[Ding! Congratulations, Host, for completing today's session. You have gained 1 Free Attribute Point.]
As the first rays of the Mediterranean sun filtered through the curtains of his villa, Lorenzo opened his eyes. The mechanical chime of the System was a welcome wake-up call, much better than any traditional alarm.
This was a feature he had fully unlocked during the long flight from Buenos Aires: the "Training Ground Mode."
The logic was simple but revolutionary. As long as he spent at least six hours in a state of rest or sleep, his consciousness could undergo simulated training within the System. This effectively allowed him to gain 1 free attribute point every single day without the physical wear and tear that accompanied high-intensity drills. For a player at the elite level, where recovery was just as important as the training itself, this was a massive advantage. He could go through a grueling match during the day and still "out-train" everyone else while he slept.
Lorenzo stretched his arms, feeling the phantom soreness of a night spent in the simulation. It felt like he had been lifting weights and running shuttle sprints for hours. It was a fulfilling, heavy sensation, the kind that only came from hard work.
He opened his attribute panel and looked at the 1 free point. After a moment of deliberation, he focused on 'Positioning.'
[Positioning: 69 → 70!!]
With a soft hum, the attribute crossed the threshold of 70, finally hitting what Lorenzo considered a professional "passing grade."
Since acquiring the "King of the Penalty Area" skill, Lorenzo knew that his success would hinge on one thing: his ability to be in the right place at the right time. The skill guaranteed a goal on his first shot in the box, but if he couldn't find the space to receive the ball or lose his marker, the skill was useless.
In the world of football, positioning was the silent killer. He thought of the legendary Filippo "Pippo" Inzaghi. Outsiders often mocked the Italian striker, claiming he had no pace, no dribbling, and no physical presence. Yet, Inzaghi had dominated an era at AC Milan because he possessed a supernatural instinct for the ball. He lived on the shoulder of the last defender, always appearing exactly where the ball was about to drop.
If I want to rule the box, I have to master the shadows, Lorenzo thought.
Beep--!
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a notification from the La Masia "Juvenil A" group chat, sent by the assistant coach.
"Attention: Tonight's training session will conclude with a full-contact practice match against the Barcelona B reserve squad. Coach Sacristán will be in attendance to select three standout players to join the B-team for this weekend's league fixture."
"Opponent: Real Madrid Castilla. Venue: Mini Estadi."
Lorenzo's eyes sharpened. The "Mini-Clásico."
In Spain, the rivalry between Barcelona and Real Madrid wasn't just a game; it was a cultural war. Even at the youth and reserve levels, the atmosphere was electric. The B-team played in the Segunda División, the second tier of Spanish professional football. For an academy player, being promoted to the B-team was the final gate before the Camp Nou.
Even the greatest- Messi, Xavi, Iniesta had to prove themselves in the B-team first. It was the place where boys were tested against grown men in the brutal environment of professional league football.
The main quest gives me one year to join a top-five league and score twenty goals, Lorenzo calculated. Joining the B-team is the only logical step. If I can perform in the Segunda División, the first-team scouts won't be able to ignore me.
Before his trip to Argentina, Lorenzo had already established himself as a top prospect, winning the Bronze Boot in the U-17 league. But now, with the "King of the Penalty Area" skill and his upgraded positioning, he felt a sense of calm confidence. The youth leagues were no longer his ceiling.
"I won't just stand out," Lorenzo whispered. "I'll make it impossible for them to pick anyone else."
He rolled out of bed, feeling the newfound tightness in his muscles. Just as he was reaching for his training gear, a gentle knock sounded at the door.
"Lorenzo? Are you awake? I've made breakfast!" Lucia's voice drifted in from the hallway.
Lorenzo blinked, surprised. His housekeeper was still away on holiday, but it seemed he had a temporary replacement. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
He pushed the door open to find Lucia standing there, still in her pajamas but wearing a kitchen apron over them. The scent of fresh coffee and toasted bread filled the hallway.
"You didn't have to do that," Lorenzo said as he walked toward the kitchen.
"You have a big day, don't you?" Lucia asked, setting a plate of eggs and avocado in front of him. "I saw the news about the B-team trial. I know you, Lorenzo. You won't be satisfied with just a 'good' performance."
"I have a lot to prove," he admitted, sitting down. "Especially after what happened at Ezeiza. The Argentinian board wants to call me a 'thug.' I'd rather be called a 'nightmare' by the Real Madrid defense."
Lucia sat across from him, her expression serious. "I've already started reaching out to my contacts. That video of the tackle is going to be on the desk of every major sports editor in Madrid and Barcelona by noon. If the AFA wants to blackball you, we'll make sure the rest of the world knows why."
Lorenzo looked at her, truly grateful. While he focused on the pitch, she was securing his flank in the world of public opinion. It was a perfect partnership.
A few hours later, Lorenzo stood at the entrance of La Masia.
The morning was bustling with activity. Shuttle buses were departing, carrying the younger trainees to their regular schools. At La Masia, education was mandatory; the club believed that a smart player was a better player. All trainees attended local public schools, facing the same exams and pressures as any other Spanish teenager.
Training usually didn't begin until five in the evening, once the school day and tutoring sessions were over. But for the elite prospects in the Juvenil A group, the air was already thick with anticipation.
Lorenzo boarded the high school bus, taking a seat in the back. Around him, his teammates were huddled in small groups, their conversations dominated by one topic.
"Did you see the message? Sacristán is actually coming to watch us."
"They say Dongou is injured. The B-team doesn't have a single fit striker for the Castilla game."
"They need a 'nine'."
Lorenzo leaned his head against the window, watching the palm trees flash by. He didn't join the chatter. He didn't need to speculate. He knew exactly who the B-team was going to pick.
The "problem child" of Argentina was back in Catalonia, and he wasn't here to make friends. He was here to take the throne.