Lorenzo's off-ball movement was nothing short of supernatural.
By the time the Red Team's center-back duo realized they were marking thin air, the trap had already snapped shut. Only Neuhaus, the U-17 starting goalkeeper, remained between Lorenzo and the back of the net.
Neuhaus didn't have time to rush out or even set his feet. He saw the blur of a blue bib and instinctively stuck out his trailing leg, hoping for a desperate block. But Lorenzo, operating with the cold-blooded efficiency of the Inzaghi template, didn't opt for power this time. He chose a clever, measured push shot, rolling the ball with his instep just out of the keeper's reach.
The ball kissed the inside of the post and trickled into the goal.
"Who am I!" Lorenzo roared, leaping into the air and pumping a fierce fist toward the sky.
Before he could land, Munir and Ilyas were already there, crashing into him with a massive chest bump. The exhilaration surging through Lorenzo was even more intense than after his first goal. This wasn't just a fluke; it was a demonstration of absolute dominance.
The Inzaghi template felt like it was woven into his very DNA. The keen awareness of space, the ability to vanish from a defender's sight, and the clinical finishing, all of it felt second-nature.
Positioning: 93. Lorenzo looked at the ghostly numbers in his mind. He was already seeing the game differently. If he could reach 100, he would be a ghost that no defense in the world could catch.
More importantly, he had secured his brace. The side quest, "Showing Your Edge," was effectively complete. The three treasure chests were within his grasp, and more importantly, so was the roster spot for the Mini-Clásico against Real Madrid Castilla.
The spectators outside the fence erupted in a wall of sound. The Barcelona locals were seasoned fans; they knew they were witnessing something special.
"Did you see that run?" an old man in a Cruyff jersey shouted to his friend. "He moved before the pass was even made! That's instinct! You can't teach that!"
"A real number nine," the friend replied, clapping enthusiastically. "Finally, La Masia has a real striker again!"
Hidden among the fans, scouts from several major European clubs were frantically scribbling in their notebooks and aiming long-lens cameras at the boy in the blue bib. They had come to see the "established" stars like Munir or Adama Traoré, but they had discovered a "new continent" instead. By tomorrow morning, reports on the "Argentinian Ghost of Catalonia" would be sitting on the desks of sporting directors in London, Milan, and Munich.
By the dugout, Patrick Kluivert was no longer sitting. He was standing on his toes, his face lit up with the pure joy of a striker seeing his craft perfected by the next generation.
"Sacristán, look at that boy!" Kluivert exclaimed, gripping the coach's shoulder. "That off-ball movement... it was clinical. It was Van Nistelrooy-esque. He didn't even need to touch the ball until the final moment!"
Sacristán was nodding, a wide, relieved smile finally breaking through his earlier anxiety. "He's the one. He's exactly the tactical edge we've been missing. He doesn't just play the system; he finishes it."
He turned to his assistant coach, Cabezas. "Get me his full file immediately. I want everything, his medicals, his disciplinary record at La Masia, everything. If he can do this against Castilla on Saturday, I don't care about what happened in Argentina. This kid belongs on a professional pitch."
On the field, the mood was far more somber for the Red Team.
Neuhaus stood rooted to his line, his hands on his hips as he stared at the ball resting in the back of the net. As the top keeper in the U-17s, conceding twice in twenty-five minutes was a devastating blow to his ego.
Realizing his defense had completely evaporated, Neuhaus snapped.
"F*ck! What are you doing out there?" he screamed at his center-backs. "Bedia! You were supposed to be on his hip! How did he get five yards of space in our own box?"
He turned his fury toward Lee Seung-woo, who was standing nearby, looking utterly defeated. "And you! You're supposed to be the pestering midfielder! You let him walk past you like you were asking for his autograph! You're both playing like tourists!"
The two center-backs shrugged helplessly, unable to explain how Lorenzo had simply "vanished" before reappearing behind them. Lee Seung-woo flushed a deep red, looking at his boots. He had been dominated physically and tactically by a player he had mocked only hours earlier.
Outside the fence, the South Korean and Japanese fans who had come to support their prospects were hushed.
"He's on a different level," a girl from Seoul whispered, looking at Lorenzo. "The physical gap is too much. And his movement... it's like he knows where the ball is going before it's even kicked."
"I thought Lorenzo was supposed to be a thug," her friend added, checking her phone. "But if a thug plays like that, maybe the Argentinians are the crazy ones for letting him go."
Lucia, meanwhile, was beaming at her phone screen. Her live stream had exploded with thousands of new viewers. The comments from Argentina were finally beginning to shift.
[Two goals in twenty-five minutes at La Masia? Is this real?]
[Maybe the AFA Koordinador was just jealous of the kid's talent...]
[Look at Kluivert's reaction. Legends don't lie. This kid is the real deal.]
[A brace against the starters? Sacristán would be an idiot not to promote him.]
[Forget the brawl. We need a striker like this for the U-20 World Cup!]
The "thug" narrative was dying, replaced by a much more powerful one: Genius.
As the referee signaled for the restart, Lorenzo moved back to the center circle. He caught the eye of the twelve-year-old Kubo on the sidelines. The boy was watching him with wide, curious eyes.
Lorenzo didn't need to say a word. He had let his feet do the talking. The Mini-Clásico was only days away, and he had just kicked the door down.
[Ding! Side Quest: 'Showing Your Edge' - Progress: 100%]
[Quest Completed!]
[Rewards Pending: Gold Treasure Chest, Silver Treasure Chest, Bronze Treasure Chest.]