Just after Christmas, the whole of Spain was still immersed in a festive atmosphere.

But for youth and reserve players, they already had to wake up early for training.

Real Madrid's youth academy and reserve team are collectively called Castilla, also known as Real Madrid Castilla Football Club.

In 1972, Castilla officially became Real Madrid's reserve team.

In 1991, the Spanish Football Federation ruled that reserve teams could not use a name different from their parent club, so Castilla was renamed "Real Madrid Atlético" and later "Real Madrid B".

It wasn't until 2005 that they were renamed again as "Real Madrid Castilla Football Club".

Castilla serves as Real Madrid's reserve team. Unlike the English Premier League and Serie A, in La Liga, reserve teams are allowed to play in professional leagues. Thus, Castilla has long competed in the Segunda División (Spain's second tier), even winning multiple titles.

However, according to regulations, reserve teams must always play one tier lower than their senior team. This means Castilla can never reach La Liga.

After all, Real Madrid is one of the only three clubs in Spain never to have been relegated.

But four years ago, Castilla themselves dropped down into the third tier.

The Castilla training facilities are located about five kilometers from Real Madrid's main training base, with their home ground being the Alfredo Di Stéfano Stadium, situated on the outskirts of Madrid.

For every Castilla player, their lifelong dream is to leave the Di Stéfano and step onto the Santiago Bernabéu.

That's the real stage to prove their worth.

Yet, the chances of moving from the reserve side into the first team are painfully slim. Even those who make the step up rarely last long.

Because of Madrid's strict promotion rules and high standards, in the past five years, only Álvaro Arbeloa has managed to stay in the first team.

Most others, after being tested in the first team, are quickly sent out on loan for development. Returning afterward is even rarer.

But still, despite such long odds, countless youngsters dream of joining Real Madrid's academy.

This is Real Madrid!This is the Bernabéu!Why couldn't they be that small percentage who make it?

And so, even today, countless young talents keep charging toward the Bernabéu.

Today, Castilla's stadium welcomed two important guests:

Real Madrid's head coach, José Mourinho.Real Madrid's number one star, Suker!

Compared with other clubs, Madrid isn't exactly famous for emphasizing youth development. But that doesn't mean they abandon it completely.

Plenty of activities must still go on.

After all, if even one talent emerges, Real Madrid profits enormously.

Even if these players don't stay at the Bernabéu, they must be groomed to fetch a high price in the market.

That's why each year, Madrid sends down first-team stars to the academy.

Partly to motivate the youngsters.Partly to inspire them with "chicken soup for the soul."

"Such a nuisance!"

Mourinho rubbed his hair irritably.

His face was unkempt, his eyes half-closed as if sleep-deprived.

Since the start of the winter break, he had barely rested.

On the one hand, there was the pressing matter of squad depth and the tough upcoming schedule.On the other hand, winter transfers — both signings and departures — needed to be handled.

Time was already scarce, and yet the club required him to attend this so-called youth activity.

Mourinho never cared much about youth development!

At least, not before he gained full authority.

Right now, his goal was winning results, consolidating control of the dressing room, and eventually wresting transfer power from Florentino Pérez.

He wanted to become Real Madrid's true "manager"!Only then would he pay attention to youth development and long-term planning.

For now, he was all about: buy, buy, buy!

Suker followed him, also looking impatient.

Recently, he had been swamped with events and commercial shoots, running non-stop between his house, filming locations, and promotional venues.

Now the club had assigned him yet another task. Naturally, he was frustrated.

But there was no choice.

After all, their contracts clearly stated they must cooperate with the club's promotional work.

So, Suker had to play his part.

"Long time no see!"

A burly middle-aged man came over, shaking hands with Mourinho first before warmly hugging Suker.

"Long time no see!"

It was Alberto Toril (finally a fcking official name) , the Castilla coach, who had briefly stepped up as caretaker manager for Real Madrid last season before returning to B-team duties once Mourinho arrived.

"Where do we begin?"

Toril pointed toward the facilities: "Shall we take a tour first—"

Mourinho cut him off with a wave: "Skip it. Bring the players here. I'll say a few words."

Suker smiled.

He liked Mourinho's style — no nonsense, straight to the point.

Besides, he also had a mountain of tasks waiting.

"…Alright then."

Mourinho strode toward the training ground. Toril leaned closer to Suker and whispered: "Your Mister Mourinho isn't the easiest to deal with."

Suker shrugged: "He's not usually like this. Probably just hasn't slept well lately, so he's edgy."

From the moment they entered the training base, Mourinho's expression was grim, his eyes sharp.

Not anger — just fatigue.

On Castilla's training pitch, the players stood neatly in three rows.

Their faces brimmed with excitement. After all, this was the first-team coach and the club's biggest star watching them.

Even in the middle of the winter break, no one would waste such a chance.

They wanted to shine before Mourinho. Some, like Carvajal, simply wanted to impress their idol Suker.

Mourinho stood in the middle of the pitch. Seeing the youngsters whispering among themselves, his brows furrowed tightly.

"Quiet!" Mourinho suddenly roared.

Instant silence.

All eyes fixed nervously on him.

"Here's the situation," Mourinho said slowly. "The club has ordered me to bring five of you for a first-team trial."

He paused, then added sharply:"Remember, this is an order! Not my choice!"

"You were relegated from Segunda in 2006/07. While you've been stuck in the third division, Barcelona B already finished second in Segunda!"

The words wiped the smiles off the youngsters' faces.

Mourinho's tone was merciless:"Our first team has beaten Barcelona's first team five times in the last two seasons. And yet our reserve side isn't even qualified to face their reserves! And you expect me to pick starters from here? When Pérez told me, I thought he was joking!"

"A player not even good enough to face Barcelona B thinks he can play against Barcelona's first team under me? Does that sound reasonable to you?"

Dead silence.

Mourinho's blunt words, laced with mockery, made their faces burn red — but none dared argue.

"But I believe," Mourinho's tone shifted, "that even in a pile of trash, a hidden gem may exist."

He glanced at his watch."You've got 40 minutes. Two halves of 20. Make me remember you."

"Teams will be set by your coach, Toril. At the very least — don't disappoint me too much."

The players clenched their fists in fury.

Excitement was gone. Now, it was pure anger.

Back on the sideline, Mourinho sat next to Suker.

"Did you really have to provoke them like that?" Suker asked softly. "What if one hothead decides to punch you?"

Mourinho pointed at the tall, muscular bodyguard behind Suker.

"Isn't that what your guy is here for?"

Suker grinned.

Mourinho then pulled out his notebook and started flipping through.

Real Madrid players were always curious about Mourinho's famous notebook. Suker couldn't resist peeking.

But Mourinho half-closed it, shielding the contents.

"What do you want?"

"I just want to take a look."

"You won't understand," Mourinho said flatly.

What?Suker felt challenged. He had played for years — how could he not understand?

Sensing this, Mourinho reluctantly opened it.

"What is this?" Suker exclaimed.

Not that he didn't understand the content, but the handwriting.

The page was full of messy lines, arrows, scribbles. Notes so sloppy they were unreadable.

But Suker spotted three names at the top: Nacho, Vázquez, Carvajal.

All defenders, born in 1990, 1991, and 1992 respectively.

Interestingly, Lucas Vázquez was playing left winger today.

This meant Mourinho wasn't unprepared. Even if forced to take five players, he had already handpicked potential candidates.

(Though in reality, only Carvajal would eventually establish himself at Madrid. The others would be loaned out or sold.)

The match began.

Nacho, Vázquez, and Carvajal were placed on the same team — clearly, Mourinho had asked Toril to group his targets together.

"Hey Lucas, play well! Let's make the first team together!" Carvajal grinned.

"Whatever happens, we must cooperate," Nacho added. "There are only five spots. We take three!"

The three were considered standouts in Castilla. Not geniuses, but reliable players.

And since Mourinho was notorious for stockpiling defenders, they felt their chances were strong.

Only Vázquez sighed — why was he being played as a winger?He could play full-back, left or right wing, but this was not his best role.

The match started at the pace of a third-division game.

To Suker, it was painfully slow.

First a clumsy touch, then looking around before an opponent even approached.

Attackers didn't attack — they just passed backwards.

The error rate was outrageous, the organization chaotic.

"What are they even playing at?" Suker muttered.

Mourinho ignored the pitch and looked at Toril.

Now he understood why Castilla got relegated.

The squad wasn't terrible individually, but the midfield was a complete mess, dragging everything down.

Both teams looked equally disjointed.

"Is Toril English?" Mourinho asked Suker.

"He's Spanish, but I think he studied in England. Even did some coaching courses there."

Mourinho nodded.

That explained the clumsy, ugly, primitive football.

He was already thinking: once he had full power, Toril would be the first to go.

Castilla had been ruined under him.

"Stop!" Mourinho suddenly barked.

The game froze.

All eyes on him.

He turned to Suker: "You — play midfield for the blue team."

"What?" Suker was stunned.

He thought he was just here for appearances, not to actually play!

"Show them how football should be played," Mourinho ordered.

Suker pointed at his sneakers: "I didn't bring boots."

Toril quickly offered: "We have plenty of spares in the locker room."

Suker grimaced.Who knew whose sweaty shoes those were — maybe even fungus.

"Forget it. I'll play in sneakers."

He put on a blue bib and strolled onto the pitch, loosening his arms.

"Boss, I'm only playing 20 minutes!" Suker called.

"Twenty's enough," Mourinho nodded.

The blue team's players were glowing with excitement.

Especially Carvajal, Nacho, and Vázquez — their idol was joining them!

Suker looked around: "Play your own game, don't just force the ball to me."

He planned to take it easy.

But he was wrong.

As soon as play resumed, the blues funneled every ball to him.

Suker had no choice but to organize their attacks.

Against this low intensity, it felt like playing with children.

Soon, he realized why Madrid rarely promoted players from Castilla.

The level was simply too poor.

At least right now.

Tap! Tap!Suker played simple one-touch passes, no flourishes.

He didn't dribble, just moved into space, received, and released.

Even so, the blue team's rhythm instantly smoothed out.

"Forward! Stop passing back!" Suker barked.

They had developed bad habits.

With his involvement, their style shifted toward possession play.

But Castilla's idea of possession was still crude.

"Passing isn't for the sake of passing. It's for attacking! To disrupt defenses and create openings!"

Suker dropped deep, squatting low, demanding the ball.

Carvajal spotted it and fed him.

Suker flicked it up, drawing defenders' attention, then glanced right — but with his left heel, gently flicked the ball behind him.

No-Look Pass.

The crowd gasped.

It was effortless, like a dance.

And it sent Vázquez clean through on goal!

Vázquez couldn't believe it.One moment he was just running — the next, he was one-on-one!

Near the box, he feinted a shot, then slipped it sideways.

Suker, surprised, took it and curled a shot.

But wearing sneakers, he couldn't get the spin right.

The ball skimmed the post and went wide.

Suker grinned and shook his head.

"That pass was brilliant!" Vázquez rushed over, thrilled.

Suker studied him: "You're a defender, aren't you?"

Vázquez blinked: "Yeah! How did you know?"

"You don't look like a forward." Suker smiled.

For the rest of the scrimmage, Suker became the role model for the young players.

He never imagined that one day, on Spanish soil, he'd be the one giving technical charity to Spanish kids.

But that was enough.