The academy hall felt colder than the pitch.
All one hundred players stood in rows, boots lined up, backs straight. No one spoke. The walls were bare concrete, the ceiling lights harsh and unforgiving—like an interrogation room built for dreams.
Coach Salva walked in late.
That alone was enough to tighten every chest.
Behind him, a massive screen flickered to life.
"Today," Salva said, voice steady, "you stop pretending you're footballers."
A pause.
"And start understanding what you actually are."
The screen changed.
WEAPON ANALYSIS — LA FORJA SYSTEM
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
"Football is not about talent," Salva continued. "It's about weapons. Every one of you has one. And every weapon has a weakness."
He looked directly at them.
"If you don't know yours, you will be eliminated."
The first name appeared.
PAPII TOW
A photo flashed onscreen—Papii mid-sprint, grin wide, hair flying.
DOMINANT FOOT: RightPRIMARY WEAPON: Explosive accelerationSECONDARY TRAIT: Fearless finishingWEAK POINT: Decision-making under pressure
Papii laughed. Loud.
"Told you," he said, glancing around. "Born for this."
Salva didn't react.
"Papii Tow," he said, "your speed is elite. You outrun defenders before they can think."
The screen replayed his goals from yesterday.
"But," Salva added, "when speed fails you, your mind panics."
The clip froze on a missed shot.
"You rely on instinct. When instinct is blocked, you force solutions."
Papii's smile stiffened.
"Fix that," Salva said. "Or you'll be predictable."
The screen changed.
LAMII
The room went quiet.
Lamii's image appeared—head down, ball close to his foot.
DOMINANT FOOT: LeftPRIMARY WEAPON: Ball control in tight spacesSECONDARY TRAIT: Spatial awarenessWEAK POINT: Physical duels
Lamii felt his throat tighten.
Salva stepped closer.
"Lamii," he said, "you don't play football."
The room held its breath.
"You manipulate it."
The screen showed Lamii's delayed touches, the way defenders lunged too early.
"You see space before it opens," Salva continued. "You slow the game while others rush."
A flicker of pride sparked in Lamii's chest.
Then—
"But your body is weak."
The words landed hard.
"Defenders will target you," Salva said. "They will push, pull, break rhythm. If you hesitate physically, you die."
Lamii clenched his fists.
Salva's eyes sharpened.
"Your weapon only works if you accept contact."
The screen faded.
Lamii exhaled slowly.
So that's it…
More names followed.
Different weapons. Different flaws.
A tall defender with aerial dominance but slow turns.A midfielder with vision but no stamina.A striker with power but no first touch.
One by one, egos cracked.
Then Salva shut the screen off.
"You see?" he said. "You are incomplete."
He turned.
"And that's good."
Later, alone on the pitch, Lamii sat with the ball resting against his foot.
The grass was damp. The air smelled like rain.
He thought about weak body.
About defenders crushing into him.
And then—
A memory surfaced.
His father, exhausted, hands rough, coming home late.
Spain wasn't kind to men without privilege.
His father had worked anything—construction, deliveries, night shifts—whatever paid enough to keep food on the table. Football boots were bought second-hand. Training time stolen between responsibilities.
"Nothing is given," his father used to say. "You take it."
Lamii had learned football the same way.
By surviving.
By slipping through cracks.
Across the field, Papii trained alone, sprinting until his breath shattered.
His parents were different.
French accents. Clean support. Pride without fear.
"You'll make it," they always said.
Lamii envied that certainty.
But he didn't resent it.
Different roads, he thought. Same battlefield.
The whistle blew again.
Salva gathered them one last time.
"Tomorrow," he announced, "you play matches."
Cheers started—
—and died instantly.
"But," Salva continued, "your weapon ratings will determine your role."
The screen flashed one final message:
YOU WILL BE JUDGED BY YOUR WEAKNESS, NOT YOUR STRENGTH.
Silence.
Lamii felt something shift inside him.
Physical duels.
He looked down at his left foot.
Not strong.
But precise.
"If they hit me…" he murmured.
He stood.
"…then I won't stop."
From across the pitch, Papii smirked.
"Hey, Yami," he called. "Try not to disappear tomorrow."
Lamii met his gaze.
For the first time, there was no doubt.
"Same to you," Lamii said.
Because now he understood.
This academy didn't want heroes.
It wanted weapons.
And Lamii was ready to sharpen his.