The atmosphere at the Alfredo Di Stéfano was suffocating. After Jesé's early goal, Real Madrid Castilla had established a rhythmic, arrogant dominance. In the global fan forums and the live broadcast chats in Argentina, the sentiment was shifting toward a "one-sided slaughter." The fans in Madrid were already singing about a three-goal lead, viewing the Barcelona B side as a collection of disjointed youngsters.
On the field, the match restarted. Lorenzo tapped the ball back to Munir and immediately began his prowl.
Unlike the standard Barcelona first-team style, which relied on the god-like ball-retention of Xavi and Iniesta, this reserve squad lacked the composure for true "tiki-taka." Their passing was frantic, often yielding to the relentless Madrid press. Under the watchful eyes of Arsène Wenger and Tata Martino in the VIP box, the difference was glaring.
"They're trying to play the Barça way, but they don't have right players for it," Wenger noted, leaning forward. "It's becoming a series of panicked transitions. Your boys look like they're playing 'pass-and-move' without the 'move.'"
Martino sighed, his eyes fixed on the midfield. "They lack a pivot who can turn under pressure. But watch the boy up front. He's not following the panic. He's waiting for the one mistake."
The 16th minute arrived. Real Madrid's captain, Nacho Fernández, received a casual back-pass from Isco near the center circle. Nacho, a versatile and experienced defender, prepared to switch the play to the left wing. It was a routine movement.
However, Lorenzo had been tracking the geometry of the Madrid backline for ten minutes. Triggering the Inzaghi template, he sensed the exact micro-second where Nacho's focus dipped. Before the pass could even leave Nacho's foot, Lorenzo exploded from a standstill.
"He's anticipated it!" the Spanish commentator roared. "The number ninety-nine has intercepted the captain!"
Lorenzo didn't just steal the ball; he drove his shoulder directly into Nacho as the defender tried to recover. Using the 75% Drogba physicality integration, Lorenzo felt like a slab of solid granite. Nacho, despite his low center of gravity and veteran savvy, was sent staggering three steps back.
In the VIP box, Julen Lopetegui stood up, his hand gripping the railing. "Nacho is a rock... and that boy just moved him like he was a training cone. That shouldn't be physically possible for a seventeen-year-old."
Lorenzo didn't wait for a whistle. He drove into the final third, the ball glued to his laces. The only man between him and the goal was Fabinho, the Brazilian defender currently on loan at Castilla. Fabinho was tall, rangy, and possessed a "professional" aggression that made him a nightmare for youth players.
"This is as far as you go!" Fabinho growled in Portuguese, lunging into a heavy, lateral challenge. He didn't want to foul, but he intended to use his frame to muscle Lorenzo out of the "danger zone."
Lorenzo felt the impact. His balance wavered for a fraction of a second, but he didn't go down. He dug his cleats into the turf, absorbing the hit, and took one more decisive touch into the eighteen-yard box.
Fabinho's face drained of color. He realized he had underestimated the boy's base strength. In a moment of pure defensive instinct, Fabinho launched into a desperate, sliding tackle.
Whoosh-!
The metal studs flashed across the grass. Lorenzo felt a sharp, searing pain as Fabinho's lead leg caught his ankle, but the "King of the Penalty Area" skill had already triggered. Even as he began to fall, Lorenzo's right leg swung with a mechanical, unerring precision.
The first shot inside the box. The guaranteed result.
Luca Zidane, the goalkeeper and son of the Madrid legend, dived toward the near post. He had calculated the angle perfectly. But the ball didn't go where logic dictated. It rocketed with a terrifying velocity toward the absolute top-left corner, the "V" where the crossbar meets the post.
Thump- Swish!
The net snapped back with a violence that silenced the thousands of fans in Madrid.
1-1.
"GOAL! LORENZO! THE ARGENTINIAN STRIKER EQUALIZES!"
The away stand, a small patch of red and blue exploded into a frenzy of defiance. Inés Valdes was screaming into her microphone from the touchline. "A goal of pure, unadulterated power! He bullied Nacho, withstood Fabinho, and beat Zidane's son before his feet even left the ground!"
Lorenzo hit the turf hard, rolling twice from the momentum of Fabinho's tackle. The pain in his ankle was a sharp, pulsing reminder of the professional stakes.
[Warning: Minor Ankle Contusion Detected.]
Use it, Lorenzo thought, gritting his teeth. He accessed the system space and applied the Stamina/Recovery Potion he had earned from the Bronze Chest. A cool, numbing sensation washed through his joint. The inflammation didn't vanish entirely, but the debilitating pain was suppressed into a dull ache he could manage.
He pushed himself up, brushing the Madrid dirt from his jersey. Fabinho, looking horrified and expecting a red card, walked over and offered a hand to pull him up. "Sorry, brother... I didn't think you'd still be standing after the first hit."
Lorenzo ignored the hand, standing up on his own and looking Fabinho dead in the eye. "Better try harder next time. I'm just getting started."
The referee blew his whistle, running over to brandish a yellow card at Fabinho for the late challenge.
In the coaching box, Zidane spat out his gum, his expression one of grim fascination. He looked at Ancelotti, who was staring at the replay on the monitor with a stunned, uncharacteristic silence.
"You see it now, Carlo?" Zidane asked softly. "That wasn't a youth academy goal. He knew the tackle was coming and he still chose the shot. He didn't play for the penalty."
Ancelotti didn't respond for a long moment. Finally, he looked at Lopetegui, who was already scribbling notes for the national team scouts. "Morata would have gone down for the foul," Ancelotti admitted. "The Argentinian... he has the soul of a 'nineteen-nineties' striker. He's a beast."
Across the pitch, Sacristán was finally breathing again. He sat back on the bench, his heart rate slowly descending from the red zone. "I knew it," he whispered to his assistant. "The kid is a monster."
Lorenzo jogged back to the center circle, passing Munir and Adama. Adama slapped him on the back so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him.
Lorenzo took his place at the line. He looked at Jesé and Morata, who were no longer smirking. They were looking at him with a new, guarded respect, the kind of look reserved for someone who could actually hurt them.
The score was level and the ground was no longer a Madrid playground. It was a proving ground.