Chapter 79 — The Weight of the Crest
The crisp morning air over Penedono carried with it the promise of change. The village, once silent and still, had begun to stir with whispers—about the boy who played like a ghost from the future. The villagers had seen talent before, but never something that made their hearts pound the way Jota's touch on the ball did.
Jota rose before dawn as always, his breath misting in the cold air. The scars on his hands from years of rough training fields were reminders of what he once was—and what he was fighting to become again. He walked quietly toward the small pitch on the outskirts of town, carrying a worn-out ball tucked under his arm. The ground was uneven, the grass wet with dew, but to him it was sacred.
He placed the ball down and took a step back. "Again," he whispered to himself. His body moved on instinct—step, feint, shot. The ball curved into the air and thudded against the makeshift goalpost. Not perfect. But closer.
