Matchday arrived wrapped in noise.
Even before the bus pulled into the training ground, Azul could feel it—the sharp edge in the air, the weight of rivalry that made this more than just another youth match. Espanyol might not have Barcelona's global reputation, but in Catalonia, beating Barça meant everything.
Inside the bus, no one joked.
Marcos stared out the window.
The defenders bounced their knees.
The goalkeeper adjusted his gloves over and over.
Azul sat quietly, headphones on but no music playing. He was replaying patterns in his mind—passing lanes, defensive shifts, moments where space would appear and disappear in seconds.
Coach Miravet stood at the front when they arrived.
"Listen," he said. "This is not about talent today. It's about *control*. Lose your head and they'll punish you."
He paused, then looked straight at Azul.
"Cortez. You're starting."
Azul's heart jumped—but he kept his face calm.
"Yes, coach."
### **STEPPING ONTO THE PITCH**
The Espanyol ground was smaller than Barça's training pitch, the stands closer, the crowd louder. White-and-blue scarves waved as insults rained down the moment the Barça players stepped out.
"¡Niños mimados!"
"¡Volved a casa!"
Azul tightened his jaw.
Marcos leaned toward him as they lined up.
"First touch," he muttered. "After that, it's just football."
The whistle blew.
### **OPENING MINUTES**
Espanyol came out aggressive.
Hard tackles.
High pressure.
Early fouls.
In the third minute, Azul received the ball with his back to goal—and a shoulder slammed into him immediately. He stumbled but stayed on his feet, releasing the ball just in time.
The referee waved play on.
"Welcome to the derby," Marcos shouted.
Azul adjusted.
He dropped deeper, scanning constantly. The Emperor's Eye mapped the chaos—predicting when Espanyol would overcommit, when their midfield line broke shape.
Barça struggled early. Espanyol's intensity disrupted rhythm.
Then, in the 11th minute, Azul saw it.
### **THE FIRST OPENING**
Espanyol's right midfielder pressed too high. Their left-back stepped forward a half-second late.
Azul didn't hesitate.
He slid a first-time pass into the channel behind the defense. The winger sprinted onto it and cut inside—
Saved.
The goalkeeper parried it wide.
But something changed.
Espanyol backed off—just slightly.
Azul felt it.
### **GROWING INTO THE GAME**
Barça began to settle.
Azul started calling for the ball more.
One touch.
Two touches.
Switch.
Reset.
Espanyol tried to press him again—but now he was ready.
In the 23rd minute, a defender lunged recklessly. Azul sidestepped, letting the defender crash past him, then fed Marcos between the lines.
Marcos fired a shot.
Off the post.
The crowd groaned.
Azul clapped his hands.
"Again!"
### **THE MOMENT BEFORE CHAOS**
Just before halftime, Espanyol launched a counterattack. Their striker broke free down the left, pace to burn.
Azul sprinted back, tracking the run—not to tackle, but to *cut the angle*.
He stepped into the passing lane at the exact moment the ball was released.
Interception.
The whistle blew for halftime seconds later.
0–0.
But the match was heating up.
### **HALFTIME WORDS**
In the locker room, Miravet paced.
"They're trying to rattle you," he said. "They want mistakes. They want emotion."
He stopped in front of Azul.
"Keep doing what you're doing. The game is slowing down for you—and that's when it breaks open."
Azul nodded, chest rising and falling.
He wasn't overwhelmed.
He was ready.
### **SECOND HALF BEGINS**
The teams returned to the pitch.
Espanyol pressed again—but less recklessly.
Azul felt it clearly now.
This game wasn't about survival anymore.
It was about control.
And as the second half began, the Emperor's Eye sharpened—locking onto something Espanyol hadn't realized yet.
A weakness.
---
**Chapter 44 end's here**