Chapter 1: The Dust on the Boots
The heat of Valencia was a constant, shimmering weight, pressing down on the shoulders and soaking the thick cotton shirt Mateo wore. It was the kind of humid, late-afternoon heat that smelled of sun-baked earth and distant, salty Mediterranean air. Two years had passed since he traded the perfectly manicured turf of the Valencia CF Academy for the unforgiving concrete paths of the Túria Gardens, and he still wasn't used to the silence.
He leaned his bicycle against the sun-bleached wall of the old flour mill, adjusting the straps of the heavy cooler bag slung over his back. Inside were the perishables for Ramón's, his grandfather's bar, the only thing keeping Mateo financially afloat and emotionally tethered these days. He pulled out a worn handkerchief to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead, his dark, cropped hair clinging damply to his skin.
"Matty! Over here!"
The shout was familiar, laced with a desperate urgency that cut through the city's low, evening hum. Javi, a lean, perpetually energized guy Mateo knew from the old neighborhood, waved frantically from the edge of the abandoned outdoor court twenty meters away.
Mateo sighed, the noise of the nearby street match—the rhythmic thump of a ball and sharp Spanish shouts—now demanding his attention.
"I told you, Javi, I'm on a run. Ramón needs the chorizo before the dinner rush," Mateo called back, already anticipating the sales pitch. He needed to avoid this. He needed to avoid football.
Javi jogged over, his face flushed and his chest heaving. "One half, Matty! Please! Listen, the prize pot is four hundred euros today—best pot all summer! But El Diablo broke his ankle fifteen minutes ago, and we're down one. We need a midfielder, man! Just one half, and I'll finish your delivery run. Swear on my grandmother."
Mateo's jaw tightened. He glanced at the court. It wasn't a formal game; it was five-a-side on a crumbling concrete surface marked with spray paint, but the intensity was palpable. This wasn't casual kickabout; this was high-stakes local pride and quick cash. A perfect crucible of pressure.
No. I can't.
The thought was a hard, cold block in his chest, a self-imposed prison he'd built two years ago. The physical memory of what happened in his last official game—the sudden, paralyzing seizure of muscles, the complete tunnel vision as he missed the crucial penalty, the collective groan of thousands of people—made the air feel thin. It was The Yips, and it still ruled him. He had the physical gifts of a world-class playmaker, but his mind had permanently turned against him when the stakes rose.
"Javi, you know I don't play anymore," Mateo said, his voice flat.
"I know, I know! The great Matty Ríos retired to become an esteemed delivery boy," Javi scoffed good-naturedly, then lowered his voice. "But come on, man. Four hundred euros. And the other side has Nico—you know Nico? The guy who wears that ridiculous Real Madrid shirt everywhere? He's been running his mouth about how Valencia doesn't breed real talent anymore. Come on, one half, silence the idiot. For Ramón's bar pride."
The mention of silencing arrogance, of proving a point, chipped away at Mateo's resolve. He hated the arrogant confidence of those who never failed. The sun glinted off the cheap plastic handles of the cooler bag. Four hundred euros would pay for his grandfather's increased physiotherapy sessions this month.
He looked at Javi, calculating. It's just street ball. There are no crowds, no TV cameras, no official reports. It's meaningless. I can control it.
"Fine," Mateo grit out, removing the bag and placing it carefully in the shade. "But if I seize up, you owe me two beers, and you finish the delivery, no excuses."
Javi beamed, already peeling off his sweat-drenched training bib. "Deal! Get those dust boots ready, Matty!"
Mateo didn't even have proper boots—just a pair of well-worn, flat-soled trainers. As he walked toward the painted rectangle, every step felt heavy, like wading through dense water. The rhythmic thump of the ball grew louder, tapping on a forgotten piece of his soul.
He stepped onto the court and pulled on the blue bib, instantly feeling the rough texture of the faded synthetic fabric against his skin. His new teammates a motley crew of mechanics and students—gave him suspicious glances. They knew his name, the former Valencia prospect who vanished.
The ball rolled toward him from the opponent's kick-off.
Instinct took over.
Mateo's world narrowed instantly from the chaos of the city to the geometry of the five-a-side pitch. The heat, the loud voices, the anxiety—it all receded behind a razor-sharp focus. He didn't look at his feet; he didn't have to. The ball was an extension of his body, a familiar companion he hadn't realized he missed so desperately.
He received the pass, feinted a touch to the right, forcing the defender to commit, and then executed a quick, perfectly weighted heel-flick into the path of Javi, who was streaking down the wing. It was a pass that moved at the precise speed required, bypassing two defenders and arriving exactly where Javi could hit it in stride.
One-touch. Goal. The net rustled violently.
The shock on the faces of his opponents especially Nico, the Madrid fan—was immediate. They had expected a ghost, but they got the phantom of a genius.
For the next ten minutes, Mateo was untouchable. He stayed in the center, a deep-lying pivot, orchestrating every blue attack. His Spatial Vision—his greatest natural gift—was fully active. He didn't just see the players; he saw the future of the play, calculating vectors, angles, and interception points faster than anyone else on the concrete. He made the difficult look absurdly simple, pinging fifty-meter passes into miniature goals as easily as rolling a marble.
This is easy, a voice whispered in his head. You were born to do this.
They were up 3-2 with two minutes left in the half. The other team was pressing hard, desperate to equalize. Nico, fuming, intercepted a loose pass near midfield and drove forward. Mateo, showing his elite Engine, tracked back instantly, cutting off Nico's angle.
Nico tried to fake him out, a clumsy roulette. Mateo's muscles responded with fluid, learned efficiency. He timed the tackle perfectly, his foot hooking the ball away with impossible precision.
The ball was now at Mateo's feet, the field suddenly opening up. The goal was thirty meters away, the keeper scrambling back to position. Javi screamed for a through-pass, but Mateo saw the subtle gap: a sliver of space between the center-back's legs and the far post.
This was the play. A twenty-meter drive, requiring absolute technical composure. The game-winner.
And that's when it hit.
It wasn't a sudden physical pain, but a psychological lightning strike. His peripheral vision, which had been so sharp, dissolved into a gray blur. The sounds of Javi shouting, Nico swearing, and the distant traffic became a roaring, white noise in his ears.
Pressure.
His chest felt like it was encased in concrete, every breath shallow and frantic. The ball, moments ago an extension of his body, now felt heavy and foreign, sitting on his instep like a stone.
Don't miss. Don't mess up the pass. Don't let them down again.
His muscles seized. His dominant right leg locked up, unable to execute the clean drive he knew was necessary. He could see the space, the trajectory, the perfect spin but his body refused the command.
The Yips. It was back, and it was total. He was standing, frozen, a statue with the ball stuck to his foot, about to lose the chance, about to fail. Nico was closing in fast, grinning, sensing the paralysis.
Just as the world began to spiral into that familiar terror, something impossibly cold and sharp sliced through the panic.
The roaring noise in his ears stopped. The sun-baked world of Valencia, the yelling, and the fear, was violently shoved aside by an alien intrusion.
A visual interface, stark and clinical, materialized in his mind's eye, floating precisely two meters ahead of him, transparent but utterly clear. It was a digital overlay of black text on a field of electric blue light .
[APEX CATALYST SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]
The sheer audacity of the interface appearing in the middle of his mental breakdown was so shocking it momentarily broke the paralysis.
Analyzing Core Failure State: Psychological Paralysis (Yips).
Root Cause: Mental Fortitude (MF) below required threshold for High-Pressure Execution.
MATEO RÍOS
Current Age: 20 years, 5 months.
Position: Deep-Lying Playmaker (DLP)
STATUS: RUSTED PRODIGY (Mental Debuff: Crippling Self-Doubt)
CORE ATTRIBUTES (Rating 1-100)
| Attribute | Base | Debuff | Net |
| Technical Skill (TEC) | 94 | 0 | 94 |
| Spatial Vision (SV) | 98 | 0 | 98 |
| Engine (ENG) | 78 | 0 | 78 |
| Clutch Finish (CF) | 90 | -89 | 1 |
| Mental Fortitude (MF) | 1 | N/A | 1 |
Mateo stared, his mind reeling from the impossible statistics. Spatial Vision 98? Technical Skill 94? Those were world-class numbers, confirming the genius everyone always told him he had. But the Clutch Finish at '1' and the Mental Fortitude at '1' under the Debuff column was the horrifying, objective truth. He was a champion whose mind refused to let him finish.
Nico was now three steps away, ready to swipe the ball and score.
The System, utterly indifferent to the street match, displayed a single prompt in flashing red text:
[IMMEDIATE THREAT DETECTED. EXECUTE FIRST MISSION TO ESCAPE FAILURE STATE.]
MISSION 001: RECLAIM THE INSTINCT
Objective: Execute a successful, high-risk play under pressure. (Current Time Remaining: 2.1 seconds)
Reward: +1 Mental Fortitude. Unlocks System Interface.
Failure: Severe Mental Fatigue penalty. Further self-doubt reinforcement.
A cold, logical calculation appeared in the corner of the overlay, a complex vector analysis superimposed over the concrete court.
Optimal Solution: Pass (58% success) or Chip Shot (42% success).
Best Available Pass Line: Javi (Run Direction Vector 14A). Requires 88 TEC / 95 SV.
Mateo didn't move. He couldn't. His fear was too deep, the terror of failure too ingrained.
I can't pass! I'll mess it up!
The System seemed to respond to his thought, displaying a warning:
WARNING: Pass Accuracy Prediction at current MF (1) is 15%. Execution is sub-optimal.
Then another line appeared, colder and more demanding:
System Override: Engaging [FLOW STATE DRAIN]. Using 1% Energy (ENG) to temporarily stabilize MF.
Current MF (Stabilized): 15.
Execute Optimal Solution NOW
It was a small, temporary correction, but it was enough. The paralyzing ice around his chest cracked. Mateo still felt the pressure, but the System's clinical demand was louder than his self-doubt. It was a foreign, external command he could follow, rather than an internal decision he had to make.
He didn't think about the miss two years ago. He thought only about the vector the System had displayed.
His right leg, now obeying the command, swept through the air. It wasn't the powerful drive for a shot, but a soft, perfectly controlled chip. The ball lifted a meter off the ground, curving gently with just enough pace to arc over Nico's desperate sliding tackle, right into the chest of Javi.
Javi, utterly stunned that the pass had even reached him, didn't hesitate. He took one touch and blasted the ball into the back of the small net.
4-2. Game over.
A primal roar erupted from Javi and the blue team. They rushed Mateo, slapping his back, yelling congratulations, oblivious to the fact that he was barely standing.
Mateo didn't hear them. The System's blue overlay flared once more, and then began to pulse, a constant, low, demanding light behind his eyes.
MISSION 001 SUCCESSFUL.
Reward Applied: Mental Fortitude +1 (Current MF: 2)
System Interface Unlocked.
PRIMARY QUEST LINE (PQL) ACTIVATED.
PQL 1: THE RETURN
Objective: Secure a spot in a competitive Spanish club's training regimen (Amateur, Regional, or Academy Level).
Time Limit: 7 days.
Reward: Skill Point, System Store Access, New Core Attribute Unlocked.
Mateo stood alone amidst the shouting crowd, his hands shaking, his lungs burning, not from the physical exertion, but from the terrifying realization that the cage he had built around his life had just been violently torn open. The silence of his self-imposed retirement was gone, replaced by the relentless, cold voice of the Apex Catalyst System. He was back on the field, not by choice, but by coercion.
Seven days. He had seven days to throw himself back into the life that had broken him, or face an unknown penalty.
His eyes, wide and fixed, saw nothing but the glowing blue numbers in his mind.
[PQL 1: THE RETURN — 6 DAYS, 23 HOURS, 59 MINUTES REMAINING.]