Martino had said to give it twenty minutes. In the twelfth minute, Atlético were still pressing.
Thiago received from Koke in a tight pocket of space near the left channel and looked up. Instead of continuing the short passing rhythm that had characterised the opening, he struck a diagonal long ball toward Turan on the right wing — the kind of switch that changes the entire point of attack in a single touch.
Turan controlled it at full stretch and drove at Alba. The Turkish winger had been one of Atlético's most consistent performers all season — direct, physical, willing to commit to the duel. He drew Alba out wide, then stopped dead. As Alba's momentum carried him forward, Turan nutmegged him — a clean, deliberate ball through the legs — and laid it off to Gabi, who had arrived in support.
The Calderón erupted. Gabi flicked it first-time into the central channel where Costa was holding off Mascherano with his back to goal. The friction between those two had been building since the Super Cup in August and it hadn't cooled. Costa used his elbow, his hip, his shoulder — everything legal and several things that weren't, to create the yard of space he needed to bring Gabi's pass down on his chest.
Mascherano stayed. He didn't lunge. He waited for the turn and tackled cleanly when it came, poking the ball away from Costa's right foot and into Busquets's path.
The press had been absorbed. Martino didn't react.
In the fifteenth minute, Barcelona counter-attacked.
Busquets fed Xavi, who turned Godín's press with his back, shielding the ball with the economy of a player who has been doing this for fifteen years. He tapped it to Iniesta. Iniesta pulled the ball under his sole, scanned the attacking half, and struck a low diagonal through-ball toward the right side of the penalty area — the kind of pass that splits two defenders if it arrives, and if it doesn't, becomes a corner kick.
Lorenzo broke to receive. Gabi read it. The Atlético captain threw himself into a sliding tackle from behind — his toe caught the side of the ball, deflecting it sideways, altering the trajectory. Instead of arriving at Lorenzo's feet, the ball spun away toward the right byline at pace.
"Gabi's tackle! Cleared toward the byline!" Santiago called. "Brave decision — if that pass had reached Lorenzo, he was one-on-one with Miranda."
Simeone clapped on the touchline. The danger had been averted.
Martino was already turning to set up for the corner.
Then the stadium gasped.
Lorenzo was running.
Not toward the centre, not tracking back — running at full speed toward the byline, chasing the deflected ball as it rolled away from him at pace. The acceleration was instant and violent, his stride consuming the ground between him and the ball in a way that made the physics look wrong. Thiago, who had been tracking him, was three yards behind within two seconds. By the third second the gap was five.
The Calderón crowd made a sound — the collective intake of breath that happens when sixty thousand people realise simultaneously that something is about to happen that wasn't in the plan.
Messi read it immediately and drifted to the edge of the penalty area. Miranda crouched in the box, expecting a cross. Godín tracked Messi's movement.
"Mark the centre!" Courtois shouted from his line. "Watch the cross!"
Lorenzo reached the ball a yard from the byline. It was still rolling — another half-second and it was out of play. The angle to goal was almost nothing, a sliver of space between the near post and Courtois's positioning. Every player on the pitch, every coach on the touchline, every supporter in the stands expected a cross. The ball was at the byline. You cross from the byline. That is what the position demands.
The system spoke.
[World Cup Simulation No. 33 — Maicon, Brazil vs North Korea, 2010. Zero-angle byline strike. Conditions matched.]
Lorenzo didn't cross.
He planted his standing foot, turned his body toward the goal — a rotation that shouldn't have been possible at the speed he was travelling — and struck the ball with the junction between his instep and toe. No backlift. No preparation. A snap of the foot through the lower half of the ball at point-blank range.
The ball left his boot flat, fast, with no spin. It travelled in a straight line toward the near post.
Courtois reacted late — not because his reflexes were slow but because his brain had not accepted that anyone would shoot from this angle. He threw his arm toward the near post. The ball went through the gap between his outstretched hand and the post.
SWISH.
1-0.
The Calderón fell silent. Then the away section roared.
"GOAL!! LORENZO!!" Santiago's voice broke. "A zero-angle shot from the byline! He chased a ball everyone thought was dead, reached it at full sprint, turned his body in a space that doesn't exist, and struck it through Courtois at the near post! One-nil Barcelona!"
Inés was already on the replay. "The angle to goal at the point of contact is approximately four degrees. Courtois's positioning is technically correct for a cross — his body is central, his weight balanced. The shot goes through the gap between his arm and the near post, a gap of less than two feet. The ball has no spin, which means the trajectory is unpredictable at close range. This is not a goalkeeping error. This is a finish that the geometry of the goal was not designed to permit."
On the touchline, Simeone stood with his hands in his pockets and said nothing. Beside him, Burgos clutched the sparse hair on his head.
"Our defenders didn't make a mistake," Burgos said.
"No," Simeone said. His jaw was set. "They didn't. The tackle was perfect. The positioning was correct. He scored from an angle that shouldn't produce a goal." He looked at the pitch. "This is the same problem we had in August. We do everything right and it doesn't matter."
Lorenzo bolted along the byline, sprinting straight toward the roaring away section with his arms spread wide to soak in the noise. Messi was the first to track him down, nearly tackling him to the turf, with Busquets right on his heels to bury them both in a massive embrace.
"Did you actually plan that?" Messi yelled over the crowd, a mix of disbelief and awe on his face.
"I planned to get to the ball," Lorenzo grinned, trying to catch his breath. "The shot just kind of happened when I got there."
Busquets burst out laughing, shaking his head as he ruffed the teenager's hair. "That is officially the worst explanation you have ever given us. And trust me, you've given some absolutely terrible ones."
Up in the presidential box, the atmosphere was a lot more tense. Cecilia was entirely on her feet, leaning forward with both hands pressed flat against the glass, her eyes sparkling. Garrido remained slumped in his seat, arms tightly folded, staring up at the concrete ceiling in sheer disbelief.
"That ball was completely out of play," he muttered, his voice tense.
Cecilia didn't even bother looking back at him, a triumphant smile on her face. "But it didn't go out, though. Did it?"
Garrido didn't say a word. There was absolutely nothing he could say.
[Status: Leading (1-0). 15th Minute. Copa del Rey Semi-Final L1 — Calderón.]
[System Note: WC Simulation No. 33 — Success.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
For Advance/Early Chapters:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_