[Ding! Bronze Treasure Chest opening...]
[Congratulations! You have received: 1 Stamina Recovery Potion. (Note: Highly effective for mid-match fatigue management.)]
[Ding! Silver Treasure Chest opening...]
[Congratulations! You have received: 2 Free Attribute Points.]
Lorenzo sat on the bench, his consciousness dived deep into the System as he processed the first two rewards. The Bronze and Silver chests provided exactly what he expected: solid, auxiliary support. In his mind's eye, the Stamina Potion appeared as a shimmering, translucent icon in his inventory, a tactical lifeline for high-intensity matches, especially in the grueling, physical environment of the Segunda División where youth players often "hit the wall" at the seventy-minute mark.
As for the two free attribute points, he didn't hesitate. He immediately allocated them to his Ball Control, feeling a subtle, phantom tingling in his feet as the System optimized his micro-movements.
[Ball Control: 65 → 67!]
While still a work in progress, every point counted when trying to survive in a Barcelona, where the ball moved like a pinball. "Now," Lorenzo whispered mentally, his focus tightening, "for the main event."
[Opening Gold Treasure Chest...]
[Congratulations! You have received: Didier Drogba's Confrontation Template (75% Integration)!]
[Warning: The Host's current weight (74kg) is below the threshold for 100% integration. To unlock the full power of 'The Beast,' a physical bulk-up to 85kg+ is required.]
Lorenzo's heart hammered against his ribs. Drogba. The Ivorian legend, the "Tidal Wave" of Marseille and Chelsea known as "The Beast," was the ultimate definition of a target man. He was the striker who didn't just score goals; he bullied entire defensive lines into submission, acted as a physical anchor for his team, and turned desperate long balls into clinical scoring opportunities through sheer force of will.
Just minutes ago, Sacristán and Kluivert had warned him that he was too "light" for the professional leagues. Now, the System had provided the exact foundation he needed to fix that weakness. The reason modern "Number 9s" were becoming a dying breed was the extreme physical demand of the role, the necessity to withstand 90 minutes of being hacked and shoved by veteran center-backs.
A striker who can only finish is a luxury; a striker who can act as a fulcrum, holding the ball under pressure while wingers make their runs, is a cornerstone of a championship side. Kluivert had played that role with elegance for the Dream Team, and now Lorenzo had the blueprint for the most powerful version of it in the modern era.
A dull, deep ache, like the growing pains of childhood compressed into a few seconds of raw intensity, radiated through his limbs. His bone density seemed to thicken, and the lean muscles in his core, thighs, and shoulders felt as if they were being reinforced with carbon-fiber cables. It was a visceral recalibration, his body preparing itself to absorb impacts that would have previously knocked him off balance.
[Physicality/Confrontation: 69 → 88!]
The attribute, which had been his weakness and a source of silent doubt, surged into the elite tier for a seventeen-year-old. He wasn't quite at the level of a peak Inzaghi positioning yet, but he was now physically capable of standing his ground against seasoned Segunda defenders who played with their elbows out.
"The template gives me the foundation," Lorenzo pondered, feeling a newfound sense of gravity and power in his frame, "but the System is clear, I still have to put in the grueling hours in the gym and follow a strict nutritional plan to hit that 100% integration. Raw potential is one thing; the actual mass to back it up is another."
Fweeet! fweet! Fweeet--!
The final whistle from Coach García brought the second half to a close, the sound echoing across the humid pitch. With the "star" players like Lorenzo and Munir already pulled to the sidelines to protect them for the weekend's professional commitments, the rest of the trial had been a desperate, chaotic scramble for the final promotion spot.
The third player selected was Adama Traoré, the powerhouse winger whose physical profile was already legendary at La Masia. Even at seventeen, Adama looked more like an Olympic sprinter than a footballer, his explosive muscle mass a testament to his genetic ceiling. While Adama lacked Lorenzo's clinical finishing and "ghost" movement, his ability to act as a human battering ram on the wing made him an undeniable asset for the B-team's bench.
Other prospects, like the young South Korean Lee Seung-woo, were left on the pitch looking utterly exhausted and dejected. Despite their technical flair and brilliant footwork, they had struggled to impose themselves once the match turned into a battle of attrition and shoulder-to-shoulder duels. The harsh reality of the professional jump was written in their slumped shoulders.
"The weekend squad is set," Sacristán said, standing with his arms crossed as he watched the boys filter off the field. He looked toward Lorenzo, a glimmer of predatory excitement in his eyes that hadn't been there at the start of the day. "We found our striker. If he can bring that Argentinian fire and that Spanish precision to the Mini Estadi, Castilla won't know what hit them. They're expecting a technical dancer; they aren't ready for a beast."
Kluivert shrugged, a confident, knowing smile on his face. "I have high hopes. This kid has the 'scent' of a goal-scorer, but he also has the frame to be a leader. He's the one who will save your job, Eusebio, and perhaps a few others as well."
García, the youth coach, blew his whistle one last time to gather the boys. "Lorenzo, Munir, Adama! You three report to the B-team administration building tomorrow evening. Coach Sacristán has your registration papers, tactical briefings, and professional conduct agreements ready."
He looked at the rest of the exhausted teenagers, many of whom were staring at Lorenzo with a mix of envy and awe. "The rest of you, back to the dorms. Shower, eat, and get to bed. If I find anyone in the lounge past midnight, I'm locking the doors for a week! You're here to be footballers, not gamers."
Lorenzo stood up, grabbing his gear bag and feeling a strange, surging confidence that felt almost heavy in his chest. He was no longer just a La Masia student; he was a professional-in-waiting, a weapon being sharpened for the biggest rivalry in the sport. With the Inzaghi positioning providing the "where" and the Drogba physicality now providing the "how," the "problem child" of the AFA was about to become the biggest nightmare in Spanish football.
"Castilla is next," Lorenzo whispered to himself, looking toward the distant, glowing lights of the Mini Estadi across the complex. "Let's see how their 'tigers' handle a beast that won't back down."