Chapter 2: Price of Catalyst
Mateo's legs felt like wet sand. The euphoria of the winning chip shot, the collective noise of the blue team's celebration, all dissipated instantly, replaced by a devastating, raw exhaustion that settled deep behind his eyes. It was a weariness he recognized from the darkest days of his post-Yips anxiety, but amplified tenfold.
"Hey, Matty, what's wrong? You look like you just ran a marathon in a sauna," Javi said, clapping his shoulder, oblivious to the internal collapse.
Mateo flinched instinctively, pulling away. "I just… I haven't run like that in months, Javi. The heat got to me. I need the shade."
The System overlay, which had been a vibrant, aggressive blue, had now dimmed to a faint, pulsing gray, a menacing bruise on his inner vision.
STATUS WARNING: MENTAL FATIGUE (CRITICAL)
Cause: Excessive System engagement (Flow State Drain) with insufficient Mental Fortitude (MF) reserve.
Current Effect: Severe Cognitive Lag, Reduced Reflex Speed, Enhanced Psychological Vulnerability.
Action Required: Rest and Sensory Deprivation (minimum 12 hours) to regenerate baseline MF.
Severe Cognitive Lag. He felt it. Every thought was sluggish, every noise grating. He grabbed his bike and the heavy cooler bag, needing desperately to escape the lingering scent of sweat and competition.
"I have to go, Javi. You finish the cleanup," Mateo muttered, not waiting for a reply. He knew he was being rude, but the only clear priority was getting to Ramón's bar, locking himself away, and forcing the cold, demanding System out of his conscious mind.
The short ride to the bar, usually a familiar, calming path through the winding side streets of the Russafa neighborhood, was an ordeal. The sound of the chain clicking felt like hammers in his skull. When he finally reached the bar, the small, stone building felt like a sanctuary.
Ramón's was small and smelled wonderfully of roasting peppers, cured ham, and old leather. It was warm, cluttered, and blessedly familiar .
"Mateo! You're late, mijo," Ramón Ríos called out from behind the scarred wooden counter, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. Ramón had the frame of a man who'd played top-flight football in the 70s, now softened by time but retaining an imposing, gentle presence.
"Sorry, Abuelo. Had a minor issue with the bike." Mateo pushed past the kitchen door, dropping the cooler bag onto the stainless steel prep table with a clatter.
He slid onto a stool, resting his head heavily on his arms. The mental fatigue was so intense it felt like his brain was physically melting. He could still see the pale, clinical text of the System flashing faintly: MF: 2.
Ramón came in, wiping his hands on a towel. He didn't press. He simply stood there, an anchor of quiet stability.
"You didn't ride through the Túria Gardens today, did you? You look like you saw a ghost, and the bag is early." Ramón glanced pointedly at Mateo's hands, which were still slightly trembling.
Mateo knew his grandfather saw everything. Ramón hadn't been a legend just because he could score goals; he had been a legend because he understood the game's deep, psychological rhythm.
"I… I played," Mateo admitted, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. "Five-a-side. Near the old mill."
Ramón didn't move. He didn't smile or scoff. "Ah. And how was the great Matty Ríos's return to the field?"
"Perfect, technically. Utterly flawless execution, until the final minute," Mateo admitted bitterly, running a hand through his damp hair. "Then the familiar paralysis. The Yips. It hit, Abuelo. Just as hard as two years ago."
He omitted the part about the blue interface, the 'Spatial Vision 98,' and the forced Flow State Drain. He simply couldn't risk revealing the System; it was his secret, and maybe his curse.
Ramón nodded slowly, understanding the pain in the confession. "You went out there for four hundred euros, but you left with the knowledge that the fear is still there. Good. You needed to confirm that the monster is still under the bed before you could choose how to fight it."
Fight it. The word resonated with the System's aggressive tone.
Ramón poured two small glasses of chilled agua con gas. "So, what is the fight now, Matty? That street pitch is too small for a man with a vision like yours. What do you do with this confirmation?"
Mateo pulled up his System interface mentally. The Primary Quest Line loomed, a stark deadline against the comfortable, quiet life he had built for himself.
[PQL 1: THE RETURN]
Objective: Secure a spot in a competitive Spanish club's training regimen (Amateur, Regional, or Academy Level).
Time Limit: 6 Days, 22 Hours, 45 Minutes.
He has two logical options for a competitive return, each with different risks.
Option A: The Regional Amateurs. Join one of the local clubs—CD Utiel or Paterna CF (not the academy). Low pressure, low visibility. He could easily meet the System's deadline.
Pros: Zero chance of The Yips triggering, zero media attention. Easy recovery.
Cons (System Analysis): Low-pressure environment, low EXP gain. Slow MF growth. Will not solve the core problem.
Option B: Valencia CF Academy (Paterna). His old hunting ground. The Juvenil A (U-19) reserve teams. High visibility, highly scrutinized training. The entire infrastructure that witnessed his collapse.
Pros (System Analysis): Maximum pressure environment. Direct exposure to the required stimuli. High EXP potential. Accelerated MF growth.
Cons: Extreme emotional risk. Guaranteed encounter with his rival, Alejandro Torres. Failure would be public and final.
He knew what the System wanted. It wanted the crucible. It wanted the pressure that nearly killed him. But he had to sell this decision to Ramón, and, more importantly, to himself.
"I need to go back to the source, Abuelo," Mateo said, his voice quiet but steady. "If the problem is failure, I need to go where the failure hurts the most. Where the stakes are real."
Ramón raised a thick eyebrow. "Paterna? That's suicide, mijo. You'd be facing the ghosts of everyone who wrote you off."
"Exactly," Mateo countered, standing up, his physical exhaustion forgotten for a moment, overridden by a surge of anxious determination. "I saw my stats today, Ramón. My vision, my technique… it's all still there. I was a 90-rated player whose head shut down. If I go to an amateur club, I'll only ever be a Rusted Prodigy in a small pond. I'll never fix the problem."
He paused, his eyes locked on his grandfather's. "I need the challenge. I need to be forced to use that thing—that tiny bit of clarity I got today. I need to know if I can build it back up."
Ramón studied his grandson's face—not the face of the anxious young man who dropped off groceries, but the intense, analytical expression of the former captain. He recognized the fire.
"You never needed me to tell you where to go, Matty," Ramón said, a hint of pride softening his tone. "You only needed permission. If you go back to Valencia, you go back for one reason only: not for fame, not for the shirt. For yourself. If you fall, you come home. But if you stand, you stand on the world's stage."
Mateo felt a profound rush of gratitude and fear. Ramón, his bedrock, had given him the external approval for the insane, System-mandated task.
As soon as Ramón turned back to the bar, the blue overlay in Mateo's mind flared to maximum intensity, startling him.
USER DECISION VALIDATED: OPTIMAL PATHWAY SELECTED (HIGH-RISK, HIGH-REWARD)
Current MF (2) requires immediate, verifiable high- pressure stimulus
PQL 1 STRATEGY GUIDE:
The most direct entry to the Valencia CF Academy is through their U-19 Juvenil A reserve coach, Javier 'Javi' Losa.
Losa's Profile: Known for unorthodox methods. Highly sensitive to psychological deficiencies. Needs a Deep-Lying Playmaker due to recent promotion of the starter.
Required Action: Secure a direct, unscheduled trial with Coach Losa within 48 hours.
Javier Losa. Mateo knew the name. A notoriously ruthless coach, known for breaking players mentally to see if they were worthy. Perfect for the System's cruel logic.
Mateo pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over a contact he hadn't touched in years: Marta – Valencia CF. Marta was the secretary who handled academy transfers and knew everyone.
He had six days left. The first twenty-four hours would be spent in agony recovering from the System's forced usage. That left him with five days to track down a coach known for dodging requests and get a trial.
He took a deep, steadying breath, ignoring the persistent, low thrum of the System's demand. He was back on the clock, and the first order of business was to call the club that had once broken him.
He pressed the call button.
[PQL 1: THE RETURN — 6 DAYS, 22 HOURS, 10 MINUTES REMAINING.]