The atmosphere at the Alfredo Di Stéfano Stadium was thick with a new, restless energy. Lorenzo's equalizer had sucked the air out of the Madrid crowd, turning their arrogant celebration into a tense, murmuring silence.
In the press box, Inés Valdes adjusted her headset, her eyes darting between the pitch and her monitor. "The dynamic has shifted," she spoke into the microphone for the Argentinian broadcast. "Madrid is no longer playing against a group of kids; they are playing against a focal point. Lorenzo has given Barcelona B the one thing they lacked."
On the field, the match was becoming a battle of psychological attrition. Isco, whose earlier mistake led to the equalizer, was playing with a desperate, frantic intensity. Across the line, Lorenzo remained calm, his gaze occasionally meeting Jesé Rodríguez's. The "New Cristiano" was no longer smirking; his jaw was tight, his focus entirely on reclaiming the lead.
"Don't let the Argentinian breathe!" Jesé barked at his defenders. Then, turning to Álvaro Morata, he added with a sharp edge, "And you... finish the next one. We can't afford to waste the service."
Morata didn't respond, but his eyes flashed with frustration. He knew the pressure was mounting. In the 22nd minute, that pressure reached a boiling point.
Real Madrid launched another sweeping offensive. Jesé orchestrated the movement, slicing through the Barcelona midfield with a series of one-touch passes. He found Lucas Vázquez on the right wing, who burned past the full-back and delivered a low, hard cross into the "corridor of uncertainty."
It was a striker's dream. Morata had used his 1.9-meter frame to box out the smaller Sergi, positioning himself perfectly six yards from the goal. The ball arrived with the ideal weight.
"Morata! One-on-one!" the commentator screamed.
Morata swung his right foot, looking to bury the ball into the roof of the net. But in that split second, the insecurity Lopetegui had noted in Madrid's training ground seemed to haunt him. He mistimed the contact.
Clang!
A dull, metallic thud echoed across the stadium as the ball struck the crossbar with enough force to make the goal-frame shudder. The rebound flew high into the air, landing outside the box.
"My God! Morata has hit the woodwork from six yards!"
In the VIP box, Julen Lopetegui dropped his head into his hands. "Again. It's the same pattern. He does the hard work, the movement, the positioning and then the feet fail him."
Ancelotti sighed, his eyebrow arching even higher. "The boy is a 'double-weak-footed' mystery. He has the potential of a giant, but the composure of a novice. We need to hire a finishing specialist specifically for him."
But on the pitch, there was no time for reflection. The ball hadn't gone out of play. It had landed at the feet of Campins, who wasted no time.
"Push! Counter!" Sacristán roared from the touchline, his hands cupped around his mouth.
Campins launched a long, diagonal ball toward the left wing. Adama Traoré didn't wait for the ball to reach him; he was already in a full-blown sprint. The "muscle fanatic" of La Masia showcased why he was a nightmare for defenders. He intercepted the ball at the halfway line and drove forward, his massive thighs pumping like pistons.
Nacho Fernández, the Madrid captain, moved to intercept. The two met at the touchline in a brutal, shoulder-to-shoulder collision.
Traoré didn't go down. He didn't even slow. He shrugged off the captain of the Spain National Youth Team with a display of raw, explosive power that made the scouts in the stands sit up.
"Nacho couldn't stop him!" Inés Valdes exclaimed. "Traoré is a freight train on the wing!"
Traoré looked inside. He saw Munir El Haddadi moving into the center, but he also saw the number 99 darting between the center-backs. Traoré didn't cross it blindly; he poked a sharp pass into Munir's path.
Munir, the most technical player on the pitch, received the ball with a velvet touch. He saw the Madrid defense scrambling to recover, their line high and disorganized. He saw Lorenzo's reverse run, the Inzaghi ghost movement.
"Lorenzo! Go!" Munir shouted, threading a low, curving through-ball into the gap.
The ball drew a perfect 'C' shape on the grass, bypassing the tracking-back Lucas Vázquez and landing exactly where Lorenzo's stride met the turf.
Zinedine Zidane stood up from the bench, his hands in his pockets. He didn't shout. He didn't curse. He simply watched, his eyes fixed on the battle about to unfold.
Lorenzo had been focused on his "Weight Gain" plan for the last seventy-two hours, adding three kilograms of raw mass. As the physical intensity of the match reached its peak, the Drogba template integration surged to 83%, anchoring his center of gravity with the unshakeable weight of lead.
Fabinho came flying in from the side, desperate to rectify his earlier failure. He leaned his entire 188cm frame into Lorenzo, trying to shove him off the ball before he reached the penalty area.
In the previous match, Lorenzo might have stumbled. Today, he didn't even flinch. He tensed his core, his muscles locking into place as he absorbed the Brazilian's impact. Instead of Lorenzo falling, it was Fabinho who was sent staggering back two body lengths, his cleats skidding on the grass.
"He's bullied Fabinho again!"
Lorenzo entered the box. Luca Zidane, the Madrid goalkeeper, chose not to wait this time. He rushed out, spreading his arms to make himself as large as possible. He was determined to save his father's pride.
The entire Alfredo Di Stéfano fell silent. The Real Madrid fans held their breath, and the Barcelona contingent rose to their feet.
Lorenzo looked at Luca. He didn't see the son of a legend; he saw the second objective of his side quest. The "King of the Penalty Area" skill wasn't active, it had been used for the first goal but the 80 Finishing attribute and the Inzaghi instinct were very much alive.
He didn't swing for power. He saw Luca's weight shift to the near post, anticipating another rocket. Lorenzo adjusted his ankle mid-stride, choosing a delicate, clinical chip.
The ball lifted over Luca's outstretched hands, hanging in the Madrid air for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity. It dropped with heart-breaking precision into the far corner of the net.
Swish!
2-1.
"GOAL! LORENZO AGAIN! THE BEAST HAS TAKEN MADRID!"
Sacristán erupted on the sidelines, hugging his assistant coach. "I knew it! Two goals! He's done it!"
Lorenzo didn't run to the corner flag to celebrate. He didn't taunt the fans. He simply stood in front of the Real Madrid goal, his chest heaving, looking toward the VIP box where Tata Martino and Arsène Wenger were watching.
He had completed the first objective of the "Focus Battle." He had scored his brace.
Behind him, Morata stood in the center circle, his hands over his eyes. The contrast was devastating. On one end, a striker who missed from six yards; on the other, an Argentinian "problem child" who had scored twice from two chances.
In the box, Wenger turned to Martino. "The difference isn't just talent, Tata. It's the nature. Your boy doesn't play the game; he hunts the goals. If he continues like this, you won't be able to keep him in the B-team for more than a month."
Martino didn't answer. He was too busy writing a name at the top of his "First Team Call-up" list.
Lorenzo.
The "Beast" was no longer just a rumor. He was a reality that Madrid couldn't ignore.