Madrid.
The very air along Paseo de la Castellana seemed scorched with tension.
At Real Madrid's Ciudad Deportiva, inside the press room, hundreds of media outlets had gathered.
The long lenses and microphones aimed at the stage were like a pack of hungry beasts. Every flash from the cameras scattered the dust in the air, leaving nothing to hide.
In the center of the podium sat club president Florentino Pérez, his face heavy with gravity.
"Based on the team's recent performances and our plans for the future, the club has decided to terminate the head coach's contract with immediate effect."
The words fell.
Silence.
One second.
Two seconds.
And then, the room erupted like a landslide crashing into the sea. The rapid-fire shutters of cameras merged into a torrent, like a thunderous downpour on a sheet-metal roof.
Journalists were in an uproar, whispering, exchanging glances—shock and frenzy written across their faces.
Real Madrid had changed managers again.
This was destined to be the global sports headline for the coming week.
Florentino raised a hand, pressing it down lightly.
The uproar subsided—barely.
Every neck craned forward, waiting for the only thing that mattered:
Who would be the successor?
Capello? Hiddink? Or perhaps some world-renowned manager currently without a job?
"The successor…"
Florentino paused, as if summoning strength for the announcement.
"…is Mr. Julian Bach."
Julian Bach?
Who?
A massive question mark popped into every journalist's mind.
In football, unfamiliar meant irrelevant.
Florentino turned and gestured toward a young man who had remained silent at his side.
"Julian, only 28 years old, previously worked as a data analyst for our C-team in the youth system."
Boom.
If the earlier outcry had been a landslide, this was the full eruption of a volcano. The press room was completely out of control.
"You must be joking!"
"A data analyst? From the third team?"
"Has Florentino lost his mind?"
Flashbulbs went berserk, converging on the young man.
He was very young, with sharply cut Germanic features. He wore an ill-fitting club-issued suit, looking more like a student who had wandered into a hall of power than a man about to lead a galaxy of superstars.
That was Julian Bach.
A transmigrator.
A month ago, he had been scrambling for an internship with a second-division German side. A car accident had sent him here—reborn as the lowest-level staffer at Real Madrid's youth academy.
Now, he sat on the throne of the Galácticos.
At least, in name.
A veteran journalist from Marca suddenly sprang to his feet and snatched the microphone.
"President Pérez! Forgive my bluntness—but is this a joke? A German with a blank résumé? An analyst with no professional playing career? How is he supposed to manage a squad that includes Ronaldo, Zidane, Raúl, and Beckham?"
The question was sharp as a blade.
All cameras locked onto Julian.
He could even feel the dismissive stares from the players seated in the back row.
Captain Raúl González.
Vice-captain Guti Hernández.
They didn't even bother to look at the podium. They spoke quietly among themselves, smirking, their disdain undisguised.
Pressure closed in from all sides.
The media's assault.
The scorn of superstars.
The doubts of the entire world.
From the very start, this magnificent battleship refused to let him board.
Florentino shielded him from the first wave of fire.
"Silence!"
The president's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that silenced the hall.
He pulled a document from his folder and held it up.
"This is a report Julian submitted to me a week ago. Its title: 'On Tactical Rigidity and the Risks of Systemic Physical Collapse.'"
"In this report, he used data models to predict—down to the minute—our tactical breakdowns from the last match. He even forecasted the cliff-like drop in physical fitness after the 70th minute. Every detail matched reality."
"What Real Madrid needs isn't fame. We need someone who can identify problems—and solve them."
His words landed with force.
But the journalists weren't convinced. It was easy to sound clever on paper. Coaching world-class superstars was another matter entirely.
More questions shot toward Julian.
"Mr. Bach, how do you intend to make Ronaldo listen to you?"
"Do you really think Zidane needs your tactical advice?"
"You don't even have a coaching license! What gives you the right to sit here?"
The voices tangled together into a suffocating net, threatening to swallow him whole.
And then, under the crushing weight, Julian's retina flickered.
A faintly glowing blue interface appeared before his eyes—like something out of a sci-fi film.
[Host detected in position: Top-Tier League Head Coach (A-level)…]
[Apex Tactical Suite—activated.]
[Performing identity authentication… Authentication complete.]
[Initial Module Unlocked: Player Deep-Scan Data.]
[Energy Source: Charged by winning matches, boosting influence, or executing key tactical deployments.]
[Current Energy: 10/100.]
[Usage Restriction: Each scan consumes 5 energy points.]
Finally.
After a month of silence, endless trials and despair—his system had awakened at the moment he needed it most.
This was the only reason he had dared to accept the impossible job.
Julian's body remained still, but his mind was razor sharp.
His gaze slid toward the back row, fixing on Captain Raúl.
"Scan."
The command echoed silently in his mind.
[Command confirmed. Target: Raúl González. Energy consumed: 5 points.]
[Current Energy: 5/100.]
In an instant, Julian's vision transformed.
The real world faded into grayscale. In its place, a 3D model of Raúl—woven entirely from data streams—flared to life before his eyes.
From muscle fibers to skeletal structure, even neural responses—nothing was hidden.
Lines of data raced past, then froze.
[Name: Raúl González Blanco]
[Status: Fatigued]
[Stamina Reserves: 76%]
[Morale: 55 (Anxious. Dissatisfied with the club's situation and uneasy about the new coach)]
[Tactical Understanding (Current Queiroz System): 68%]
[Hidden Injury: Chronic ligament damage in right ankle. Current stage: Grade III stress risk. High-intensity duels may result in rupture.]
…
Julian's heart thudded hard.
Grade III risk!
Even Real Madrid's elite medical team, with their cutting-edge equipment, might not catch this.
This wasn't just a hidden injury.
It was a live grenade, seconds away from detonation.
He now held knowledge beyond the reach of this entire era.
The system was real.
And unimaginably powerful.
This would be his weapon at the Bernabéu.
By the time he returned to himself, the press conference was already winding down.
Florentino's iron hand forced the chaos to an end.
The president declared the session over.
Guided by staff, Julian rose.
He ignored the barrage of unanswered questions and walked straight toward the tunnel leading to the home dressing room.
The corridor stretched deep and long. The walls were lined with photographs of legends, every step echoing with the weight of giants.
As he approached the heavy door marked with the Real Madrid crest, the system flashed again.
This time, in blazing red.
[Warning: Internal division detected. Faction Conflict Index: 8.9/10 (Extremely Dangerous).]
[Analyzing main factions…]
[Faction A: Spanish Core (Leaders: Raúl, Guti)]
[Faction B: The Brazilian Clique (Leaders: Ronaldo, Roberto Carlos)]
[Neutral/Swing Players: Zidane, Beckham…]
8.9.
A powder keg on the verge of exploding.
Julian froze in front of the door.
He could hear voices inside.
Not discussion.
Not communication.
But raucous, unrestrained laughter—laced with Portuguese curses he recognized.
He pushed the door open.
The scene inside was even colder than the data.
"Il Fenomeno" Ronaldo and Roberto Carlos lounged against the lockers, laughing loudly in Portuguese. They didn't pause or adjust when Julian entered—not even out of courtesy.
Across the room, Raúl and Guti held court among the Spaniards, the divide from the Brazilians sharp and absolute.
And Zidane—the maestro—sat alone in a corner, head bowed, polishing his boots with a white cloth. Slowly. Repeatedly.
The dressing room was a battlefield carved into three worlds.
The air thick with tension, brittle as glass, and colder than steel.