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"A hat-trick at seventeen!! Lorenzo is officially a phenomenon! Look at the selflessness of Mess, with Lorenzo in the middle, the King has transformed into the world's most lethal passing machine!"
In the international broadcast booth, Santiago was on the verge of losing his voice. The screen repeatedly replayed the bicycle kick and the subsequent 3-1 celebration. "In Argentina, they are calling it the 'Greatest Blunder in History.' How do you let a boy this good walk away? He hasn't just scored three; he has dismantled the spirit of the most disciplined team in Europe."
Inés Valdes nodded, her eyes fixed on the "Golden Boy" of the afternoon. "The media frenzy in South America is reaching a fever pitch. The AFA offices are reportedly being flooded with calls. This isn't just a player choice anymore; it's a national emergency for the Albiceleste."
On the field, the silence of the Vicente Calderón was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic chanting of the small pocket of traveling Blaugrana fans.
Thibaut Courtois could no longer maintain his composure. The Belgian giant scooped the ball out of the net and, in a fit of pure, unadulterated frustration, kicked it high into the Madrid night sky. "To hell with it!" he roared, his voice cracking.
Godín and Miranda stood in the six-yard box with their hands on their hips, looking at their goalkeeper with complex, weary expressions. They had used every "Cholismo" trick in the book, the elbows, the jersey pulls, the psychological taunts and Lorenzo had simply absorbed it all with an imperial detachment.
Gabi, the Atlético captain, ran over with a grim expression. "Don't get emotional, Thibaut! You're a leader here. Be worthy of the crest!"
Courtois waved him off impatiently. "The crest doesn't stop bicycle kicks, Gabi! I want this match to end before my career becomes a highlight for a teenager!"
On the sidelines, the "Guerilla Coach" Diego Simeone had stopped pacing. He stood with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed as he watched Lorenzo. The tactical strategies he had rehearsed for weeks had been shattered by a force of nature he hadn't fully accounted for.
"The problem isn't our system, Burgos," Simeone whispered to his assistant. "The problem is that he's a tactical anomaly. Godín and Miranda can somehow stop Messi. But they can't stop a player who has the strength of a tank and the speed of a ghost. We need a bigger bus."
Across the technical area, Tata Martino returned to his seat, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. A 3-1 lead at the Calderón was more than just a victory; it was a statement.
"This is just the beginning," Martino said to Pautasso. "Lorenzo has erase the memory of last year's failures. We aren't just a possession team anymore. We are a nightmare."
Pautasso grinned, his eyes gleaming. "The Champions League draw is in two weeks. For the first time in three years, I'm not worried about Bayern or Chelsea. I'm worried for them."
The memory of the 7-0 aggregate slaughter by Bayern Munich last season still hung over the club like a shroud. But with the LMN trio firing on all cylinders, that shadow was finally starting to lift.
Fweet-!
The match restarted. Diego Costa and David Villa attempted to claw back a goal, but they found a Barcelona side that had entered a state of "Flow."
In the 72nd minute, the intensity boiled over again. Costa, frustrated by his inability to bypass the "Little Chief" Mascherano, engaged in a heated exchange of shoves and insults. The referee arrived quickly, issuing a final verbal warning. Simeone, sensing that his star striker was on the verge of a red card that would suspend him for the second leg, made a decisive move.
"Costa! Out! Adrián, get in there!"
As Costa walked off, grumbling and kicking a water bottle, the Calderón offered a scattered, lukewarm applause. The "Jackal" had been toothless today, silenced by the authority of the boy wearing the Number 9.
In the 80th minute, Martino made his own move. Xavi, the 33-year-old maestro, was replaced by Cesc Fàbregas. The former Arsenal captain arrived with a swagger that combined Premier League ferocity with La Masia fluidity.
"The transition is complete," Inés Valdes noted. "Fàbregas brings a different energy, more direct, more aggressive."
In the 86th minute, the masterpiece was completed. Fàbregas intercepted a tired pass from Gabi and drove forward with the ball. He ignored the overlapping run of Dani Alves and instead fired a sharp vertical pass to Messi.
Messi, operating in the "False Nine" pocket, took a single touch and lofted a beautiful, left-footed long ball toward the far post. Jordi Alba, who had sprinted the length of the pitch, chested the ball down and immediately crossed it back into the heart of the area.
Lorenzo rose high, Godín clinging to his jersey like a burr. He didn't try to score. He saw Fàbregas arriving late and Messi moving into the blind spot. Lorenzo headed the ball back across the face of the goal.
Courtois rushed out, his massive wingspan reaching to punch the ball away. But Lorenzo's header was too precise. He got there a millisecond before the keeper's fist, flicking the ball into the path of Lionel Messi.
Messi took the ball on his chest, faked the diving Miranda into the grass with a simple feint, and tapped the ball into the empty net.
4-1.
The suspense was dead. The Calderón was a tomb.
"Another goal!! Barcelona has completely dismantled the Cut-throat Defense!" Santiago roared. "After the unselfish gift from Messi earlier, Lorenzo has returned the favor. One hat-trick, one assist. He is the undisputed sovereign of the Calderón!"
The final whistle blew shortly after. The 4-1 scoreline was the most dominant away performance in the history of the Spanish Super Cup.
As the Barcelona players embraced, Diego Godín walked straight toward Lorenzo. He took off his jersey, sweat-soaked and dirty from the battle and offered it with a bitter, respectful smile. "You put us through hell today, kid. Keep that jersey. You're going to be a problem for a long time."
Lorenzo smiled, accepting the exchange. "You're the toughest wall I've hit yet, Diego. See you at the Camp Nou."
Nearby, David Villa stood alone, clutching the hem of his Atlético shirt. He looked at the celebrating Barcelona huddle, his eyes lingering on Messi and Lorenzo. He wanted to go over, to exchange a word, to perhaps find a moment of peace. But when he saw Godín take the jersey he had wanted, Villa froze. He turned and walked into the tunnel, his back a solitary, tragic figure against the red-and-white background.
Germany, Munich.
In a darkened office at the Säbener Strasse, Pep Guardiola let out a long, heavy sigh and reached for the remote to turn off the television. The match at the Calderón had left him with a cold sense of tactical dread.
"Honestly," Guardiola whispered to his assistant, Hermann, "I was looking forward to a reunion with the boys in the Champions League. But now... I hope we avoid them for as long as possible."
Hermann looked surprised. "We're the defending champions, Pep. We beat them 7-0 last year."
Guardiola shook his head, his eyes fixed on the blank screen where Lorenzo's image had just been. "That was a different Barcelona. That was a team without a sword. This new boy, he changes the entire geometry of the pitch. The link-up between him and Leo is unprecedented. It's more dangerous than anything I built."
Guardiola leaned back, rubbing his temples. "In this season's Champions League, everyone is playing for second place if that boy stays healthy.
[Status: First Leg Victory (4-1). Trophy in sight.]
[System Note: Side Mission "Crush the Bandit Legion" Complete!]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
If the Power Stones reach 400, I will upload a bonus chapter.