Chapter 1: The Day Everything Changed
The ball hung in the air for what felt like an eternity.
Aiden Satoru watched it arc through the Barcelona sky, spinning backward from the goalkeeper's desperate clearance. Around him, La Masia's training ground buzzed with the usual sounds—coaches shouting instructions, players calling for passes, the rhythmic thud of leather against boots. But in this moment, all of that faded into white noise.
His body moved before his mind could process the geometry. Three touches. That's all he'd need.
The ball descended at an awkward angle, too high for a conventional chest trap, too fast for anything fancy. Aiden's right foot flicked up with supernatural timing, cushioning the ball with the outside of his boot. It died instantly, as if the laws of physics had taken a coffee break. The sphere dropped perfectly onto his left thigh, then rolled down his shin like water, before settling at his feet as gently as a feather.
Dead. Absolutely dead.
"¡Joder!" someone muttered behind him. Damn.
Aiden didn't acknowledge the comment. He'd heard variations of it a thousand times over the past three years at La Masia. The shock in teammates' voices when he killed impossible balls. The whispers comparing his touch to something otherworldly. The coaches exchanging knowing glances, already calculating his market value.
He was used to it now—this body that moved like poetry, feet that spoke a language beyond words.
With the ball glued to his left foot, Aiden glanced up. The defender committed, lunging forward with the desperation of someone who knew they were already beaten. Aiden's body swayed right, a subtle shift of his hips that sold the fake completely. The defender bit, hard.
Then came the magic.
Aiden's right foot wrapped around the ball with impossible delicacy, executing a perfect elastico—inside to outside in one fluid motion. The ball danced past the defender's outstretched leg like it was mocking him. But Aiden wasn't done. As the second defender rushed to close the space, he backheeled the ball through the rapidly closing gap with his left foot, nutmegging the opponent without even looking.
The ball emerged on the other side, and so did Aiden, accelerating into the penalty area.
Goalkeeper charging. Three seconds to decide.
His mind calculated angles with computer-like precision. Near post: 23% success rate from this position. Far post: 41%. Chip: 38%, but higher reward. His body had already made the choice before his consciousness caught up.
Aiden's right foot—his "weaker" foot, though that term had become meaningless years ago—struck the ball with textbook precision. Not the laces. Not the inside. The sweet spot just off-center that Cristiano Ronaldo had made famous. The technique that turned footballs into missiles.
The ball exploded off his boot with a sound like a gunshot. It screamed past the goalkeeper's desperate dive, leaving a trail of spin in the air, and buried itself in the top corner of the net with such force that the entire goal shuddered.
Silence.
Then eruption.
"¡GOLAZO!" The scream came from everywhere at once—teammates, coaches, even the groundskeeper who'd paused mid-task to watch. "¡QUÉ GOLAZO!"
Aiden stood there, chest heaving, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He didn't celebrate. Didn't pump his fist or slide on his knees. He simply stared at the ball nestled in the net, that familiar feeling washing over him—the certainty that he was exactly where he belonged.
"Satoru!" Coach Ramirez's voice cut through the celebration. "My office. Now."
The tone made Aiden's stomach tighten. Not angry, but serious. Heavy with something unsaid.
He jogged off the pitch, ignoring the pats on his back from teammates, the envious glances from the younger players. At eighteen, Aiden had spent three years at La Masia being called the next big thing, the future of Barcelona, the heir to legends. But "future" and "potential" were just pretty words for "not ready yet."
Coach Ramirez was waiting outside the training facility's main building, but he wasn't alone.
Next to him stood a man in an expensive suit that screamed "board member." Late fifties, graying hair, the kind of weathered face that came from decades in football's cutthroat business. Behind them, Aiden could see through the glass doors into the lobby, where several more suits had gathered.
Something was happening. Something big.
"Aiden," Coach Ramirez said, his voice softer than usual. "This is Mateu Alemany, Barcelona's Director of Football."
Aiden's heart rate spiked. He'd seen Alemany before, of course—from a distance, during official events. But the man had never spoken to him directly. Directors of Football didn't waste time on youth players unless...
"Walk with me, son," Alemany said, already moving toward the offices. It wasn't a request.
They walked in silence through corridors Aiden had traveled countless times, past photos of La Masia legends who'd made the jump to the first team. Xavi. Iniesta. Puyol. Messi.
Always Messi.
The greatest player to ever wear the Blaugrana. The man whose shadow stretched so long that it swallowed everyone who came after.
Alemany's office was minimalist—sleek desk, tactical boards covered in magnetic player markers, a window overlooking the Camp Nou in the distance. The stadium where 99,000 people would scream your name or curse your mistakes, depending on the day.
"Sit," Alemany said, gesturing to a chair. He didn't sit himself. Instead, he stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back. "What do you know about the club's current situation?"
Aiden swallowed. "I know we're in financial trouble. I know we sold players. I know..." He hesitated. "I know Messi left."
The words tasted bitter. Everyone knew. Three weeks ago, the entire football world had watched Leo Messi cry at his farewell press conference, explaining that Barcelona couldn't afford to keep him due to La Liga's salary cap restrictions. The greatest player in the club's history, forced out by spreadsheets and regulations.
Paris Saint-Germain had swooped in immediately. Now Messi wore their colors.
"We're not just in financial trouble," Alemany said quietly. "We're in crisis. €1.35 billion in debt. We've lost Messi, Griezmann is likely leaving, and we're scrambling to register the players we've managed to bring in. The media is calling it the end of an era. Some are saying the end of Barcelona as a superpower."
Aiden said nothing. What could he say?
Alemany turned to face him, and Aiden saw something unexpected in the older man's eyes—not desperation, but determination.
"Coach Koeman has been watching you for months. So have I. So has the entire technical staff. Your goal-to-game ratio in the Juvenil A is 2.1. Two goals per match, Aiden. Against the best youth teams in Spain." He paused. "Your ball control is unlike anything I've seen since... well, since Ronaldinho. Your finishing is clinical. Your two-footedness is perfect. And you have something else, something that can't be coached."
"What?" Aiden's voice came out as a whisper.
"Hunger." Alemany smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You play like you're trying to prove something to the world. Like every goal is personal."
The observation hit closer to home than Aiden wanted to admit. He thought about the countless hours alone on practice fields, perfecting that first touch. The nights watching footage of Nagi's impossible ball control, Lavinho's creative genius, Cristiano's clinical finishing, Noel Noa's ambidextrous mastery—studying them until their movements became his movements.
"We're promoting you to the first team," Alemany said simply.
The words hung in the air like a live grenade.
"What?" Aiden's brain struggled to process.
"Effective immediately. You'll train with the senior squad starting Monday. If you perform in preseason, you'll be in the squad for our opening match against Real Sociedad." Alemany walked to his desk, pulled out a folder. "This is not charity, Aiden. This is necessity. We need goals. We need someone who can make people forget about Messi, even for a moment. We need you to become something we can sell to 99,000 people every week—hope."
Aiden's hands trembled. Eighteen years old. First team. Camp Nou.
This was everything he'd dreamed about since the first time he'd kicked a ball. But the weight of it—filling Messi's absence, saving Barcelona from its crisis, proving he wasn't just another La Masia prospect who'd flame out—felt like it might crush him.
"Can you do this?" Alemany asked. "Can you handle this pressure? Because if you fail, the entire world will say we were desperate and foolish. They'll say we threw away our future on an unproven kid."
Aiden thought about that ball hanging in the air twenty minutes ago. The way his body had moved without thought, pure instinct and thousands of hours of training compressed into three perfect touches. He thought about every coach who'd told him he was special, every teammate who'd watched his goals with awe, every defender who'd left the pitch shaking their head in disbelief.
He thought about the name on his back—Satoru—a Japanese name his mother had insisted on, meaning "enlightened one." A name that had always felt like a promise he had to keep.
"I can do this," Aiden said, surprised by the steel in his own voice. "I'll score. That's what I do."
Alemany's smile widened, genuine this time. "Then welcome to FC Barcelona's first team, Aiden Satoru. Don't let us down."
As Aiden walked out of that office, past the photos of legends, toward a future that suddenly felt terrifyingly real, one thought crystallized in his mind:
This is where it begins. Twenty-seven years. A thousand goals. A legacy that will outlive us all.
The sun was setting over Barcelona, painting the sky in shades of Blaugrana—blue and crimson, the colors he'd wear into battle. The colors he'd bleed.
Aiden Satoru's legend was about to begin.
End of Chapter 1