The dust in Vila Rosa didn't just settle; it claimed you. It clung to the sweat on Thiago's neck, turned his cheap hair gel into a muddy paste, and coated the back of his throat with the bitter taste of a losing streak.
Thiago "The Tongue" Santos was currently down three hundred Reais, two favors, and the last shred of his dignity. To Thiago, football wasn't a sport played with feet; it was a cosmic equation solved with spreadsheets and gut feelings. He was the only man in the state of Minas Gerais who could tell you the expected goals (xG) of a third-division Bulgarian side but couldn't juggle a ball three times without bruising his own shin.
He lived for the bet. He loved the rush of a parlay and the "jazzing"—that beautiful, frantic talk where he'd convince a group of skeptical bricklayers that a 4-0 comeback was "statistically inevitable."
"It's a game of cycles, Gilberto!" Thiago shouted from the sidelines, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten coxinha. "The Veterans are over-performing their metrics! Their defensive line is a structural disaster waiting for a catalyst!"
Gilberto, the captain of the Betting Association XI and a man who looked like he hadn't slept since the 2014 World Cup, didn't look up from the pitch. "The only 'structural disaster' here is our scoreboard, Thiago. Shut up and pray the whistle blows early."
The match was a catastrophe. The Betting Association—a ragtag group of local gamblers who played with more desperation than skill—were being dismantled. They were 4-0 down against the Vila Rosa Veterans, a team of grizzled farmers who played football like they were clearing brush: violent, efficient, and humorless.
The stakes were high. If the Association lost, they'd have to pay for the post-match barbecue for the entire village. For Thiago, it was worse. He'd put his last bit of cash on a "Next Goal Wins" side-bet with Old Man Jorge, a man who possessed a legendary memory for debts and a very heavy walking stick.
Then, disaster struck. Big Zeca, the Association's only striker, tripped over a molehill. His hamstring snapped with a sound like a dry branch. The game halted. The crowd, a mix of grandmothers in rocking chairs and shirtless kids, began to jeer.
"Hey, Gilberto!" a Veteran defender laughed, spitting into the dirt. "Bring on the Mouth! Let's see if he can talk the ball into the net!"
Gilberto looked at Big Zeca being carried off. He looked at the empty bench. Then, with the slow, rhythmic horror of a funeral march, his eyes landed on Thiago.
"Thiago," Gilberto said, his voice cracking. "Put on the shirt."
Thiago's heart did a frantic samba against his ribs. "Me? But Gilberto, I'm a strategic consultant! I'm the 'Macro' guy! My value is in the tactical oversight, not the—"
"The jersey, Thiago. Now. Or Jorge gets your shoes."
Thiago swallowed hard. He pulled the oversized, sweat-stained jersey over his head. It smelled like failure and cheap laundry detergent. As he stepped toward the touchline, the atmosphere shifted. The mocking whistles reached a fever pitch. The village elders were laughing so hard they were gasping for air. He was the "Talker Around." To the village, this wasn't a substitution; it was a comedy sketch.
The moment Thiago's left boot touched the sun-baked dirt of the pitch, the world went silent. It wasn't a gradual quiet; it was as if someone had pulled the plug on the universe.
The laughter of the crowd froze into a static hiss. In front of Thiago's eyes, the dusty Brazilian landscape flickered and dissolved into a sea of scrolling emerald code.
[ INITIALIZING NEURAL LINK... ]
[ HOST IDENTIFIED: THIAGO SANTOS ]
[ REPUTATION LEVEL: LOCAL JOKE (0.02% CREDIBILITY) ]
[ PHYSICAL STATS: CARDIO (F), AGILITY (D-), AUDACITY (SSS) ]
A cold, melodic voice resonated inside his skull, drowning out the frantic thumping of his heart.
[ WELCOME TO THE LEGENDARY FOOTBALLER SYSTEM. ]
[ YOU HAVE SPENT 24 YEARS ANALYZING THE GREATNESS OF OTHERS WHILE HIDING FROM YOUR OWN MEDIOCRITY. THE UNIVERSE IS BORED WITH YOUR EXCUSES. ]
A massive, glowing interface materialized in the air, translucent and shimmering with a golden hue.
[ CURRENT MATCH CONDITION: 0-4 (ABSOLUTE HUMILIATION) ]
[ SYSTEM INTEGRATION BONUS: 'THE GAMBLER'S EYE' (ACTIVE) ]
Suddenly, the pitch reappeared, but it was different. Floating over every player were heat maps and fatigue bars. He could see the tension in the goalkeeper's knees and the exact trajectory of the wind. The voice returned, now booming with authority:
[ THIAGO SANTOS, THE BETS ARE PLACED AND THE ODDS ARE AGAINST YOU. ARE YOU READY TO MAKE HISTORY WITH THE LEGENDARY FOOTBALLER SYSTEM, OR WILL YOU REMAIN A MAN OF MANY WORDS AND ZERO GOALS? ]
[ ACCEPT / ACCEPT (THERE IS NO 'NO') ]
As the referee blew the whistle to restart play, the golden prompt pulsed. Thiago felt a surge of electricity crawl up his spine, turning his "noodle legs" into coiled springs.