The substitution of Pedro Mosquera brought a calm, veteran arrogance to the midfield that the younger Barcelona players struggled to handle. In the 82nd minute, the match seemed destined for a stalemate or a late Madrid winner.
On the pitch, Mosquera received a throw-in from Lucas Vázquez, chesting it down with a stylish turn that left Barcelona's Ilie chasing shadows. He drove a vertical pass into Jesé, who immediately flicked it toward Morata. The Madrid attack was a machine of relentless, high-speed transitions.
"Mosquera is a La Liga player in a Segunda kit," Inés Valdes remarked from the touchline, her eyes fixed on the surging Madrid frontline. "He's dismantling the Barça midfield. If they don't find a way to stop the passes to Jesé, this derby is over."
Just as Mosquera prepared to thread a final, piercing ball into the box, a blue-and-red shadow intervened. Campins, the defender who had been the target of Sacristán's fury for most of the match, launched into a desperate, lunging slide tackle. It was a move of pure intuition. He poked the ball away from Mosquera's toe just as the midfielder was about to pull the trigger.
Mosquera went down in the box, rolling dramatically to draw a whistle, but the referee merely waved him up. The "Old Guard" trick hadn't worked.
"Counter! Find Lorenzo!" Campins roared, his leg immediately seizing up with a cramp as he lay on the turf.
The ball landed at the feet of Adama Traoré. The winger didn't hesitate. He knew that eighty-five minutes of high-intensity play had drained the Madrid defense. He bypassed Juanfran with a burst of explosive power and looked toward the center circle.
"Lorenzo! Go!" Traoré screamed, launching a low, whistling through-ball that cut across the grass.
Lorenzo exploded into a sprint. He could hear the heavy breathing of Fabinho behind him. The Brazilian defender was also at his physical limit, his earlier yellow card making him hesitant to commit to another tactical foul. But as Lorenzo controlled the ball and drove into the final third, Fabinho realized that hesitation would mean certain defeat.
Zinedine Zidane stood on the touchline, his hands out of his pockets for the first time. He watched as his captain, Nacho, desperately tried to track back from the opposite wing, but it was too late. It was a one-on-one battle between the tiring Brazilian veteran and the surging Argentinian "Beast."
"Stay on your feet, Fabio!" Zidane shouted.
Fabinho leaned into Lorenzo, attempting to use his 188cm frame to shove the boy off balance. But the 83% Drogba template integration held firm. Lorenzo felt like a brick wall in motion. He absorbed the impact, his core strength allowing him to shield the ball without losing his stride.
Frustrated and out of options, Fabinho made a split-second, disastrous decision. As Lorenzo entered the penalty area and prepared to swing his dominant right foot, Fabinho reached out and grabbed the back of Lorenzo's jersey, pulling him backward with a forceful, desperate tug.
Fweet-!
The whistle was immediate and sharp. Lorenzo went down hard, the force of the pull-back combined with his own momentum sending him sprawling across the grass.
The Alfredo Di Stéfano fell into a stunned, deathly silence.
The referee didn't hesitate. He ran into the box, his hand already reaching for his pocket. He pulled out a yellow card, Fabinho's second and followed it immediately with the red.
"Penalty! And a red card for Fabinho!" the Spanish commentator cried. "Madrid is down to ten men in the eighty-eighth minute! The derby has turned on its head!"
Lorenzo stood up, dusting the grass from his knees. He didn't look at Fabinho, who was arguing fruitlessly with the referee. He only had eyes for the penalty spot.
Fabinho dejectedly walked off the pitch, his head bowed. He had been dominated by the number 99 for nearly ninety minutes and his final act was to concede a penalty to the opposing team.
"Who's taking it?" Adama Traoré asked, walking over to the ball.
Lorenzo looked at Adama, his gaze steady and filled with a quiet, undeniable hunger. "I've got it, Adama. I'm finishing this."
Adama looked at the boy, at the sweat on his brow and the predator's focus in his eyes and simply nodded. He patted Lorenzo on the shoulder and stepped back. "Make it count, Lorenzo."
Lorenzo placed the ball on the white spot. He took five slow steps back, his eyes locked onto Luca Zidane.
The Madrid goalkeeper was trembling slightly. He had already seen the back of his net ripple twice today. He knew that this wasn't just a penalty; it was a hat-trick on a professional debut. The psychological weight was crushing.
In the VIP box, Arsène Wenger leaned forward, his hands clasped under his chin. "This is the moment. This is where we see the difference between a talent and a star. The pressure of the Di Stéfano is a heavy crown to wear."
Tata Martino held his breath. He was already mentally drafting the press release for Lorenzo's first-team call-up.
Lorenzo exhaled, the sound of the ten thousand booing fans fading into a dull, distant hum. He didn't think about the AFA blacklist. He didn't think about the scouts. He only thought about the objective of the "Focus Battle."
Fweet!
The whistle blew. Lorenzo started his run, a short, measured approach. He saw Luca Zidane lean toward the right post. At the last possible millisecond, Lorenzo opened his hips.
He didn't go for power. He struck the ball with the inside of his foot, sending it with clinical, insulting calm into the bottom-left corner, exactly where the goalkeeper had just vacated.
Swish!
3-2.
The small patch of Barcelona fans erupted. The Real Madrid supporters stood in a frozen, collective shock. A hat-trick. On a debut. In the Mini-Clásico.
Lorenzo stood at the spot, his arms spread wide, soaking in the silence of Madrid. He looked toward the dugout where Zidane was standing. There was no taunting, only a professional declaration of presence.
Behind him, his teammates swarmed him. Adama, Munir, and even the exhausted Campins piled onto his back.
The referee checked his watch and blew the final whistle three minutes later. The match was over. Barcelona B had conquered Madrid, and the "Beast" had claimed his first kingdom.
[Ding! Side Quest: Focus Battle - Completed!]
[Final Score: 3-2. Victory Secured!]
[Rewards obtained: Gold Treasure Chest * 1, Silver Treasure Chest * 1, Bronze Treasure Chest * 2!]
[System Update: "Stadium Codex" Mode Unlocked.]
As Lorenzo walked off the pitch, he felt the heavy, fulfilling weight of the victory. He had started the day as a "problem child." He was ending it as the most talked-about teenager in European football.
The Dream Voyage had officially begun.