CHAPTER 57: CHAPTER 57 – ECHOES OF CONTROL

The afternoon sky over Campinas was a bruised shade of gray by kickoff—clouds swollen, promising rain but withholding it for now, as if testing the players’ patience. The Estádio Moisés Lucarelli buzzed with anticipation, half the stands clad in Ponte Preta’s black and white, the other half bristling with Palmeiras green. The air smelled of wet concrete and grilled meat, the occasional flare from the ultras’ section sending plumes of smoke curling toward the heavy sky.

Eneas had named Thiago in the starting eleven again. Left wing. No rotation. No uncertainty. Just faith rendered through minutes—the only currency that mattered in football.

In the locker room before the match, the atmosphere was tighter than usual. Ponte Preta was aggressive—fast on the counter, relentless in duels. They had clawed their way up the table on sheer disruption, not beauty. Their midfielders hunted in packs, their fullbacks played like enforcers.

"They’ll try to drag us into the mud," he said, marker squeaking as he drew arrows and X’s. "Every loose ball will be a war. Every challenge designed to rattle you." His eyes swept the room, lingering on each player. "But chaos is a choice. We don’t have to accept their invitation."

As the team broke huddle, Rafael bumped fists with Thiago. "Time to shift gears again."

Thiago nodded, rolling his shoulders. "Let’s drive."

From the first whistle, Ponte Preta pressed high—sharp teeth, high line, swinging tackles that drew whistles but no cards. But Palmeiras didn’t buckle. They absorbed, shifted, countered. Thiago stayed wide, pinned to the touchline early on, his lungs already burning from the constant defensive tracking. He covered his fullback, rarely touched the ball in the opening ten minutes. But he didn’t force it.

The first real challenge came in the 12th minute when their number 3 caught Thiago with a late studs-up challenge that left his ankle throbbing. The ref waved play on.

"Welcome to Campinas," the defender growled as he hauled Thiago up by his jersey.

Thiago just smiled and wiped the mud from his shorts.

He waited.

And then it came.

Minute 14. Rafael intercepted a loose pass and swept it left to Thiago, who already had momentum behind him. One touch forward to kill the ball’s velocity, then a cut inside as a defender lunged—too eager, too early. Space opened like a parting curtain. He didn’t hesitate.

From 22 yards, Thiago ripped a right-footed shot low and curling—skimming just past the outstretched keeper’s gloves and kissing the inside of the side netting.

0–1. Palmeiras.

He didn’t celebrate wildly. Just turned and pointed to Rafael, then to the crest on his shirt. The bench erupted behind him, but Thiago was already resetting, already scanning the pitch for the next moment.

The System blinked softly in his periphery:

CHAIN REACTION Progress: 2 / 6

Ponte Preta responded with fury. Their midfield tightened, and the tempo accelerated into something frantic, reckless. But Palmeiras didn’t crack. Thiago tracked back relentlessly, intercepting a dangerous through ball in the 28th minute, then drawing a tactical foul to kill a counter in the 41st.

By the second half, the rain had finally arrived—light, cold, consistent. The pitch slickened, turning passes into unpredictable projectiles. Mistakes grew. Eneas rotated one of the forwards, but kept Thiago on, shifting him momentarily central to exploit the tired legs of Ponte Preta’s double pivot.

Minute 71. Palmeiras broke through midfield on a turnover. Thiago drifted wide right, his movement pulling a center-back out of position. He took a disguised diagonal ball from Rafael, then cut in quickly, his touch tighter now, adapted to the wet surface. Nando had made the near-post run, dragging defenders with him like a magnet.

Thiago didn’t panic.

He squared a pass to the top of the box—perfect weight, perfect timing, the ball skipping once before arriving.

Gustavo Henrique arrived like a freight train and buried it first-time.

0–2.

Thiago jogged back, water dripping from his hair, focus unwavering. Nando met him halfway and clapped the back of his head. "That’s the one."

Another pulse from the System:

CHAIN REACTION Progress: 3 / 6

The match ended 2–0. A clean win. Efficient. Controlled.

In the locker room afterward, Eneas spoke little. The team knew what this meant—another step toward the semifinals. The veterans joked as they peeled off wet socks, but there was a new edge to the camaraderie now. They were starting to believe.

Rafael leaned in toward Thiago, voice low. "You’re starting to write your patterns."

Thiago frowned, wringing out his jersey. "What do you mean?"

"You play like you know what happens three seconds later. That’s not instinct anymore. That’s study." He tapped his temple. "You’re seeing the game before it happens."

Thiago didn’t reply.

Because it was true.

Back in the dorms that night, Thiago showered, changed, and sat at his desk before bed. The rain still tapped against his window, a steady rhythm. He pulled up the System again, its soft light casting faint shadows across his walls.

SYSTEM UPDATE

Level: 15

EXP: 132 / 600

Attributes:

Pace – 70

Dribbling – 71

Shooting – 67

Passing – 69

Physicality – 66

Mentality – 64

Sub-Attributes:

Ball Control – 71

Trick Execution – 63

Stamina – 64

Skill Points Available: 10

Active Quest: Chain Reaction

Progress: 3 / 6

Reward:

+1 Vision

+1 Ball Control

Perk: Anchored Presence

He closed the display. The stats weren’t what mattered most anymore.

It was the rhythm. The feeling of control within chaos. The narrowing distance between thought and execution.

His phone buzzed.

Camila: "Saw the match. That shot was silk. Next time you celebrate, don’t pretend you’re not proud."

He smiled, thumb hovering over the keyboard before typing back: "Only if you promise not to screenshot it."

Then another message popped up.

João: "You’re moving like you’ve seen the match already. Save some highlights for the semifinals."

Thiago turned off the screen, exhaled deeply, and stretched back. The next match loomed. And beyond that—the semifinal. Santos.

Neymar.

But for now?

For now, he’d rest.

And when the fire returned, he’d be ready to stoke it.