Julian didn't speak.
The door closed behind him, sealing off the chaos outside.
The air in the locker room was even heavier than he had imagined, carrying a strange mix of sweat, ointment, and silent defiance.
He began to pace slowly across the room.
The heels of his dress shoes tapped on the tiles—tap, tap, tap.
Each step was light, rhythmically precise like a metronome, yet somehow it pressed against the taut nerves of every superstar in the room.
He moved like a king surveying his domain, his gaze calm as it swept over every face.
Ronaldo was still talking loudly with Carlos in Portuguese, every rolled "r" dripping with provocation, as if declaring in a language Julian didn't understand who truly ruled here.
Their laughter echoed harshly in the empty space.
Across the room, Raul and Guti's Spanish clique exchanged silent glances. Rooted in the glory of Madrid, their pride now morphed into undisguised contempt for the "outsider" in front of them.
Zidane remained focused on cleaning his boots.
In his world, only the white cloth and the leather ball existed. His motions were mechanical, repetitive—cutting himself off entirely from both surrounding worlds.
Julian's steps finally stopped in front of Ronaldo.
The Brazilian's laughter faltered briefly, then resumed in a more exaggerated tone, still without looking up.
Julian stood there silently.
His imposing figure cast a shadow over the "alien."
Time stretched to an infinite length.
Even the air seemed to slow.
Finally, Ronaldo paused his conversation. He slowly lifted his head, eyes that had once driven countless defenders to despair now filled with amusement and appraisal.
A faint smirk curved his lips.
Julian's mind remained untouched by emotion.
Scan.
A cold thought flickered in his mind.
[Command confirmed. Scanning target: Ronaldo Luís Nazário. Energy consumption: 5 points.]
[Current energy: 0/100.]
The world within his retina transformed in an instant.
The noisy locker room faded away, stripped bare, reduced to void-black nothingness.
A 3D model of Ronaldo, built from billions of data streams, slowly unfolded and rotated at the center of Julian's vision.
Every twitch of muscle fibers.
Every layer of fat distribution.
Every electrical impulse through nerve endings.
All vital signs, all secrets buried beneath flesh and blood, were displayed in the coldest, most direct way imaginable.
Data cascaded like a waterfall beside the model, finally freezing into lines of crimson text:
[Name: Ronaldo Luís Nazário de Lima]
[Condition: Mild fatigue]
[Stamina reserve: 68% (well below professional standard of 85%)]
[Body fat: 15.2% (+3%, severely affecting explosive power and endurance)]
[Morale: 72 (confident, yet cautious toward new head coach)]
[Nightlife index: ★★★★☆ (high risk. Frequent clubbing, poor sleep quality)]
[Hidden info: Minor tear in right knee meniscus, undetected by medical team. Continued high-intensity training will worsen the injury.]
Julian's pupils contracted slightly.
Data never lies.
The man who once seemed unstoppable on the pitch, capable of tearing any defense apart with a single move, was now, in Julian's data world, just an ordinary person hollowed out by alcohol and nightlife, dragging a body riddled with injuries.
And these fatal weaknesses, enough to ruin his career, were known to no one but Julian himself.
[Warning: Host energy depleted. System entering low-power standby.]
[Recharge tip: Gain energy through coaching actions, winning matches, or executing critical tactical deployments.]
The system's prompt sounded in his mind, and the world before Julian snapped back to normal.
Ronaldo still wore that defiant, teasing smirk.
Julian withdrew his gaze, said nothing, and turned toward the locker room door.
His movements were sharp, efficient, devoid of hesitation.
Behind him, the oppressive silence shattered instantly.
Ronaldo erupted into even more brazen laughter, joined by Carlos this time.
"Look, our little coach is running away."
Guti sneered, his voice loud enough to reach everyone in the room, dripping with pure Madrilenian Spanish:
"Doesn't even dare to say a word—what a joke."
Julian ignored the voices behind him.
He wasn't running.
He was a doctor who had just received all the patient's test results, now preparing the scalpel.
He had more important things to do.
The head coach's office was on the third floor of the Valdebebas training complex.
The walls of the hallway were lined with photos of every past Real Madrid head coach.
From Muñoz to Del Bosque, from Capello to the recently dismissed Queiroz, each black-and-white or color portrait chronicled the glory and hardships of the White Brigade.
This was the center of power—and the eye of the storm.
Julian pushed open the door and sat at the wide desk.
He opened his laptop and typed in his password with practiced ease.
As the team's former data analyst, he had access to all the players' routine training data:
Fitness test reports, sprint speed logs, passing accuracy, tackle data, injury history, and even the medical team's psychological assessments…
He dragged the massive trove of files into the built-in system software called [Apex Tactical Suite].
[Importing data…]
[Cross-validation initiated…]
[Constructing comprehensive player models…]
[Analysis complete. Generating deep reports.]
On the screen, a series of player analysis reports, far beyond the comprehension of the club's medical staff, began to generate automatically.
Each report was like the most precise X-ray, exposing the decayed and fragile truth beneath the glamorous façade of these superstars.
The first report: Zidane.
[Zinedine Yazid Zidane]
[Fatigue: 92% (extremely dangerous)]
[Knee cartilage wear: Critical]
[Tactical compliance: 96%]
[Mental state: Depressed (thoroughly disappointed in the club, contemplating retirement)]
Julian paused for a moment on the keyboard.
Zidane considering retirement?
For a master at the peak of his career, the thought was unthinkable.
If this leaked, it could trigger a seismic shock across the football world.
He continued to the next report.
[David Beckham]
[Stamina reserve: 81%]
[Right ankle old injury recurrence risk: 67%]
[Long pass accuracy (40m+): 94%]
[Commercial activity fatigue index: ★★★☆☆]
[Guti Hernández]
[Tactical discipline: 41% (severely lacking)]
[Individualism tendency: 89%]
[Coordination with non-Spanish teammates: 52%]
[Mental state: Extremely dissatisfied (believes he deserves absolute centrality and unrestricted freedom)]
Each report was like a sharp scalpel, dissecting the seemingly glorious Galácticos down to the marrow.
But the most alarming insight came from the final output: the team's faction network analysis.
It wasn't based on rumors or observations alone.
The system analyzed three months of all matches and training sessions: passing data flows, player movement heatmaps, locker room seating distances, even habitual positioning during training groups…
Using cold, logical algorithms, it mapped two clear faction lines, and the dangerous gray zone in between.
[Faction A: Spanish core]
[Leader: Raul González]
[Core members: Guti, Casillas, Salgado]
[Characteristics: Highly value club tradition and heritage, extremely xenophobic, reject Florentino's superstar policy, believe foreign stars squeeze domestic players' opportunities.]
[Faction B: Brazilian contingent]
[Leader: Ronaldo]
[Core members: Roberto Carlos, Robinho]
[Characteristics: Worship talent and personal skill, free-spirited, resist tactical discipline, see the club as a stage for personal glory rather than collective success.]
[Neutral/Swing faction]
[Zidane: Aligns with Spanish collective due to personality and football purity, but keeps distance from factional conflict.]
[Beckham: Tries to maintain fragile balance between factions due to professional image.]
[Figo: Accepted by Brazilian contingent due to "defector" background, stance not firm.]
This was the truth of the Galácticos.
Shining on the surface, but factional beneath.
Gorgeous attacks hid tactical chaos and rampant individualism.
The dazzling aura of superstars masked bodies long overburdened.
Leaning back in the wide-backed chair, Julian exhaled deeply.
He now held every secret of the team.
Every player's fatal weakness. Every factional core conflict. Every hidden injury invisible to the finest instruments.
This information was his ace in the hole at Bernabéu, against the skepticism of the entire world.
Knock, knock.
The door opened.
The assistant coach entered, holding a freshly drafted training plan.
"Mr. Julian, here's the tactical training plan for tomorrow. High-intensity half-field offense-defense drills, focusing on high pressing in midfield and quick counterattacks up front…"
Julian raised his hand, cutting him off.
He didn't look at the plan.
Instead, he took the tactical board from the coach's desk and wrote tomorrow's training schedule with a marker.
Each word was clear and decisive.
[All-day: Recovery training]
[Activities: Light jogging, stretching, ice baths]
[No ball contact of any kind]
[All players must wear heart-rate monitors for real-time tracking]
[Training intensity strictly controlled, max heart rate not to exceed 60%]
The assistant coach's eyes widened instantly.
"Mr. Julian, this… this is rehabilitation-level training! Our next opponent is Valencia—their fitness and physical intensity are among La Liga's top…"
"Execute it."
Julian's voice was calm but carried unquestionable authority.
He knew the plan would ignite a storm in an already volatile locker room.
But it had to be done.
Data never lies.
The team's physical condition teetered on the edge of collapse.
Any high-intensity training could be the final straw.