[Ding! Congratulations to the Host for scoring his first goal after binding the System!]
[Ding! Triggering an additional milestone reward: Gold Treasure Chest * 1!]
[Gold Treasure Chest is automatically opening...]
[Ding! Congratulations, Host, for receiving the reward: Filippo Inzaghi's Positioning Template!]
The familiar mechanical chime resonated in his mind as Lorenzo jogged back toward the center circle, still feeling the heat of the first goal in his veins. An unexpected delight, a divine reward!
Filippo "Pippo" Inzaghi.
To the casual fan, Inzaghi was the striker who "couldn't dribble, couldn't shoot from distance, and couldn't outrun a defender." But to the legends of the game, he was the man who was "born in offside," a ghostly predator who lived on the shoulder of the last defender. He possessed a supernatural instinct for space, appearing in the exact square inch of the pitch where the ball was destined to fall.
This template was the perfect complement to the "King of the Penalty Area" skill. While the skill guaranteed the finish, Inzaghi's template would guarantee the opportunity.
A surge of cold, focused clarity flooded Lorenzo's consciousness. It felt as if his brain was being remapped, his eyes learning to track the minute movements of a defender's hips and the subtle shifts in a goalkeeper's weight.
[Positioning: 70 → 93!]
His positioning attribute didn't just improve; it skyrocketed into the elite stratosphere. At seventeen, he now possessed the movement patterns of one of the greatest poachers in the history of the sport.
After Lorenzo's stunning strike made it 1-0, the energy on the pitch reached a fever pitch.
The focus of every scout, coach, and spectator had shifted. They weren't looking at the flashy wingers or the technical midfielders anymore; they were staring at Lorenzo. In an era where "False Nines" were the trend, a pure, clinical center-forward who could manufacture a goal out of nothing was a rare and valuable commodity.
Sacristán, the Barcelona B coach, leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Lorenzo. The urgency to find a replacement for the injured Dongou had transformed from a headache into a potential masterstroke.
"He looks different now," Sacristán whispered to Kluivert. "Look at the way he's standing. He's not just waiting for the ball; he's stalking the line."
On the field, the Red Team, the "Established Starters" felt the sting of the goal. Neuhaus, the U-17 starting goalkeeper, was barking orders at his defenders, his face flushed with embarrassment. "Mark him! Don't let him turn! If he enters the box, I want someone on his skin!"
Bedia, the Red Team's physical center-back, gritted his teeth and moved closer to Lorenzo. Beside him, the young Lee Seung-woo was buzzing with a frustrated energy. The South Korean youngster was determined to regain the spotlight, shadowing Lorenzo with an aggressive, pestering intensity.
For the next fifteen minutes, the Red Team launched a series of desperate offensives. Adama Traoré, the powerhouse winger for the starters, was a constant threat on the right. His explosive speed and physical strength allowed him to bypass the Blue Team's full-back with ease.
In the thirty-seventh minute, the Red Team's midfield intercepted the ball near the halfway line. They quickly moved it wide to Adama, who executed a sharp shoulder drop and burst toward the byline. He was a force of nature, his strides covering ground with terrifying efficiency.
Adama looked into the box. Lee Seung-woo had found a pocket of space between the defenders.
"Cross it!" Coach García shouted from the sideline.
Adama whipped a half-height cross into the danger zone. It was a perfect ball, aimed right at Lee's head. Lee jumped, timing his leap perfectly, but as he reached the apex, he was met by the Blue Team's center-back.
The physical disparity was crushing. The defender didn't even have to jump higher; he simply used his broader frame to shield Lee out of the play. The cross was headed away, and the Blue Team goalkeeper comfortably claimed the loose ball.
"Ah..." a collective sigh rose from the crowd.
"He's too small for that kind of service," Kluivert noted, shaking his head. "He's a creative player, not a target man. He's trying to play a role his body isn't built for."
Sacristán nodded. "That's the problem with our current crop. We have plenty of creative players, but no one to actually finish the work when the game gets physical."
As they spoke, the Blue Team launched a rapid counter-attack. The goalkeeper rolled the ball out to Ilyas on the left wing. Ilyas, usually a selfish dribbler, took a deep breath and prepared to sprint. But as he saw the Red Team's defense rapidly closing the gaps, he remembered the coach's earlier scolding.
Ilyas checked his run and played a sharp, diagonal pass back into the center for Munir.
"The space is closing!" Sacristán remarked. "The Red Team has recovered their shape. The ball is going to get bogged down in the middle."
Kluivert was about to agree, but his eyes suddenly widened. "Wait... look at the Argentinian. Look at his run!"
On the pitch, Lorenzo had activated the Inzaghi "ghost" movement. As Munir received the ball, Lorenzo didn't sprint toward the goal. Instead, he made a sharp, sudden step backward, as if he were giving up on the play. This split-second hesitation caused the Red Team's center-back, Bedia, to momentarily relax his stance, thinking Lorenzo was moving out of the danger zone.
Then, in the heartbeat when Bedia's eyes flickered toward the ball, Lorenzo pivoted.
It was a reverse run, a ghostly slip-and-slide movement that placed him exactly in the center-back's blind spot. He was lurking on the absolute razor's edge of the offside line.
Munir, possessing the vision that had earned him comparisons to Xavi, didn't need to be told. He saw the sliver of space. He struck the ball with his laces, sending a low, whistling through-ball that bypassed three defenders.
The pass was so fast that the Red Team didn't even have time to raise their hands for an offside call.
Lorenzo emerged from the shadows like a phantom. He beat the offside trap by a matter of millimeters, his first touch perfectly cushioning the ball as he broke into the penalty area.
The Mini Estadi went silent. The defenders were left standing like statues, watching the blue bib disappear into the box.
"He's behind them!" Lucia screamed from the sidelines, her camera shaking with excitement.
Lorenzo didn't look at the goalkeeper. He didn't look at the pursuing defenders. He felt the Inzaghi instinct guiding his every step. He was in his kingdom now, the eighteen-yard box and he had a second goal to claim.
Sacristán stood up from the bench, his heart hammering. "That movement... it was invisible."
Kluivert's face was a mask of pure shock. "That wasn't just a run. That was an execution."
The ball was at Lorenzo's feet, the goal was wide, and the "problem child" of Argentina was about to prove that he didn't just belong in Barcelona B, he belonged in the history books.