In a luxurious villa in the Castelldefels district of Barcelona, the sound of a splashing pool broke the afternoon quiet.
Splash!
Lionel Messi emerged from the water, shaking his head and laughing as his teammate and fellow countryman, Javier Mascherano, dodged the spray. It was the summer break for the first team, and the two Argentines had decided to spend a quiet afternoon at Messi's residence before the intensity of the pre-season began.
"Let's see how the kids are handling the heat today," Messi said, picking up a remote control. With a click, a large outdoor screen near the lounge area flickered to life.
The broadcast showed a stadium six hundred kilometers away: the Alfredo Di Stéfano. Even during his vacation, Messi maintained a habit of following the Barcelona B squad. He had come through those ranks himself; he knew that the boys on that pitch today were the ones who would eventually be tasked with carrying the legacy of the club.
"It's going to be a brutal afternoon for them," Mascherano remarked, taking a sip of a cold drink. "Sacristán is missing several key pieces. And look at that Castilla lineup... Jesé, Lucas Vázquez, Morata. Those three are already playing at a La Liga level."
Messi nodded, his eyes fixed on the screen. "Sacristán is under a lot of pressure. If he loses another derby today, the board might not wait for the winter to make a change. But I'm more interested in the new boy everyone in Buenos Aires is talking about."
Just then, Messi's phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up, and his expression shifted to one of genuine surprise.
"It's Pablo Aimar," Messi noted, referring to his childhood idol and the current head of the Argentina National Youth Team. "He rarely calls during the off-season unless it's something major."
Messi took the call, stepping away from the pool. He knew that the conversation likely involved the "problem child" currently standing in the tunnel at the Di Stéfano, the boy who had humiliated the AFA Coordinator's son and was now leading the line for Barcelona B.
At the Alfredo Di Stéfano Stadium, the roar of the crowd had momentarily shifted from hostility to cheers as the pre-match performance concluded.
Hashimoto Kanna and her group moved off the temporary stage, thanking the staff as they lined up near the mouth of the player tunnel. Their task was to greet the players as they entered the pitch, a traditional ceremony for this high-profile derby.
"Kanna, do you think the players are nervous?" one of the girls whispered, glancing at the dark, narrow tunnel.
"They're professionals," Kanna replied, though her own heart was racing from the performance. "They have to be used to this."
She glanced toward the back of the Barcelona line. Her eyes caught the number 99 jersey. Even in the shadows of the tunnel, the boy wearing it stood out. He wasn't fidgeting like the others. He stood with a predatory stillness, his gaze fixed on the bright rectangle of light at the end of the tunnel.
Inside the tunnel, Lorenzo felt a familiar, cold chime resonate in the back of his mind.
[Ding! Detecting that the Host is participating in a high-stakes professional match!]
[A new Side Quest is being dispatched...]
[Side Quest Activated: Focus Battle!]
[Objective 1: Score a brace (2 goals) in this Segunda División El Clásico.]
[Quest Reward: Gold Treasure Chest * 1, Silver Treasure Chest * 1, Bronze Treasure Chest * 2!]
[Objective 2: Lead the team to a victory against Real Madrid Castilla.]
[Quest Reward: Unlock New System Mode, "Stadium Codex"!]
Lorenzo's eyes sharpened. Another Gold Chest was on the table, but it was the "Stadium Codex" that truly piqued his curiosity. The System was evolving alongside him.
He looked toward the Real Madrid line, only two meters away. The air was thick with mutual loathing. He recognized the faces from his previous life's memories: Nacho Fernandez, the captain; the explosive Jesé Rodríguez; the clinical Álvaro Morata; and even a young Fabinho in the midfield.
This wasn't a youth scrimmage. This was a battlefield filled with future Champions League winners.
"Alright, lads, it's time!" the referee shouted, gesturing for the lines to move.
The stadium erupted into a deafening wall of sound as the players stepped onto the grass. The sun was blinding, the grass was pristine, and the weight of a hundred-year rivalry was pressing down on every shoulder.
Lorenzo stepped onto the pitch, his cleats digging into the Madrid turf. He didn't look at the cameras or the scouts in the VIP boxes. He only saw the goal at the far end of the stadium.
The Mini-Clásico was finally here.