When the heavy door of the tactical meeting room swung open, a chill so tangible it seemed almost physical seeped silently into the corridor, spreading through Valdebebas—into its sunlight, across its grass, and down into the very pores of everyone present.
That afternoon, for the first time in memory, recovery training began without a single player showing up late.
Even the Brazilians—usually the most defiant, the ones who needed endless reminders, famous for their carefree attitudes—stood on the pitch on time, their faces betraying all kinds of unease.
But the atmosphere was suffocating.
This was the same training ground once filled with laughter, banter, and Latin flamboyance. Now, it was eerily silent.
No jokes. No casual juggling contests. No playful tricks.
Only the sound of labored breathing and the grating rustle of cleats tearing at the grass.
One by one, under the sharp, almost cruel eyes of the assistant coaches, the players collected their new equipment.
A black heart-rate monitor strap, its cold metal contact points glinting ominously.
They fumbled with the unfamiliar devices, awkwardly fastening them across their chests.
The moment the icy metal pressed against his skin, the muscles in Ronaldo's full cheeks twitched violently.
He lowered his head and glared at the foreign object strapped to his chest.
Hatred burned in his eyes.
Deep, visceral rejection.
This thing did not belong to football.
It belonged in a laboratory. To the cold, soulless Germans who knew nothing of artistry.
Not far away, Guti looked even paler than he had that morning.
Almost involuntarily, every few seconds he rotated his right ankle ever so slightly, checking for sensation.
That stick-figure animation from the projector—replaying again and again—was now branded into his mind like a curse.
It had become a cruel psychological suggestion.
Each time he twisted his ankle, he imagined he could hear his bones groaning under unbearable strain.
Julian stood on the sideline.
Dressed in the simplest black training kit, a tablet in hand, the screen's pale glow reflected on the cold lenses of his glasses.
His calm gaze swept across every player—over their taut muscles, their strained bodies, and the tiny devices now transmitting live data from their chests.
There was no intimidation in his eyes. No need for authority.
He looked more like a quality inspector, checking freshly assembled components on a production line.
There was no speech.
No rallying cry.
Not even the formality of a "Begin."
When the last line of heart-rate data stabilized on his tablet, the assistant coach's whistle shrieked.
Training began.
Two days later, Real Madrid would host Real Zaragoza.
Everyone expected tactical drills.
Instead, jaws dropped.
No tactical diagrams.
No elegant rehearsals of passing patterns.
No glittering demonstrations of movement and timing.
For the next half hour, football itself was barely present at all.
Divided into groups, the players endured relentless, almost brutal sessions of off-ball sprints and high-intensity pressing drills.
"Run! Maintain the three-line compactness!"
"Forwards! Fall back! Track all the way to the center circle! Shut down their pivot!"
"Fullback! I told you—your overlap is too early! Get back!"
The assistant coach's voice cracked like a whip from the sideline—sharp, merciless, without reprieve.
Madrid's galácticos wheezed like exhausted oxen.
Sweat poured from them faster than ever before, soaking their training shirts until the fabric clung to their bodies, tracing every exhausted line of muscle.
They were used to solving problems with improvisation, with the effortless magic of their feet.
They were used to strolling, waiting for inspiration to strike, then delivering the killer blow.
This relentless, track-and-field-style regimen—turning artists into machines of blind running—felt alien. Humiliating.
Ronaldo stopped more than once.
Hands on hips, sweat dripping from his chin, he stared at Julian with a mixture of fury and disbelief.
He was demanding answers.
He was roaring without words.
But the German never flinched.
Julian merely glanced up from the tablet now and then, catching a faulty run or a sprint below standard, and murmured instructions to the assistants.
Seconds later, the guilty player's name would be barked, followed by sharp reprimands.
In Julian's world, only the cold, pulsing numbers on his screen seemed to matter.
Finally, with most players on the verge of collapse, the whistle blew.
The drill ended.
Dragging legs heavy as lead, the squad reconvened in front of the tactics board.
The air was thick with sweat, sharp salt, and the electric charge of a storm yet to break.
Julian walked forward.
He said nothing.
He uncapped a red marker—the small pop echoing loud in the deathly silence.
And then, under dozens of eyes, he wrote name after name across the white board.
Goalkeeper: Casillas.
Defenders: Cicinho, Helguera, Ramos, Roberto Carlos.
Midfield: Beckham, Pablo García, Zidane.
Forwards: Raúl, Baptista, Soldado.
When the final stroke fell, silence blanketed the pitch.
Breath itself seemed to vanish.
Then, the explosion.
Dozens of eyes turned, as if pulled by gravity, to the most radiant and imposing figure among them.
Ronaldo.
His name was not there.
Not in the starting eleven. Not even among the first substitutes.
Alongside him, another shock: veteran right-back Salgado, dropped for Cicinho, still rusty from a torn ACL.
And in attack? A newcomer. Barely twenty years old. Fresh from Castilla. Roberto Soldado.
The decision hit like a lit fuse. The bomb went off instantly.
"You're joking, right?"
Ronaldo stepped forward, his massive frame radiating suffocating pressure with every stride.
"You're telling me—a healthy, two-time World Player of the Year—that I sit on the bench?"
Every word dripped with incredulity, spat through clenched teeth.
Roberto Carlos and Robinho rushed up beside him, their faces twisted with open defiance.
"Coach, Ronnie's fine. He needs matches to regain rhythm!"
"Soldado? He's barely played at the top level!"
Salgado's Spanish compatriots scowled, their silence heavy with accusation.
The locker room order shattered.
Superstar power now stood toe to toe with coaching authority.
All eyes were on Julian. Waiting to see how he would handle the fire he had lit himself.
Julian lifted his head slowly.
His calm gaze rose past Ronaldo's towering figure, meeting the Brazilian's furious eyes without flinching.
His voice was quiet.
But each word sliced through the tension like a scalpel cutting open flesh.
"Because according to the data…"
He paused, letting the words linger. His eyes shifted to the stiff young forward who had frozen upon hearing his name.
"Soldado's high-intensity running coverage is 1.6 times yours."
He turned to Salgado, then to Cicinho.
"In training, Cicinho's overlapping sprints outnumbered Salgado's by forty percent."
At last, his gaze returned to Ronaldo. His tone sharpened.
"They are the best fits for my system."
"In my team, there are no superstars. Only the right players."
Every syllable crashed against Ronaldo's pride like a hammer shattering glass.
The Brazilian's face flushed purple.
His chest heaved, nostrils flared, fists clenched so hard the knuckles cracked.
He had never known humiliation like this.
This was no tactical decision.
This was execution.
Within half an hour of training's end, the news had already burst through Valdebebas' walls, spreading across Madrid like wildfire.
That evening, Marca splashed a blood-red headline across its front page:
"Bach's Madness: A Suicide Gamble at the Bernabéu!"
The article raged, calling Julian's decision a desecration of the club's century-old heritage, an open insult and purge of its icons.
It closed with a scathing prediction: In two days, Real Madrid would suffer a historic humiliation at home.
On fan forums and social media, outrage roared like a tidal wave.
In Florentino Pérez's office, phones rang off the hook—club members with voting rights, sponsors waving checkbooks—demanding answers.
Had the German lost his mind?
The pressure was relentless, crashing down from every direction, a tsunami aimed squarely at the tiny coach's office in Valdebebas.
And at the center of the storm, there was only silence.
Julian had locked himself inside.
The chaos outside was sealed away behind soundproof glass.
On his screen glowed the analysis interface of the Apex Tactical Suite.
In the simulation for the Zaragoza match, two names glowed bright red with bold, striking scores:
Soldado – Tactical Execution: 95%
Cicinho – Tactical Execution: 95%
Beside them, one dim name. Another red number.
Ronaldo – Tactical Execution: 55%
Julian's eyes betrayed no hesitation.
He knew. This was no ordinary league fixture.
This was his first open war.
Data versus tradition.
Cold science against entrenched superstardom.
And there could be no defeat.