Chapter 257: What We're Doing Is Pure Torment—Crying? That Counts Against the Clock Too
Boos. All Li Ang could hear were boos.
Among them, there were likely countless frustrated curses and insults mixed in, but he couldn't make them out clearly—Camp Nou was simply too loud at this point.
Still, from the endless middle fingers in the crowd, the furious expressions on the fans' faces, and their mouths moving non-stop, he could pretty much guess the kind of words they were yelling.
Not that he needed to guess. This scene was one he knew all too well.
Maybe during his first appearance at Camp Nou, he'd felt a bit nervous—but now? He didn't feel a single ounce of pressure.
After completing his trademark sliding celebration, Li Ang popped up from the turf and spread his arms wide, turning with a grin to welcome his teammates.
The Barça supporters sitting near the pitch looked like they were about to explode.
But then they realized, no matter how much they booed or screamed, it didn't affect Li Ang one bit.
In fact, as he hugged his teammates on the pitch, he was laughing even harder.
That was the most infuriating part.
Barça's players on the pitch also began to feel a wave of helplessness wash over them.
Even though Messi had gotten into rhythm early, even though he had broken his personal curse and finally scored against Chelsea…
That damn Li Ang still came back and equalized for Chelsea right away.
It would've been easier to accept if literally any other Chelsea player had scored. But it just had to be Li Ang.
He'd always been the one to break the deadlock against Barça while playing for Real Madrid—and now, even after switching clubs, he was still out to ruin their night.
Some of the Barcelona players even started to question themselves.
"Are we really just cursed against teams that Li Ang plays for?"
It wasn't that they were afraid—just that the consistency of Li Ang's performances against them was unnerving.
One or two matches could be written off as coincidence, but Li Ang had faced Barcelona more than half a dozen times now—and he always showed up big.
Even Messi's gaze toward Li Ang changed slightly for a moment.
But that flicker of emotion didn't last long.
Before the broadcast camera could catch him, Messi simply shook his head and walked away.
As always, he wasn't the kind of guy to wave his arms and shout to boost morale.
He preferred to speak through his play.
So it was left to Xavi and Mascherano to rally the team.
On the sidelines, manager Gerardo Martino still seemed to be in a bit of a daze, huddled with his assistants.
"Chelsea won't surrender the initiative easily. Mourinho's too cunning."
"Their pressing won't last the full match—makes it harder to judge when they'll switch tempo."
"They have the better fitness levels. We can't afford to get dragged into a physical war with them."
"We should try baiting them into attacking us more—give up a bit of possession..."
Several tactical suggestions came quickly during the short pause in play.
Martino didn't love any of the proposals, but at least two important points became clear:
One: the control of match tempo.
Two: the physical disparity between the teams.
Mourinho might give up possession, but he'd never truly give up control.
And when he wanted it back, full-pitch pressing was his go-to weapon.
Chelsea's fitness was clearly superior, which meant Mourinho could safely let Li Ang orchestrate those intense pressing phases when needed.
They could afford to play the long game.
Martino, on the other hand, couldn't afford to let Barça go all out.
Messi's match appearances this season were down significantly compared to the past three years.
Martino had been cautious with his usage all season.
To put it bluntly, even if every other Barcelona player was fine, if Messi pulled a muscle or aggravated an old injury—Martino might as well prepare his resignation letter.
Barcelona's continued survival in all three competitions hinged on Messi's ability to keep performing in the second half of the season.
The squad weaknesses Guardiola hadn't solved before leaving? Martino hadn't solved them either.
Barcelona's attack still revolved around one man—Messi.
Yes, Neymar had solid numbers this season, but he was still new to Europe and hadn't even completed a full campaign.
The Brazilian wasn't ready to carry the team.
Next season might be a different story.
But for now, Barça were walking a tightrope.
They looked sharp, but their energy was stretched thin by competing on three fronts.
As long as Messi held out, so would Barça.
But reality was harsh, and Martino couldn't risk Messi's health.
Of course Barça still had to attack at home—but Martino knew this couldn't last forever.
Unless they saw a clear opportunity to break Chelsea once and for all, they'd need to ease up at some point.
Back on the field, Li Ang and his teammates finished their goal celebration and returned to their half.
He didn't know what was going on inside Martino's head—but he had his suspicions.
Barcelona just didn't have the same "all-in" mentality that Chelsea did.
And that made sense.
Chelsea had already won a domestic cup, and the Premier League title was practically in hand.
There was no pressure left. In the Champions League, even reaching the quarterfinals was a success.
Reaching the semis? That would be an unexpected bonus.
So they were playing these two legs against Barcelona with a relaxed, "nothing to lose" mindset.
Barcelona? Not so much.
They were still fighting on all three fronts.
They were tied on points with Atlético in La Liga—only ahead on goal difference.
They'd beaten Real Sociedad to reach the Copa del Rey final, where they'd face Real Madrid.
So while their treble hopes looked good on paper, it could all fall apart with a single slip-up.
With such a packed schedule and mounting fatigue, it was no wonder they couldn't go all-in for the Champions League.
Last season, Mourinho had even thrown away the Copa del Rey to ease Real Madrid's load.
Li Ang had been through a sextuple season and a title defense. He knew what this kind of grind felt like.
So when play resumed and Li Ang noticed Barça's players easing up in their pressing and physical challenges, he understood.
Still, he didn't rush to instruct his teammates to start a full-pitch press again.
After all, they were playing away at Camp Nou.
The score was 1–1.
It might not look like an advantage—but Chelsea had that precious away goal.
Winning would be ideal, of course.
But drawing with goals? That was a perfectly acceptable result.
On this point, Li Ang and Mourinho were in complete sync.
Score once or twice, grab an away goal or two, then go home and really take it to Barcelona—that was a plan Chelsea could live with.
So even after riding the wave of their equalizer, Chelsea didn't press again.
Under Li Ang's command, they subtly lowered the tempo, playing a patient, reactive game.
Barça tried to bait them into pushing forward. Xavi and Iniesta deliberately slowed things down, hoping Chelsea would take the bait.
But they hadn't counted on Li Ang.
The moment he signaled retreat, the rest of Chelsea followed suit without complaint.
And so, just when neutral fans thought the game was about to explode into an all-out attacking frenzy…
Both teams, by silent mutual agreement, turned the match into a slow, tactical chess match.
Boos. All around, nothing but boos!
Mixed in were likely countless furious curses, too.
Li Ang couldn't hear them clearly—not with the deafening roar inside Camp Nou.
But judging from the number of Barcelona fans flipping him off, the fury on their faces, and the constant yelling, he could imagine the words just fine.
Not that he minded. This was all too familiar to him.
Maybe the first time he stepped onto Camp Nou's pitch, there had been nerves.
But now? There was no pressure. None.
After sliding across the turf in celebration, Li Ang popped up effortlessly, arms wide, walking back toward his teammates like nothing happened.
The Barça supporters near the sideline were about ready to explode from rage.
But the more they shouted, the harder Li Ang laughed while hugging his teammates.
Their hatred didn't faze him—it only seemed to fuel him.
And that, more than the goal itself, was what made it unbearable.
Even though Messi had finally found form tonight—even scored his first-ever goal against Chelsea, breaking his personal drought—this guy still had to show up and level the match.
If any other Chelsea player had scored, the Barça players might have taken it better.
But of course, it was Li Ang.
He'd been the one to break the deadlock time and again back when he wore white at Real Madrid.
Now, in blue, he was still making their lives hell.
A few of Barcelona's players even began to question the universe.
"Are we really just cursed against any team with Li Ang in it?"
It wasn't fear—it was frustration.
Li Ang's freakishly consistent performances against Barcelona were starting to feel like some cruel footballing witchcraft.
Once or twice could be brushed off.
But now? Li Ang had faced Barça more than half a dozen times—and each time, he delivered.
Even Messi's look toward Li Ang held a flicker of something different now.
But it didn't last. The camera caught Messi just as he turned away, shaking his head.
As always, he didn't rely on pep talks or gestures. He let his feet do the talking.
So it was Xavi and Mascherano who stepped up to rally the squad.
On the touchline, coach Martino still hadn't fully recovered from the shock.
He huddled with his assistants, trying to make sense of what was happening.
"Chelsea won't give up control of the match easily. Mourinho's too smart."
"They're not going to press all game, which makes it even trickier. We can't predict when they'll shift gears."
"They've got better stamina. We can't get stuck trading blows with them."
"We need to bait them forward. Let them have the ball for a bit…"
They offered multiple suggestions in quick succession.
Martino didn't love any of them—but he walked away with two key takeaways:
First: Chelsea's control of tempo.
Second: the physical disparity between the teams.
Mourinho didn't care about possession percentages—but he'd never give up the initiative.
His ace in the hole? Sudden, suffocating high-presses to regain control.
And Chelsea could sustain it. Their stamina levels were clearly better than Barcelona's.
Mourinho could afford to let Li Ang run the show—even defensively.
Chelsea could play attritional football all night.
But Martino? He couldn't afford a full-on slugfest.
Messi had already played fewer minutes this season than in the previous three years.
Martino had been managing him carefully all year.
And if Messi pulled something—or reaggravated an old injury—Martino might as well submit his resignation letter the next day.
Barcelona were still alive on all three fronts, and Messi's performance in the second half of the season had been the glue holding it all together.
The squad problems that Guardiola had left behind still hadn't been solved.
For all their attacking stats, this team still lived and died by Messi.
Sure, Neymar had numbers, but he was still in his first European season—not ready to carry the load.
Maybe next year.
Right now, Barcelona were held together by a single thread. And fatigue was slowly sawing at it.
As long as Messi held on, they had a shot.
But Martino couldn't afford to gamble with his fitness.
Barcelona had to keep attacking at home. But Martino knew there would be a breaking point.
Unless they saw a clear opening to destroy Chelsea, they'd have to back off.
Back on the pitch, Li Ang and his teammates finished celebrating and jogged back to their half, waiting for Barcelona to restart play.
He didn't know what Martino was thinking, but he had a hunch.
Barcelona didn't have the same "go all-in" mentality Chelsea did.
And it made sense.
Chelsea had already won a domestic cup, the Premier League title was almost secured—there was no pressure.
This Champions League quarterfinal? Bonus.
They were playing loose. Free.
But Barça?
They were still fighting for La Liga, tied on points with Atlético.
They had a Copa del Rey final against Madrid coming up.
Their schedule was brutal, and the pressure was relentless.
It wasn't surprising they couldn't go all out in the Champions League.
Li Ang had been through a treble season—and the nightmare of trying to defend it.
He understood exactly what they were feeling.
So when play resumed and Li Ang noticed the dip in Barça's intensity, he didn't push for a full-on press either.
They were the away team, after all.
The score was 1–1. And Chelsea had the all-important away goal.
Sure, Li Ang wanted to win.
But a draw—with a goal—was still a win in disguise.
On this point, he and Mourinho were perfectly aligned.
Grab a goal or two at Camp Nou, then finish the job at Stamford Bridge.
So Chelsea, fresh off an emotional equalizer, dropped the tempo instead of ramping it up.
Barça tried to lure them out—Xavi and Iniesta slowed the ball, inviting Chelsea to push forward.
But Li Ang signaled the team to sit. And everyone followed.
And so, just as it seemed like a full-blown shootout was about to erupt…
Both sides—almost instinctively—put the game in slow motion.
Of course, this strange, temporary stalemate didn't last long.
Three minutes later, Martino made his move.
Barcelona still needed to attack.
Drawing at home against Chelsea? That wasn't going to cut it.
Xavi didn't object—Martino was right. They couldn't play Mourinho's game.
Barcelona's playing style didn't suit counterattacking football.
Once the squad was aligned mentally, they pushed again—hard.
Messi led the way, confident as ever.
Matić and Ramires had been annoying, sure—but not enough to truly unsettle him.
Not like him…
Because this time, the man marking him wasn't Matić.
"Don't look so surprised. I wasn't defending you earlier 'cause I had to help with the attack…
But now that we've tied it, I'm not letting you score again—hey, don't run away!"
The familiar voice rang in Messi's ears, and just like that, the smile vanished from his face.
He darted off, but Li Ang stuck close, stride for stride.
This wasn't Mourinho's tactical call—it was Li Ang's own decision.
He'd seen enough.
The whole world had seen it: Matić and Ramires couldn't contain Messi.
Mourinho wasn't going to risk a shootout.
They'd already done enough damage tonight—time to shut it down.
Five minutes ago, Li Ang had been flying high after scoring.
Part of him wanted to score again—bury Barça right here.
But once he cooled down, he changed his mind.
If Chelsea had peak-form Kanté in midfield, sure, Li Ang would stay up front and leave Messi to him.
But they didn't.
So without waiting for Mourinho's orders, Li Ang dropped back to play holding mid, pushing Ramires forward instead.
Chelsea went from "attack-first" to "defend-first" in an instant.
And Messi felt the difference.
Li Ang's man-marking had gotten even better. He was everywhere.
With both players now fully engaged in their duel, the rest of Barcelona found themselves with a problem.
Neymar and Sánchez couldn't break through on their own.
Swap Sánchez for Suarez or prime Henry? Maybe.
But that wasn't happening tonight.
Mourinho saw that Li Ang had locked Messi down again—and said nothing.
No adjustments. No objections.
As long as Messi stayed quiet, Mourinho was happy.
And so, the score stayed locked at 1–1 until halftime.
Chelsea managed the tempo masterfully in the final minutes.
With Messi neutralized, Barça's offense stuttered like a car stuck in second gear.
Martino was visibly anxious.
Barça players walked off the pitch with tight faces and heavy shoulders.
When the second half began, Barça pushed forward again—hard.
They were hoping that with a brief rest, they could strike early and seize control.
Both full-backs surged high, playing dangerously aggressive.
But Chelsea's three-man midfield? Immovable.
The waves of Barça attacks crashed and splashed—impressive, yes—but they didn't break through.
Čech wasn't even forced into a serious save.
Messi, feeling the pressure, demanded the ball. Iniesta obliged.
But just as Messi spun to dribble, Li Ang and Ramires pounced—double-team, no mercy.
Messi cursed under his breath.
Half a minute ago, Li Ang had been whispering in his ear, promising a "1v1 duel like men" after the break.
Now he was back to playing dirty, swarming him with help. No shame!
Messi gritted his teeth and tried to push through both defenders.
But Li Ang timed it perfectly.
A clean, brutal slide tackle—both players hit the ground.
But the ball? It rolled harmlessly to the sideline.
The ref had a clear view. Clean play.
No whistle.
Li Ang had toe-poked the ball just before Messi's final touch.
The fall? Just momentum.
Even better, he'd immediately pulled his leg back after the ball was gone.
"Play on!" the ref signaled.
Barça barely had time to complain—Bertrand was already sprinting down the flank.
Li Ang popped up, sprinting into space.
Bertrand drew two defenders, then, instead of passing to Hazard, surprised everyone—
He sent a diagonal ball across the pitch!
Not a perfect pass, but Barça's left flank was wide open—Alba and Alves were still jogging back.
De Bruyne took the ball cleanly and stormed toward the box.
This was his sweet spot—right edge of the penalty area.
The entire stadium held its breath.
Li Ang arrived.
De Bruyne whipped in the cross.
It was perfect.
Li Ang darted to the near post.
Piqué tracked him hard—so Li Ang redirected the header away, flicking it to the far post!
Mascherano and Ibrahimović leapt for the ball.
Ibra barely had to jump—he outmuscled Mascherano and slammed a header toward goal.
Pinto dove—the wrong way.
The ball bulged the net.
2–1.
Barça fans were stunned.
How was this happening again?
The same suffocating defensive press.
The same surgical counters.
The same aerial dominance.
Two years ago, this very blueprint dragged Barcelona off the throne of Europe.
Now Mourinho, with Chelsea, had brought it back to life.
Torment.
That's what this was.
For Barça fans, it was pure torment.
Camp Nou drowned in angry whistles.
But on the pitch—Mourinho and Li Ang grinned.
This was exactly the feeling they wanted.
Call it torment?
Good.
Just don't cry too long.
Because crying… still counts against the clock.
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