The First of Madness
The bus glides through the city streets, glass windows reflecting a mosaic of lights, cars, people, and stories. Blurred streaks of red, yellow, and white smear across my vision like a living painting. Outside, the skyline of Manchester rises like a jagged crown—each building lit like a beacon of challenge, each shadow whispering stories of battles fought on this soil.
My forehead rests against the cold window, the glass humming slightly with the engine's rhythm. My breath fogs the surface, a slow exhale in a world moving far too fast. I don't blink. My eyes are locked on the blurring skyline of Manchester.
The match against Manchester City's U-16 squad is finally here.
The name alone is enough to raise pulses. Manchester City. A machine factory of young giants, tactical prodigies, and modern-day gladiators trained to play with elegance and destroy with precision.
We're stepping into the lion's den.
And I'm the one they've come to watch. Or to hunt.
By the time we reach the hotel, my body is already in pieces. I collapse onto the bed and let gravity claim me fully, the soft sheets like water swallowing a stone. The long travel drains me more than I expected—despite the mental preparations, the stretching routines, the attempts to meditate between miles.
The weight of anticipation sits on my chest like an anchor. Still, sleep takes me almost instantly.
When I wake, the city is alive. Horns echo like wild animals. Distant sirens blend with voices in different languages—Arabic, Polish, Spanish, English, Hindi—swirling together into an urban symphony. But my thoughts drift away from the chaos outside, pulled back into clarity by something sharper than noise.
What I saw a few days ago.
[Flashback]
Mateo.
His name alone stirs up the scene like ink dropped in water. I remember the texture of the pavement under his shoes. The faint scuff marks left from hours of repetition. I can still see it—his stillness, his timing. The calm at the center of movement. The rhythm of a mind that danced ahead of the body, ahead of time itself.
He moved like a whisper of thought—pre-conscious, almost psychic. Like he knew exactly where his opponents would shift before they even moved. Like a puppet master pulling strings no one else could see.
He was untouched when in his rhythm:
Feint. Stop. Heel chop. Reverse step-over. Left-foot Rabona. Pullback. Chop. Flip-flap. Reverse step from behind. Tap-in nutmeg. Goal.
A sequence that looked rehearsed—until you realized it wasn't.
A masterclass of street elegance.
Not the elegance of a polished academy player, but the raw, creative rebellion of someone raised on asphalt and echoes. There was power in that rhythm. There was danger. But also... limitation.
Because when more than two opponents came at once, the rhythm cracked.
Disrupted.
Fractured.
He couldn't break the chaos. He drowned in it.
They stole the ball.
Not out of dominance, but because his mind couldn't split fast enough. His vision speed—how quickly he scanned, calculated, adjusted—had a ceiling.
Still, I remember the raw potential in him. Not just instinct.
Pattern-reading.
Framework understanding.
Like a chess player who could see five moves ahead but couldn't handle a random street brawl.
Just not fast enough.
Not yet.
[Flashback ends.]
I step out of the hotel with my black mask, dark glasses, and ponytail draped forward to shadow my face. I've learned how to disappear in a crowd.
The city pulses with energy—trains rumbling overhead, snippets of phone calls and arguments, footsteps colliding with puddles, the hiss of distant espresso machines. Every corner is a narrative. Every passerby a novel.
I drift through it, unnoticed. My shadow merges with the alley walls. My footsteps sync with the tempo of the street.
Eventually, I arrive at a place where football breathes differently.
A street football cage.
Half-field sized. Tall iron gates rise around it like a coliseum for those who don't care for fame, only skill. The paint on the metal bars is chipped, the turf is worn, but the magic is alive. I stop and watch.
Inside, two players move like spirits.
Pure flow—no hesitation. No wasted motion. Their limbs flick, twist, and glide in ways that mock gravity. Juggles into backflips, heel catches into volley flicks, spinning aerial tricks launched from impossible positions.
A small camera crew films them from outside, circling like curious lions.
Then I hear it:
"It's the F2 Freestylers, bro!"
My lips don't move, but inside, I nod.
These aren't just entertainers. They're architects of chaos. Expressionists with leather paintbrushes and concrete canvases. Their movement reminds me that football isn't just strategy.
It's not all drills and tactics and statistical analysis.
It's expression.
It's madness with rhythm.
It's art under pressure. Insanity honed into performance.
After a while, I leave. I feel the rhythm in my muscles but resist the urge to move. The match is in 18 hours, and I need rest. Every heartbeat matters now.
Back in my room, I scroll through my phone.
The media storm is swelling—buzzing louder, sharper, faster.
"He's 14 and already called up to Dortmund U-16?"
"Overhyped."
"A physical freak, but let's see him do it under pressure."
The words don't hit like knives—they bounce like rubber bullets. Some believe. Most don't. But I don't need their belief.
I don't play for them.
I power off my phone. Silence returns. The room darkens.
But as I fall asleep… one eye opens in the darkness.
Blood red.
A flicker of something ancient. Predatory. Watching.
Then closes again.
Scene Shift – Locker Room
The air is thick with nerves and deodorant. Cleats tap against concrete. Water bottles click shut.
Surrounded by older players—taller, bulkier, with more experience—I remain silent. The pecking order is clear.
But I've grown too.
173 cm now. Stronger. Leaner. Sharper.
Every muscle refined, not inflated. Every movement designed for efficiency, not show. I've trained in shadows while they ran in circles.
I take it all in.
Then, I receive my jersey.
Number 11.
I slide it on slowly, fingers lingering on the cloth. The fabric is thin, but it feels like armor. The weight isn't heavy—
But it means everything.
This is more than a match.
This is the next stage of evolution.
Scene Shift – Kickoff
Commentator:
"Today, we witness the clash: Borussia Dortmund U-16 vs Manchester City U-16. And what a lineup on both sides!"
The whistle blows like a thunderclap.
I walk onto the pitch, second striker today, standing just off the shoulder of our main forward.
The pitch is wide—but it feels small. The stadium shrinks in my mind. It's just me, the ball, and the monsters they've trained.
00:00 – 15:00.
The pace is brutal.
The ball doesn't just move—it blurs. A blur between boots. Every pass is electric. Every challenge razor-edged.
City's high press is relentless—like sharks in a feeding frenzy.
Relentless. Calculated. Efficient.
But then—
The ball ricochets.
Loose. Wild. Spinning unpredictably. Straight toward me.
Activate:
Top Performance Flow
My body enters perfect motion. No friction. No delay. Just pure execution.
Tribrid-Vision
I see three layers at once: ball trajectory, spatial geometry, opponent anticipation.
Falcon Impact Flow
My core tenses. Explosive burst primed. It's time.
Burst Step #1:
Left-foot Neymar Touch — control.
Kill the spin. Pull it into perfect position.
Burst Step #2:
Aka 180° spin — nutmeg the midfielder behind me.
Like lightning. One fluid whip, backheel slicing through the legs.
Burst Step #3:
Feint left. Cut right. Chop left.
They slip. I don't. Balance locked.
Burst Step #4:
Swift. My body in motion. My vision red-flickers.
A small flicker of rage. Focus.
I see the gap.
The opening. Narrow. Diagonal. A crack in the wall.
I fire it.
KAISER IMPACT — from 33 yards.
BOOM.
The shot is a cannon blast—low, swerving, a line of destruction. Skimming grass, past two defenders.
Arrowing toward the top corner...
But—
THWACK.
A giant hand slaps it away.
Their goalkeeper—190 cm tall, gloves like hammers— caught it just before the goal line.
He doesn't celebrate. Doesn't even flinch.
He simply stands. Like a wall. Like fate.
One hand. One toss.
The ball flies—deep into midfield.
Counterattack.
I turn my head—and I feel it before I see it.
Wind. Speed. Pressure.
A blur on the right wing.
What… is that?
A figure moves like a desert storm—direction changes every second, no delay between movements. No stiffness. Just fluid madness.
The pass arrives.
He never slows.
Touch. Bounce. Mid-air adjustment. Step left. Plant. Twist. Swing.
Ball bounces off the ground. He uses that bounce to change direction.
Right foot backheel down. Ball flips.
Cut in. Chop. Twist out. Center lane.
Then—
Trivela.
A violent swerve with his right foot.
The ball goes left.
The defender stutters, confused.
The ball curves like a whisper and meets him again—on the run.
He fires.
Boom.
Our keeper jumps.
Too late.
The ball slides into the top left corner.
Commentator:
"That's Desert Wraith—Turan Şükür, Manchester City's own rising phantom from Turkey! His speed and agility are otherworldly! The way he twists physics—it's nearly unmarkable!"
I walk slowly back to my side.
I glance again.
Calves like stone, yet compact. Ankles and knees lean, light—but braced with fast-twitch muscle.
His hair is light brown, red-tipped—like fire flickering in sandstorm winds.
This… is the shift.
Now I see the kind of talent I must conquer to reach the New Gen 11.
Not just to keep up—
But to dominate.
I crack my neck.
Smile.
Let's see how far I can push this madness.