The System Turned Football's Worst Prospect Into a Monster.

Chapter 93: Volume 1, Chapter 93: The Other Dressing Room

Rayan arrived at Building A at 7:08 a.m. Twenty-two minutes early. He wore his green-and-white academy kit, the small number eleven stamped on his chest.

No senior squad number. No permanent locker. No crisp, personalised gear resting on a bench. A kit manager simply flicked a wrist toward three folding chairs set up near the laundry hampers, away from the established senior stalls.

Salvador sat, bag shoved under his seat, and tied his boots without a word. Duarte didn’t. He leaned back against the wall, ankles crossed, like he’d been walking into this room for years.

Rayan stayed still, taking in the quiet mechanics of the room. Players trickled in according to a treatment schedule taped by the door. Phones went into bags before anyone even called a meeting. Kit sat pre-stacked on the main benches. When the seniors spoke, they didn’t play music or mess around; they traded quick, quiet notes on passing angles. Nobody looked at the academy boys. To them, three extra shirts had just arrived for the morning.

Sebastián Coatez walked in. His height alone claimed the corridor.

"Bags under the bench," Coatez said, not even slowing down. "Phones away now. Pitch three in ten minutes."

Rui Amorim stepped into the hallway shortly after, gathered the squad, and introduced the additions in a single breath. Three extra bodies for preseason rotation.

By 7:40 a.m., they were on pitch three for a high-intensity rondo.

The first pass came into Rayan’s feet. His touch was fine, but he hadn’t even finished thinking about his second option when Morten Holm was already there, just occupying the space, taking the ball like he’d read it off a script Rayan hadn’t been given.

Rayan was shoved into the middle, chest burning. Senior tempo wasn’t just faster running; the space simply died before his brain could make a choice.

Duarte handled it better. On his rotation, he scanned early, opened his hips, and clipped crisp one-touch balls between Pedro Gonsalves and Markus Edwins without missing a beat. Salvador survived by stripping his game to the bone, laying off every pass the exact second it touched his boot. Neither of them ran the drill, but both kept it alive.

The rondo transitioned directly into a four-goal positional play exercise on a narrowed pitch. The boundaries were tight, marked by flat red cones.

"Two touches maximum," Amorim called out, his shadow stretching across the centre circle. "Keep the circulation sharp. Move the block."

Rayan lined up on the left side of the secondary unit. Every sequence felt like a physical confrontation. When the ball moved toward his zone, the pressure didn’t arrive after he received it; the pressure was already travelling while the ball was in the air.

On his next touch, Rayan attempted to drag the ball inward to set up a secondary passing angle. Before his pivot foot planted, André Santos slammed into his shoulder. It wasn’t a foul, just raw, legal senior leverage. Rayan stumbled, lost his balance, and watched the ball slide out of bounds.

"Faster!" Amorim barked from the sideline. "Don’t wait for the weight of the pass! Adjust your hips early!"

Rayan swallowed hard, wiping sweat from his eyes with his sleeve. His heart was hammering against his ribs. At the academy level, a player had time to digest a mistake, take a breath, and recalibrate before the next repetition. Here, there was no breath. The next ball was already being zipped into play by Coatez from the backline.

Ten minutes into the positional block, the physical strain began to compound. The temperature on pitch three rose as the morning sun cleared the tree line. Rayan’s legs felt heavy, his lungs burning with every quick shift across the narrow grid.

Duarte continued to operate with fluid efficiency, using subtle arm checks to shield off defenders before the ball arrived. Salvador remained invisible in the best possible way. Never taking a third touch, never demanding the spotlight, simply completing simple three-metre layoffs to keep the exercise functioning.

Rayan forced himself to slow his breathing. He stopped watching the ball and started watching the defender’s eyes.

On the next phase, Coatez rolled a firm ground pass across the central grid. Rayan checked his shoulder twice before the ball crossed the line, noticing the shadow of the central defender closing in. Instead of taking the ball flush on his boot, he opened his hips early, accepted the pass on his back foot, and slid a clean, firm ball directly into Holm’s stride before pushing immediately into the vacant space to offer a return option.

Holm took the pass in stride, played it wide to Edwins, and the sequence continued without interruption.

Nobody cheered. It was simply the bare minimum standard required to stay on the pitch.

The drill didn’t pause. There was no transition window to process the good touch. Amorim’s whistle cut through the air, signalling an immediate shift into high-block pressing patterns across sixty metres.

"Rayan, press the half-space!" one of the assistants shouted, pointing a red folder toward the touchline. "Trigger when Coatez shapes his shoulders wide! Not before!"

Rayan sprinted into position, his quad muscles tight. Coatez received a back-pass from the keeper. Rayan saw the defender’s hips open, calculated the distance, and launched himself forward to cut the passing lane toward the left-back.

He was half a second early.

Coatez didn’t panic. Seeing Rayan commit his body weight before the ball left his foot, the veteran centre-back simply chopped a gentle, clipped pass over Rayan’s outstretched boot. The ball sailed cleanly into the midfield space Rayan had just abandoned.

"Too eager!" the assistant warned. "You sold your feet! Recover!"

Rayan spun on his heel, digging his studs into the turf to track back forty metres. The heat in his lungs turned sharp and metallic. Every time he thought he had matched the speed of the ball, the speed of the senior players’ decision-making rendered his recovery run useless. By the time he reached the central box, Holm had already shifted play to the opposite flank.

Three repetitions later, Rayan’s lungs felt like they were collapsing. His socks were soaked, slipping slightly inside his boots. Beside him, Duarte looked flushed but entirely collected, adjusting his stance without a single heavy gasp. Salvador stood near the middle circle, hands on his knees for three seconds before snapping back upright the moment Amorim glanced his way.

When the whistle finally blew at 9:15 a.m., ending the ninety-minute session, Rayan’s head throbbed with physical fatigue and cognitive sensory overload. He didn’t speak on the walk back to Building A. He couldn’t. His throat was bone-dry.

Back on his folding chair by the hampers, surrounded by the hum of industrial washing machines and the quiet murmurs of departing senior players, the translucent blue panel finally flickered into view.

[MISSION CHAIN: SURVIVE SENIOR TEMPO.]

[Complete eight first-team training sessions.]

[Record five useful possession actions under senior pressure.]

[Complete three correct senior pressing sequences.]

[Win two controlled attacking duels.]

[Record one senior-friendly goal contribution.]

[Reward: +4 Attribute Points.]

[Reward: Explosive Exit proficiency +12%.]

[Reward: Senior Tempo Adaptation trait.]

[Reward: +1 Basic Skill Token.]

[Progress: First-team training sessions 1/8.]

Rayan stared at the glowing blue text.

Eight sessions. Sporting had promised him one morning. If Amorim sent him back down to the U17s after lunch, the mission would die before it even started.