Madrid’s autumn air tasted of burnt diesel and dry clay. Noah adjusted the strap of his worn leather duffel bag, his knuckles turning white against the strap. Standing before the towering iron gates of the CD Leganés training complex, he felt small. Manicured pitches stretched out behind the steel bars, a vibrant emerald green that seemed almost artificial under the harsh Spanish sun. Sprinklers hissed in the distance, casting fine mists of water that evaporated before they could even hit the parched earth. This was a far cry from the gravel-strewn, uneven dirt of Accra where he had spent his youth dodging potholes and broken glass. Here, football was an industry, a cold and calculated machine designed to grind boys into million-dollar assets. Deep breaths helped calm his racing pulse. Beneath his skin, a strange, electric warmth thrummed. It was the Legacy Collection System, a silent partner waiting in the depths of his consciousness. His muscles felt tighter, more responsive than they had ever been in Ghana. Memories of his final match in Accra flashed through his mind, particularly the feeling of stealing Kwesi's speed. Kwesi had been left broken in the dirt, his career likely over before it even began. Now, Noah was in Europe, carrying the stolen essence of his former rival. A tired-looking scout in a navy-blue tracksuit waved him forward with a lazy flick of his index finger. "Mensah? Follow me," the man muttered in heavily accented English, not even bothering to look Noah in the eye. Stepping into the facility, Noah felt the heavy weight of expectations pressing down on his shoulders. Inside, the walls of the main building were plastered with photographs of legendary players who had risen through the ranks. Cold steel lockers lined the walls of the reserve team's dressing room, smelling of fresh paint and old sweat. Silence fell over the room the exact moment Noah stepped through the doorway. Dozens of eyes locked onto him, cold, calculating, and entirely devoid of warmth. To these academy players, a new trialist from Africa wasn't a classmate; he was a parasite trying to steal their bread. "Look what the boat brought in," a booming voice sneered from the far corner of the room. Turning his head slowly, Noah spotted the speaker. Towering over the others was a young man with a shaved head and a thick, square jaw. Milan Vuko stood at least six-foot-four, his broad shoulders easily filling out his training gear. "Did you get lost on the way to the charity kitchen, boy?" Milan mocked, speaking in Spanish first before translating to broken English for the benefit of his laughing sycophants. Cruel laughter echoed off the tiled walls as several players smirked, looking down to tie their expensive boots. Noah didn't flinch, nor did he let the insult register on his face. Walking straight to an empty bench near the corner, he gently placed his duffel bag down on the wooden slats. "My name is Noah," he said, his voice level, calm, and entirely devoid of fear. Milan let out a harsh bark of laughter, stepping forward until he stood mere inches from Noah. "I don't care what your name is," Milan whispered, leaning down so his hot breath brushed against Noah's ear. Leaning closer, the Serbian captain added, "In Spain, we eat boys like you for breakfast. Go back to your dirt pitch before I break your legs." Noah looked up, his dark eyes meeting Milan's icy blue glare. Keeping his expression entirely neutral, Noah noted the sheer physical density of the defender. Out on the pitch, the heat of the afternoon sun intensified as the players gathered. Orange cones marked the sprint tracks on the secondary training field, glinting under the harsh light. Coach Ortega, a stern Spaniard with a whistle clutched in his hand, blew a sharp blast. "Sprints! Forty meters! Group A, line up!" Ortega shouted in Spanish. Lining up alongside three other trialists, Noah kept his eyes fixed on the laser gates at the finish line. Next to him, a Spanish winger was shivering with nerves, his legs twitching violently. This was the moment Noah had to make a choice. If he used the full power of the 'Explosive Burst' he had stolen from Kwesi, he would easily destroy the academy's records. Unleashing his full speed would make him an instant target for every scout, but it would also invite intense scrutiny and pressure. He needed to blend in, to appear average so his opponents would underestimate him. "Go!" Ortega barked, dropping his arm. Charging forward, Noah intentionally held back twenty percent of his power, forcing his stride to look heavy and labored. Forcing his legs to move at a standard pace, he crossed the finish line in a mediocre third place. Crossing the line, he let out a simulated gasp for air, chest heaving. "Four point nine seconds," Ortega muttered, writing the disappointing number down on his clipboard with a shake of his head. Laughter erupted from the sidelines where Milan Vuko was leaning against a goalpost. "Slow as a turtle," Milan mocked, spitting onto the turf. "They told us we were getting an African speedster. What a joke." Shaking his head, the coach called the next group forward. Their contempt was palpable, a thick wave of dismissal that washed over Noah from every corner of the pitch. Exactly what he wanted. "Next drill!" Ortega shouted fifteen minutes later. "Crossing and finishing!" High balls were being pumped into the box from the right flank by one of the assistant coaches. Ortega stood at the edge of the penalty area, directing the physical flow of the drill. "Attacking pairs against the center-backs! One touch to finish!" the coach yelled. Noah was paired with a quiet French midfielder named Pierre who didn't even look him in the eye. Standing opposite them, waiting like a stone wall, was Milan Vuko. "Show me what you've got, charity case," Milan muttered, cracking his knuckles with a sickening pop. Pierre played the ball wide to the winger, who took a touch and whipped a cross deep into the penalty box. Tracking the flight of the ball, Noah timed his run perfectly, anticipating the dip. He timed his leap, his vertical jump naturally high and athletic, putting him a foot above the defenders. Suddenly, a massive shadow loomed over him in the air. Milan didn't even look at the ball. Viciously, the Serbian threw his elbow directly into the side of Noah's face. Bone met flesh with a sickening, muffled crunch. Noah's vision blurred instantly as the force of the blow shattered his physical balance. Crashing heavily onto the hard turf, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall as the ball sailed harmlessly out of bounds. Pain exploded in his jaw, sharp, hot, and metallic. "Get up," Milan hissed, standing over him with a mocking grin. "This is Spain, boy. We play real football here, not whatever garbage you played in the mud." Ortega blew his whistle, but made no move to reprimand the captain, looking the other way. "Clean challenge! Play on!" the coach shouted, turning his back on the scene. Pushing himself up slowly, Noah felt the dry grass scraping against his palms. Iron tasted strong on his tongue. Wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, Noah stared at the dark red stain on his skin. Looking at Milan's retreating back, he observed the Serbian's incredible stability, his feet planted with absolute authority. Despite the brutal elbow, Milan hadn't lost an inch of footing; his balance was flawless. Anger, cold and sharp, ignited in Noah's chest, replacing the throbbing pain in his jaw. Suddenly, a familiar mechanical hum vibrated deep in his ears. Blue light flared in his vision, and a translucent screen materialized over the pitch. As Noah wipes blood from his lip, the system chimes: 'Hostile target identified. Attribute: Milan Vuko\'s Iron Balance (88 Rating). Copy requirement: Survive a 90-minute match against him.'

Chapter 4: Welcome to the Butcher Shop