When the training plan was handed out, the locker room was still filled with the noise unique to superstars.
Laughter echoed with the snap of towels, Spanish and Portuguese jokes intertwined, and the air was heavy with sweat, grass clippings, and expensive cologne.
Until the A4 sheets, stamped with the club's crest, were distributed to each locker.
At first, no one paid attention.
Ronaldo was showing off the keys to his new sports car to Roberto Carlos, barely glancing at the paper.
The next second, his smile froze.
Confusion, disbelief, and finally, the sting of insult twisted his expression.
"What the hell is this?"
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through every other sound.
He crushed the sheet into a ball, muscles flaring in his forearm as if he were squeezing an enemy's skull instead of paper.
He flicked it with perfect precision into the trash can in the corner.
A flawless parabola.
"Recovery training? We're professional players, not old men waiting to be spoon-fed in a retirement home!"
The Alien's fury lit the first fuse.
Guti held up his own sheet and read it in an exaggerated, theatrical voice.
"Let's see what our new coach, this German data genius, has planned for us… walking, jogging, and—oh my God—wearing heart-rate monitors!"
He paused deliberately, scanning the room to make sure every eye was on him.
"Maybe he thinks we should head over to the kindergarten next door and play tag with the kids!"
The locker room erupted in laughter, mocking and dripping with disdain.
This was the arrogance of stars.
Carlos muttered a filthy curse in Portuguese, his thick thighs flexing like stone.
Salgado, the iron Spaniard, shook his head with open contempt curling his lips. He never trusted tactics scrawled on a whiteboard, let alone from an "analyst" who had never set foot on the pitch.
Even Iker Casillas, usually silent, frowned deeply. His eyes brimmed with confusion. On the eve of facing Valencia—a notoriously tough opponent—why would the team be doing "vacation-style" training?
It was suicide.
Only one man was an exception.
Zidane.
He sat quietly in his corner, shadowed by his locker. No laughter, no anger. Just silent contemplation as his eyes scanned the plan again and again, unreadable thoughts glinting within.
"I'll speak to the coach," Raúl finally said, rising to his feet.
As captain, the Prince of the Bernabéu, he had to take a stand. His voice was steady, trying to soothe the rising storm.
"This kind of training won't keep us match-fit. It's irresponsible."
"Speak to him?" Ronaldo sneered, cutting him off.
"Speak to a data analyst who's never even played professionally? What are you going to discuss, Raúl? Excel functions? PowerPoint layouts?"
"Maybe we should show him, in our own way, what real football is."
Guti's words dripped with threat, his golden hair framing eyes that glittered with menace.
The atmosphere tightened to a breaking point.
Spain's clique and Brazil's clique—usually divided—stood united for once.
A single arrogant outsider had given them a common enemy.
And then—creak.
The locker room door swung open.
Julian walked in.
Every laugh, every curse, every sneer stopped dead.
Silence fell like someone had pressed the mute button.
Dozens of the world's greatest eyes locked on him, burning with scrutiny, hostility, and open provocation.
Julian's stride was steady, his leather shoes clicking against the tiles with crisp echoes.
He scanned the room, his gaze landing at last on the crumpled white paper in the trash.
"Looks like someone isn't happy with the plan."
His tone was calm. No anger, no offense. Just detached fact.
That calmness infuriated more than any roar could.
Ronaldo rose.
His sheer presence—world player of the year, towering like a giant—was crushing, a force that dwarfed most men.
"Not happy? This is an insult!" His voice roared inside the confined walls. "What do you think we are? Patients lining up for pills in a rehab center?"
Julian didn't flinch.
He didn't even tilt his chin to meet Ronaldo's height advantage, simply holding his gaze with a quiet steadiness.
Those eyes—the ones that had terrified defenders worldwide—now burned like a beast cornered.
"Ronaldo, when was the last time you played a full ninety minutes?"
The Brazilian blinked. "What?"
"I asked. When was the last time you completed ninety minutes in La Liga or the Champions League?"
Julian repeated, still calm, each word sharp and clear.
Ronaldo's face darkened.
His explosive pace, his devastating power—all built on fitness. Being subbed off early was proof of decline.
He wanted to snap back, to spit out a curse, but the words stuck.
Because Julian was right.
Recently, by seventy minutes, his lungs burned, his eyes strayed toward the bench.
"And you, Guti."
Julian's gaze locked on the Spanish wolf.
"When was your last game with over 80% passing accuracy?"
Guti's handsome face flushed crimson.
"You…"
"Captain Raúl." Julian turned to the leader. "Your sprint speed compared to two years ago—how much has it dropped? Fifteen percent? Twenty?"
The locker room fell into stunned silence.
No one could refute him.
Vague doubts, nagging aches—all laid bare by merciless numbers.
Julian strode to the tactics board, ignoring the scribbles left by his predecessor. He grabbed a marker.
"You want to know why we're doing recovery training?" His voice was low but inescapable. "Let me show you the truth."
He scrawled a number: 68%.
"That's Ronaldo's stamina reserve. For reference—any healthy professional should never dip below 85%."
Ronaldo's complexion paled.
Julian wrote again: 92%.
"Zidane's fatigue index. The system's red line is 90. Anything higher means every sprint, every duel risks muscle tears or joint damage."
For the first time, Zidane looked up. Shock flickered in his eyes—the figure matched the dull ache in his knees every morning.
15.2%.
"Ronaldo's body fat. The club nutritionist capped him at 12%."
41%.
"Guti's tactical discipline score. Passing grade is 70."
Each number was a hammer blow. Each hammer crushed pride.
The locker room air was sucked dry. Breathing itself was suffocating.
"Where… where did you get these numbers?" Raúl's voice trembled faintly. How could this outsider know their bodies better than they did themselves?
Julian set the marker down and faced them again.
"Numbers don't lie. Neither do your bodies."
His eyes swept their pale, angry, stunned faces.
"You still think you're the invincible Galácticos of three years ago?"
"Wrong."
"You're a rusting, battered wreck. Engines failing, hull leaking, ready to sink in the next storm."
"My job is to fix it before it sinks for good."
"Bullshit!" Ronaldo snapped, hurling his chair aside with a crash.
"I know my body better than anyone!"
Julian stared at him, utterly unmoved. Like a parent watching a tantrum.
"Really? Then let's go to the medical room. Full physical. Body fat, muscle density, lactate threshold, lung capacity…"
His eyes flicked to Ronaldo's knee. "…and an MRI on your knee."
The words detonated in Ronaldo's skull. His body froze.
The right knee—the old ache he told himself was nothing—had started nagging again.
But how could Julian know?
"What's wrong? Scared?" Julian's tone sliced like steel. "Or afraid the results will prove me right?"
The locker room sank into deathly silence.
They all felt it. This "outsider" had their secrets in his grasp.
Then a phone buzzed, shrill in the quiet.
Julian checked the screen. A cold smile tugged at his lips.
Sender: Valdano (Club GM).
One word: "Explain."
He pocketed the phone, unfazed, and looked around at the stars glaring at him.
"Seems someone's already run crying to management."
"Good."
"Training goes on tomorrow. If you won't obey, take it up with Florentino himself."
"But hear me clearly."
His voice chilled.
"If anyone gets injured because of stupid pride, ending their career… that's on you."
He turned and walked out, leaving only toppled chairs and muffled curses behind.
But Julian knew.
The seed was planted.
The seed of doubt. The seed of fear.
Soon it would grow roots in even the proudest hearts.
And on those ruins, he would rebuild the battleship.