The stadium was a tomb of silence, broken only by the ecstatic, high-pitched celebrations of the small patch of Barcelona fans in the upper corner.
Luca Zidane sat on the turf, his head bowed. He had dived with every ounce of his seventeen-year-old athleticism, but the ball had floated over his fingertips with a cruelty that felt personal. For a goalkeeper, a hair's breadth is an eternal separation. He had been beaten twice in twenty-five minutes, once by raw power, and once by a clinical, arrogant chip.
"Goal again! Absolute madness!" Inés Valdes shouted into her microphone, her voice vibrating with professional excitement. "He is bombing the Real Madrid penalty area! He's not just a striker; he's a nuclear warhead.! Barcelona B has taken the lead in the house of the King!"
The Real Madrid fans in the stands were staring blankly at the scoreboard: 1-2. The initial shock was rapidly curdling into a toxic anger. This was the Alfredo Di Stéfano, a stadium named after the man who defined Madrid's dominance. To be overtaken in a Mini-Clásico by a "problem child" from the rival academy was a humiliation they couldn't stomach.
"Zidane! We respect you, but look at your son!" a fan screamed toward the dugout. "He's too green! Bring on Mejías!"
"Nepotism is killing the academy!" another added, the frustration of the derby bringing out the harshest critiques.
On the pitch, the energy was electric. Adama Traoré was the first to reach Lorenzo, letting out a guttural roar and nearly tackling him to the ground in celebration.
"You're a monster!" Adama laughed, lifting Lorenzo off his feet. "Did you see Luca's face? He thought he had it! You've shot them to pieces!"
Munir El Haddadi arrived a second later, his usual composure replaced by a grin of pure relief. "That chip was world-class. You didn't just score; you humiliated them. That's how you win a Clásico."
"You're doing more for that shirt than Dongou ever did," Adama whispered as they walked back to the center circle. "After the match, you should go to Sacristán and demand the number nine. Ninety-nine is for bench-warmers; you're a starter."
"The number doesn't make the player, Adama. But I wouldn't mind the upgrade."
In the VIP box, the atmosphere was far more analytical. Cesc Fàbregas was on his feet, leaning so far over the railing he was nearly out the window.
"Tata, we need a focal point like this!" Fàbregas said, turning toward Martino. "He does everything. He's a pivot and he has the physicality to move Fabinho like he's made of paper. I've played against Fabinho in training; the man is a wall. But Lorenzo? He didn't even slow down."
Gerardo "Tata" Martino didn't answer immediately. He was watching the way Lorenzo jogged back to the line, calm, focused, and seemingly unaffected by the hostile environment.
"I see the shadows of the greats in him," Martino said softly. "The positioning of Inzaghi, the raw strength of Kluivert, and that cold-blooded finish... it reminds me of Thierry Henry in his prime. He's a hybrid."
Arsène Wenger, sitting beside them, narrowed his eyes behind his spectacles. "A hybrid is the perfect word. Usually, you have to choose between a physical target man and a clinical poacher. This boy seems to be rejecting the choice. He wants to be both."
Wenger looked at Fàbregas and smiled playfully. "Perhaps, Tata, I might have a few words with the boy's representatives after the match? London is quite beautiful in the autumn."
Fàbregas immediately blocked Wenger's view with a smirk. "No, Mr. Arsène! You aren't poaching this one. He is the future of the Blaugrana. You've taken enough from us."
Inside Lorenzo's mind, the System was finalizing the first half of his rewards.
[Ding! Congratulations to the Host for scoring a brace! Mission Objective 1: Completed!]
[Side Mission: Focus Battle - Progress: 1/2.]
[Rewards obtained: Gold Treasure Chest * 1, Silver Treasure Chest * 1, Bronze Treasure Chest * 2!]
[Note: Rewards will be distributed to your inventory following the final whistle. Maintain focus for Objective 2: Victory.]
Lorenzo nodded inwardly. The Gold Chest was secure. He knew it meant a new template or a massive attribute boost was coming. But he also knew the game wasn't over. A 2-1 lead was the most dangerous score in football, especially against a Castilla team that featured players like Jesé and Lucas Vázquez.
"Campins! Focus!" Lorenzo shouted to his center-back as they reached the halfway line. "Don't get caught ball-watching. They're going to come at us with everything now. Stay goal-side!"
Campins, still reeling from the pace of the match, scratched his head and nodded sheepishly. "I've got it, Lorenzo. I won't let them through again."
"If you do, I'll let Adama handle the disciplinary talk," Lorenzo quipped, making Campins shiver. Adama Traoré's "muscle collisions" were famous in training for being painful.
Across the ocean, in the digital forums of Argentina, the "Ezeiza Thug" narrative was undergoing a violent transformation. The video of Lorenzo's second goal had gone viral within minutes of the ball hitting the net.
[This is the kid the AFA blacklisted? Are we serious?]
[He's seventeen and he's dominating the Real Madrid captain. We haven't had a striker with this kind of 'blood' since Crespo.]
[Look at the way he moved Fabinho. That's the Argentinian grit. He belongs in the Albiceleste.]
[If Martino calls him up to the first team before the AFA apologizes, it's going to be the biggest scandal in our football history.]
[Marcos and his son look like amateurs now. Lorenzo is a lion.]
The tide was turning. The "problem child" was becoming a national hope.
On the touchline, Zidane spat out his gum and signaled for a tactical change. He was no longer relaxed. He was a coach who hated losing, and he was about to turn the Mini-Clásico into a war.
The referee blew his whistle. The ball was back in play. Real Madrid came charging forward, desperate to erase the stain of the number 99. Lorenzo crouched low, his eyes tracking the movement. He didn't just want the brace; he wanted the win. He wanted the "Stadium Codex."
The Beast was still hungry.