Steel and Snow
"The blade is forged before it cuts."
Arrival
The cold hit different in Munich.
It wasn't harsh. Not like ice. It was clean—sterile like the inside of a scalpel, honed and sharp. When I stepped out of the car and into the training complex of Bayern München, it sliced into my lungs like it was testing me—asking if I deserved to breathe here.
Snow hadn't fallen yet, but the sky was the color of metal.
And I liked it.
The air carried weight here. Not noise. Not chaos. Just expectation.
My bag slung over my shoulder, I followed a staff member through polished halls that hummed with efficiency. The walls were glass and steel. The atmosphere? Discipline.
This was not Rio.
This was the forge.
The facility smelled like turf, pine disinfectant, and faint sweat baked into mesh.
I passed a corridor lined with framed jerseys—Kimmich. Goretzka. Müller. Noel Noa.
And I stopped.
His jersey sat in the center. Framed in silence. No plaque. No spotlight. Just his name. As if that alone was enough to warn anyone walking by:
This is where gods are made.
And if you're not ready, the steel will break you.
Routine
The first week didn't belong to power. It belonged to patience.
I wasn't cleared for real drills yet—just light recovery training under the supervision of the club's top medical and development staff. My body had almost healed, but the real damage had been neurological. My brain was still syncing with itself.
No Destroyer Flow. No skills. No ego battles.
Just routine.
And somehow… that made it harder.
Wake at 5:00 a.m.
Cryotherapy at 5:30.
Neural reflex conditioning at 6:00—simple wrist flicks, finger compressions, short-twitch stim tests.
Mobility work from 7:00 to 8:30. Bands. Balance boards. Low-weight reps to remind the nervous system that my body belonged to me again.
Then food. Then study. Then rest. Then treadmill jogs on incline.
Every day, repeated.
Each hour felt like a silent war.
Not with pain—but with stillness. The kind of stillness that drives lesser players mad. The kind of stillness only the greats can endure.
Looks like there ..is a change that ,I had...no knowledge about.
I counted seconds like heartbeats. Watched the U-18 elite squad train just beyond the glass, my fists clenched every time they sprinted, clashed, struck.
My body itched.
But I didn't scratch it.
I disciplined it.
Looks like im in U-18 now
The Glance
It happened on Day 3.
I was walking past the indoor pitch toward my recovery suite, towel draped over my shoulder, when I saw him.
Tall. Calm. Lean like a blade. Every movement casual—but controlled. Surgical.
He was alone, jogging slow laps, wireless earbuds in, eyes downcast.
Noel Noa.
The Phantom King.
They said he trained during odd hours—early or late. Away from cameras. Only when he wanted. Only when necessary.
He didn't look up.
But I felt it—like a whisper in the wind.
He knew I was watching.
He knew who I was.
And still… he kept jogging.
No nod. No gesture. Nothing.
Because to him, I wasn't a rival yet.
I wasn't even real.
The Fire Beneath
I spent the evenings with my notebook open.
Not a diary. A blueprint.
I wrote down details:
The way Noel's left arm swings looser when he's fatigued.
How Bayern's midfield rotates their press diagonally instead of straight vertical.
Which youth defenders panic under high-speed cutbacks.
Each night, I ran mental simulations—not using my powers, not yet. Just seeing, calculating, internalizing.
I pressed fingers to the walls. Felt the vibration of distant drills. Studied the rhythm of the place.
This wasn't a club.
It was a machine.
And I was learning the language of its gears.
Letters from Far Away
Angelina texted a few times. Photos of the beach. A voice memo of a samba song. A short video of her training in the sand—foot volleys alone, her laughter spilling past the waves.
She said: "Don't break before I see you play again."
I replied with one line.
"I'm not here to break. I'm here to build."
Then I muted the chat.
Not out of pride.
Out of focus.
Because my path wasn't hers. And I couldn't chase the wind while sharpening my blade.
One Week Remains
On the morning of the seventh day, I stood shirtless before the training mirror in the physiotherapy room.
Scars were fading. Muscles reshaped. My posture realigned.
My body no longer felt like glass.
It felt like flint—ready to spark.
The head medical officer nodded as he examined the final scans.
"One week," he said. "Then we let you train with the rest. Match-ready in three."
I looked into the mirror.
My own eyes looked back, steady. Hungry.
"Three weeks until matches. But I only need one to remind them who I am."
End Scene – Quiet Before the Hunt
Outside, light snow began to fall.
Soft flakes drifting onto the pitch, melting on contact—but visible enough to catch in the hair, in the lashes.
I stepped out alone.
No cleats. No ball.
Just boots in the snow and breath fogging in the cold.
I tilted my head back.
Let the snow kiss my face.
This wasn't Rio anymore.
This was steel.
And soon…
Steel would meet fire.