Favela da Rocinha, Rio de Janeiro – 2007
Concrete cracked beneath Thiago's toes as the ball kissed the earth. No shoes. No shin guards. Just a sun-scorched stretch of broken stone and rusted fence poles pretending to be a pitch.
The match wasn't formal—nothing in the favela ever was. No coaches, no refs, no uniforms. Just twelve boys, barefoot or in worn-out sandals, split into two makeshift teams. They were surrounded by older men sipping beer or smoking by the chain-link fence, half-watching, half-gambling. Above them, colorful laundry swung from wires stretched between stacked, mismatched buildings.
None of it mattered to Thiago.
The moment the ball rolled to his feet, the world dimmed. The noise fell away. The heat vanished. The only thing that existed was the game.
"Vai, moleque!" someone barked from the sidelines. "Show them who's king!"
Thiago didn't look up. He didn't need to. Three defenders were closing in fast—one barreling in straight on, another looping wide to cut off his right, and a third creeping from behind.
He dropped his left shoulder.
The first boy dove for the fake and committed. Thiago snapped the ball backward with the inside of his right foot, popped it gently upward with his heel, then flicked it blind over the approaching second defender.
The crowd rumbled.
"Caralho... he got both of them!"
The third defender went in for the kill, feet swinging to intercept. But Thiago twisted sharply, spinning off one leg, and nudged the ball through his opponent's legs. Nutmeg.
Three gone. Ball still his.
He didn't smile. No celebration. He lowered his shoulders and surged forward. One touch. Two. A fake. Then it was just him and the keeper—a skinny kid, maybe seventeen, with raw ambition and hands too big for his gloves.
Thiago chopped left, then froze. The keeper bit instantly and dove.
Too early.
Thiago walked it in.
Goal.
There was no cheering. Just a few claps and murmurs. In the favela, football wasn't about celebration. It was survival.
The keeper smacked the ground and muttered curses.
Thiago stepped back and gave him a nod.
That night, he ate fried rice with a cracked egg on top. His mother had borrowed a little oil from the neighbor upstairs.
"You keep playing like that," she said while rubbing sweat from his brow, "and one day, they'll pay to see you."
Thiago didn't answer. Not because he didn't believe her, but because hope cost more than rent in the favela. You didn't risk it unless you could pay in full.
He glanced at his little sister Clara, who sat cross-legged on the tile floor, drawing with a broken pencil. She held up a messy picture of a footballer with wild hair and a grin that stretched wide.
"Is that me?" Thiago asked, smirking.
She giggled. "No, bobão. That's Ronaldinho."
"Of course."
"But I'll draw you next."
"You better," he said. "Make mine better."
The ceiling leaked. Mosquitoes buzzed in his ears. Distant motorcycles echoed like thunder in the alleyways—Comando Vermelho boys doing their night rounds. Thiago lay shirtless on his thin mattress, staring at the cracked concrete above him.
He didn't dream of fame.
He dreamed of silence. Of a clean pitch. Of shoes that fit. Of stepping onto real grass and hearing the crowd—not just one block of people, but thousands.
Then, something… shifted.
A flicker passed through his vision. Not in front of him—inside his head. He blinked.
Words appeared. Pale, silent. Like thoughts he hadn't created.
[System Booting...]
[Subject Identified: Thiago Luis da Silva]
[Initializing Performance Module…]
[Error – Cognitive strain detected. Delaying full activation.]
He sat up. His heart hammered in his chest.
"Que porra é essa?"
No sound. No flashing lights. Just silence. The words were gone.
He rubbed his face. Maybe he was tired. Maybe the heat had fried something in his brain. Maybe he was going crazy.
Or maybe… not.
Two days passed. Thiago didn't say a word about what he'd seen. Not to his mom. Not to Caio. Not to anyone. He trained harder than ever. Woke up early. Slept late. Hit the wall with the ball hundreds of times until his thighs burned.
But on the third day, while he was juggling in the alley—barefoot, bouncing the ball off his knees and alternating touches—it happened again.
No noise. No flash. Just words.
[System Calibrated]
[Welcome, Player: Thiago Luis da Silva]
[Skill Progression Mode: Unlocked]
His breath caught in his throat.
"Status," he whispered.
A window of text formed in his mind, perfectly legible and somehow vivid even though it wasn't in front of his eyes.
Player: Thiago Luis da SilvaAge: 13Position: UndefinedLevel: 1Experience: 0 / 100Potential Tier: Undiscovered
Attributes:Pace – 67Dribbling – 62Shooting – 54Passing – 58Physicality – 61Mentality – 52
He nearly dropped the ball.
It wasn't just a hallucination. It was a system. A real system.
He thought the word again: "Dribbling."
New text flowed seamlessly.
Ball Control – 65Close Touch – 58Dribble Timing – 60Trick Execution – 55
Every number made sense. Every stat felt real, like a private scouting report written inside his skull.
He was shaking now. Not from fear. From excitement.
Then, another line of text appeared.
[New Quest Available]
"Open it," he thought.
Quest: Ball Is LifeObjective: Dribble continuously for 10 minutes without losing controlReward: +1 Ball Control, +1 Trick Execution, 10 EXPTime Limit: NonePenalty: None
Thiago looked around. The alley was empty except for a cat curled on a trash bin and a man coughing in the next building.
He set the ball down and whispered, "Okay. Let's see what this is."
Ten minutes later, sweat poured down his back. His calves trembled. His lungs burned.
But he hadn't dropped the ball once.
The moment he stopped, he heard it. Not in the air. In his head.
Quest Complete: Ball Is Life+1 Ball Control+1 Trick Execution+10 EXP gainedLevel: 1 → 2
Passive Unlocked: Muscle Memory I – Repetitive drills grant 20% more stat growth.
Thiago dropped to his knees and laughed. Not loudly. Not in joy.
But in disbelief.
He was thirteen. No boots. No coach. No club. No future.
But now?
Now he had a system.
Now he had a chance.