In the Old Trafford dressing room, the champagne had been opened and distributed and half of it had ended up on the floor rather than in anyone's mouth. Lorenzo sat in front of his locker while the noise continued around him and let the system settle.
[Ding! Side Mission 'Conquer the Theatre of Dreams' — Complete!]
[Opening Manchester United Star Chest...]
[Congratulations! You have received: 'Cristiano Ronaldo Training Module' — Physical Optimisation System.]
[Effect: Integrates the training methodology of Cristiano Ronaldo's peak physical preparation into the host's existing regimen. Recovery efficiency improved. Sleep-cycle training activation enabled — the system runs physical optimisation protocols during sleep, accelerating muscular adaptation without requiring conscious effort. Body fat reduction, explosive power maintenance, and stamina ceiling raised across all phases.]
Lorenzo sat with the description for a moment. This was different from a template, not a skill or a movement pattern but a structural upgrade to how his body processed training itself. Cristiano Ronaldo at his peak maintained a body fat percentage below seven percent through a regime that his former teammates described as borderline obsessive. The system had taken that obsession and converted it into a protocol that ran while he slept.
He thought about Pintus, the conditioning coach who had rebuilt him from a talented teenager into a physical profile that could compete with senior professionals. Pintus's methods were already elite. This module would sit underneath them, amplifying what was already working.
Over the following days, Lorenzo noticed the difference. Not the instant sharpness of a template integration — but in the quality of his sleep, the speed of his muscular recovery, the way his body felt in the morning sessions. Pintus noticed too, though he attributed it to the winter break's rest carrying forward. Lorenzo didn't correct him.
Three days after the Old Trafford match, Barcelona hosted Granada at the Camp Nou in La Liga.
Final: Barcelona 6–0 Granada. Lorenzo 2G+1A. Messi 2G+1A. Neymar 2G. Xavi 4 assists.
The LMN trio each scored a brace. The match was effectively over by the thirty-fifth minute. Martino rested Iniesta and Busquets for the final twenty. The league table remained unchanged — Barcelona at the top, unbeaten, the gap to Real Madrid holding steady.
After the final whistle, the squad gathered in front of the dressing room television. On screen, the Copa del Rey semi-final draw was being broadcast from the Spanish Football Association headquarters.
The draw produced two matchups:
Real Madrid vs Athletic Bilbao.
FC Barcelona vs Atlético Madrid.
The room immediately hummed with reaction. Busquets looked over at Iniesta, shaking his head. "Again."
"Third time this season," Iniesta muttered, leaning back against his locker.
"Simeone's never beaten us, though," Busquets point out, throwing a training top into his hamper. "Not once since he took over at the Calderón."
"That's not a guarantee, Sergio," Xavi warned from the corner of the room. "That's just a statistic that's been eating at him for two years. Trust me, he wants this fixture more than anything else on his calendar."
Piqué, vigorously toweling off his damp hair, kept his eyes locked on the broadcast. "They ground out a 1-1 with Real Madrid at the Calderón earlier this season. Their home form is the best in La Liga right after ours."
"And their Copa form is even nastier than their league form," Iniesta added. "They won the whole thing last year — first time the club managed it since 1996. Simeone treats the Copa like a personal obsession."
Over by the tactical board, Martino stood with his arms tightly crossed, silently processing the draw. His assistant, Pautasso, leaned in close. "The Calderón first?"
"First leg away," Martino confirmed, his mind already shifting into tactical overdrive. "We finish it at home."
Martino looked around the quiet room, his voice grounding them all. "We prepare tomorrow. Tonight, go home, eat, and get some sleep."
Lorenzo sat back against his locker, his mind drifting back to the Supercopa in August. He remembered the 5-1 aggregate win, the rush of scoring five goals across both legs. But Atlético had been a completely different project back then, still trying to fit David Villa into the side and finding its rhythm under Simeone's grueling system. Five months later, they were a machine. They had just placed three players in La Liga's Best XI for the first half of the season. Thibaut Courtois was turning into a brick wall in goal. Filipe Luís had transformed into the absolute best left-back in Spain. And Diego Godín was anchoring a defensive line that conceded fewer goals per game than anyone else in the country.
The Atlético that Barcelona was about to walk into at the Calderón was not the fragile side they had dismantled in the summer. Simeone didn't make the same mistake twice.
Two days later, the squad was boarding the flight to Madrid when Lorenzo's phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Cecilia.
He slipped away from the noise of Piqué and Alves joking around the boarding gate, pressing the phone to his ear. "Hey."
"Hey," her voice came through, warm and full of that familiar energy that instantly pulled him out of his tactical headspace. "Our whole family is coming to the Calderón tonight. I think my dad's been pacing the house and hasn't slept a wink since the draw."
Lorenzo smiled, leaning against the terminal window. "Tell him that after tonight, he's probably going to need a whole week to recover."
"Careful, your confidence is showing," she teased, and he could practically hear the smirk on her face. "He keeps aggressively reminding me that Atlético will win because they have three players in the Best XI."
"We have five in the FIFA Team of the Year," Lorenzo countered softly, his tone dropping into a low, playful murmur.
"Oh, trust me, I told him that. He literally got up and walked out of the room." Cecilia laughed. The line went quiet for a brief heartbeat, the pre-match tension softening into something much more intimate. "Just... stay safe out there tonight, okay? It's going to be loud."
"I'll be fine," Lorenzo said, his voice softening as he looked out at the tarmac. "Just make sure you're wearing my jersey. I'll be looking for you in the stands."
"Always do," she whispered. "Go get 'em."
In Madrid, Alejandro Garrido had finished a routine meeting and was walking to his car when the press caught him outside the government building.
"Mr. Garrido — as Mayor of Madrid and a known Atlético loyalist, what's your assessment of tonight's match?"
Garrido straightened his jacket. "There's nothing to assess. Atlético Madrid is clearly the superior side tonight. We have three players selected for the mid-season Best XI."
"Your daughter has been publicly seen supporting Barcelona's number nine on multiple occasions. Any comment?"
Garrido's expression shifted. "That is a private matter between young people. I am a qualified mayor and an open-minded father." He turned sharply toward his car. "This interview is over."
Under the Madrid night sky, the Calderón Stadium came alive.
Fifty-five thousand tickets sold out. The Manzanares River caught the floodlights from the east side of the ground. Atlético fans in red-and-white stripes filled every section, the anthem building from the South Stand and spreading through the stadium like weather.
Simeone stood on the touchline in his suit, stubble visible, jaw set. He had never beaten Barcelona in any competition since taking charge. The record was two years old and it followed him into every press conference and every tactical meeting. Tonight was the Calderón, his ground, the Copa he had won last season.
The tunnel was dark and narrow and loud with the noise coming from outside.
Lorenzo adjusted his shirt and followed Xavi toward the light.
[Status: Copa del Rey Semi-Final L1 — Calderón. Atlético Madrid vs Barcelona.]
[System Note: Ronaldo Training Module — Active.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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