa's foot.
Silva volleyed.
**GOAL.**
**Barcelona: 2 - PSG: 2.**
Silva ran to the crowd. He cupped his ear. The crowd screamed. *Boom-boom-CHAK.*
"Rhythm," Soccer whispered. "He found it."
***
**Minute 88.**
The game was tied.
Champions League points were at stake. A draw away from home was good. PSG was parking the bus.
"Stay back!" Noa ordered. "Hold the line!"
Soccer was supposed to be a defensive winger now.
He hated it.
Silva had the ball on the edge of the box. He was toying with the defenders.
Soccer watched him.
*He's going to shoot.*
Silva wound up.
The PSG defenders blocked the lane.
But Silva didn't shoot. It was a fake.
He rolled the ball through the legs of the defender.
Into the path of the Barca striker.
Goal.
**Barcelona: 3 - PSG: 2.**
**Time: 89:00.**
The stadium exploded. Victory for Barca.
Silva celebrated. He danced.
Soccer stood at the midfield.
Noa walked past him. "Game over. We accept the loss."
"No," Soccer said.
"Time is gone," Noa pointed to the board. "3 minutes of stoppage. They will keep the ball."
"Then we take it back."
Soccer looked at Silva celebrating.
*The magician gets distracted by his own trick.*
**Kickoff.**
Soccer didn't pass back.
He tapped to Noa and ran.
"Suicide run!" Soccer shouted.
He charged straight down the throat of the Barcelona defense.
Noa sighed. But he passed the ball forward.
To the space Soccer *would* be.
Soccer raced Pierre (the Bouncer).
Pierre was strong. Soccer was Titanium.
They collided shoulder-to-shoulder.
*CRASH.*
Soccer absorbed the hit. His left leg stabilized him instantly. Pierre bounced off.
Soccer reached the ball.
He was 30 yards out.
The keeper was set.
Soccer looked at the goal.
*No angle. Too far.*
But he saw Noa.
Noa had followed the run. He was on the left.
Soccer wound up for a massive shot.
Every Barca defender threw their body in the way. "BLOCK!"
Soccer faked.
He stepped over the ball.
He left it rolling.
Noa arrived behind him.
Noa hit it.
**The Phantom Strike.**
The keeper, blinded by Soccer's fake and the wall of bodies, didn't see the shot until it was past him.
**GOAL.**
**PSG: 3 - Barcelona: 3.**
**Time: 90+2.**
***
**Final Whistle.**
A draw. At Camp Nou. A miracle result.
Soccer collapsed on the pitch.
Silva walked over. He swapped jerseys with Noa. Then he looked at Soccer.
"You are annoying," Silva laughed, exhausted. "You never stop running."
"Batteries are new," Soccer smiled from the grass.
Noa offered a hand to pull Soccer up.
"Chaos saved us," Noa admitted quietly. "Your fake... it created the window."
"Windows are for looking through," Soccer said. "Or breaking."
He stood up.
He looked at the crowd. They were applauding. Respect.
Soccer felt the energy. The World Stage. It was addicting.
His phone buzzed in the locker room (Luna texted him updates).
**OTHER RESULTS:**
*Real Madrid: 4 - Ajax: 0.*
**Kai Rivers: 2 Goals.**
*Bayern Munich: 3 - Milan: 1.*
**Vincent Drake: 1 Goal, 1 Red Card.**
*Juventus: 0 - Chelsea: 0.*
**Zero: Clean Sheet (Man of the Match).**
Soccer looked at the phone.
The Pack was hunting. Eating well.
"We need to eat more," Soccer told his phone.
He grabbed his bag.
Next week: **The Munich Allianz Arena.**
Bayern Munich.
Vincent Drake.
The Dragon.
"Dragon meat," Soccer licked his lips. "Sounds chewy."