FWEEEE!
The whistle cut the night.
And just like the first half, but with even more intensity this time, Benfica came screaming out of the blocks.
From kickoff, Roger Schmidt's press turned feral. Angel Di Maria drifted infield to overload, Joao Maria tucked under Rafa Silva, and both fullbacks flew high, stretching Barcelona's defense.
The Catalans tried to hold their nerve, but not against this level of pressure.
The first punch landed in the 48th minute.
Kokcu drove at Gavi, slid a pass wide to Alexandar Bah, and the right back's first-time cross nicked off Balde's thigh. The ball skittered wickedly across the face of goal, too tantalizing for a striker to miss.
Bzzz!
Musa pounced, a blur of red and hunger. He stabbed it home at the back post to half the lead.
1-2.
BOOM!
The stadium detonated. Trubin sprinted to midfield, waving his arms, urging more from the players.
After that, Barca tried to settle, but Benfica smelled fear and chased like wolves. They were relentless like a flood.
In the 51st minute, Di Maria's outside of the boot wedge behind the high line found Rafa Silva. Araujo matched him stride for stride, but Rafa chopped inside and cracked a low drive toward the near stick.
Jose Garcia's right hand snapped out, a cat's paw, turning it around the post.
Corner kick.
Drums thundered. Another wave.
From that corner, chaos erupted. Otamendi bullied the six-yard box, Antonio Silva climbed the ladder, the ball pinged, looped, hesitated in the floodlight haze… and then dropped to Joao Mario.
The midfielder didn't hesitate.
POW!
Volley… net.
2-2. Fifty two minutes.
FC Barcelona was rattled as the Luz shook like a living thing.
Sam gathered the team in a huddle as Benfica celebrated, slapping shirts, looking each man in the eye. "Breathe," he said.
"We knew they'd do this". He tapped his temple. "Now we show them why we're champions".
Hansi Flick gestured to the fourth official as he took off Fermin Lopez, bringing Frankie de Jong on.
And immediately, the team shape flexed; Pedri tucked right, De Jong dropped as a pendulum six, and Gavi pushed half a line higher to bite into Kokcu's ankles.
"Stabilize, then kill," Flick murmured to his staff.
The first fruits came quickly.
With Frankie's calming metronome, Barca stopped launching and started slicing. Short, short, long, they played.
Pedri to De Jong, De Jong to Kounde, Kounde into Sam's feet.
Sam took it on the half-turn and felt Konate, no, not Konate, Antonio Silva's weight on his back, just a feather compared to the Liverpool center back.
He rolled the center back like wet paper and drew a foul thirty two yards out.
Raphinha placed the ball. The Luz whistled, jeered, and sang. The Brazilian smiled faintly and walked away… but he was just the decoy.
Sam stepped up instead.
He glanced left, then whipped his right foot across the valve.
BAM!
The ball leapt, dipped, swerved cruelly. Trubin backpedaled and, at the last gasp, clawed it over. The away end howled approval at the effort; the home crowd hissed.
And as Sam jogged back, feeling slightly frustrated at the missed opportunity, for the first time in what felt like forever, the air in front of him shimmered, invisible to everyone else.
DING!
~----~
[Daily Quest Progress: 2/3 Complete]
Distance Covered: 8.1 km
Sprints > 32km/h: 9
Note: Maintain tempo.
Reward proximity: [High-grade Physical Conditioning Elixir]
~----~
On one hand, the system never counted his activities in games as part of his daily quest progress before today. And on another hand, the reward was not just a low grade elixir, but a high grade variant!
He exhaled, almost amused. "Well, let's do this".
In that moment, it was no longer just pride on the line, just 3 points on the line, but also a high-grade elixir on the line.
For now though, Barca had to stabilize the game.
Benfica's last great surge spiked at the 61st minute. Di Maria telegraphed a trivela toward Musa again; Araujo devoured the angle with a monster stride and headed clear.
The ball spilled to Raphinha on the left. In one smooth motion he killed it, feinted inside, and snapped a sixty yard diagonal with his weaker foot.
The ball whistled across Lisbon's night and dropped into Lamine Yamal's stride like it had been laser-guided.
Yamal didn't even look up. He cushioned for Pedri bombing the inside channel. Pedri's first touch was a caress, his second a daggered pass through Otamendi's legs to Sam. Sam received and shaped to shoot.
But then…
Whoosh!
Antonio Silva lunged.
Sam let the ball run between his own legs and spun… La Croqueta, pure silk, spinning onto his right inside the box.
Antonio Silva was sent to the stars.
The shot? No. The goalkeeper was already closing him down, so Sam released a disguised reverse back to Raphinha, who'd continued his run unmarked at the back post.
Tap. Net. Absolute serenity.
2-3.
BOOM!
Barcelona's bench erupted. Raphinha tore away toward the corner flag, eyes blazing, thumping the crest.
Sam caught him from behind, laughing, yelling in his ear.
"Clocked in, right?"
"Clocked in," Raphinha grinned back, breathless.
The Luz did not go quiet this time, it grew furious.
Flares re-lit. The noise twisted from celebration to demand. Benfica threwa on fresh legs, seeking chaos.
Hansi Flick answered with needlework, taking off Yamal, and bringing on Ferran Torres to stretch transitions. He also brought on Christensen for Cubarsi to manage aerials as Schmidt angled for crosses.
The rhythm sharpened into something surgical.
Benfica's next chance fell to Rafa Silva, slashing between lines.
He burst onto a Kokcu slip and flashed a low effort toward the far corner. Jose Garcia's left boot kept it out. The rebound spat up viciously to Dimaria who arrived with that ageless glide, side-footing for the roof.
And yet, when it seemed lost…
Balde, all afterburner, launched himself between ball and net and took it in the ribs. Barca fans roared him on. But he lay winded, eyes watering, before Araujo yanked him up by the wrist.
"Another," the Uruguayan growled. "Again!"
Sam felt the stadium tilt, like a carousel slowing. The panic had bled from Barca's limbs, and in its place, that terrible calm you only see in killers and kings.
And so, Samba started.