The second half opened with Barcelona at the throat.
Martino's halftime instructions had been simple, and the squad executed them from the whistle. Iniesta pushed higher, playing almost as a second striker alongside Lorenzo. Alba stayed forward on the left instead of tucking in to defend. Alves did the same on the right. Barcelona were playing a 2-3-5 in possession, and it was the kind of aggression that Ancelotti hadn't planned for.
In the first ten minutes of the second half, Barcelona had two clear chances.
The first arrived in the 48th minute. Xavi spotted Iniesta finding space between the lines. Iniesta slipped a clever through-ball to Lorenzo, leaving him isolated one-on-one with Ramos inside the penalty area. Lorenzo dropped his left shoulder, dragged the ball inside onto his favored foot, and snapped a sharp shot toward goal. Casillas reacted instantly, throwing himself to the turf to palm it wide of the post. The ensuing corner came to nothing.
The second chance flared up in the 54th minute. Neymar collected the ball out wide, danced past Marcelo with a rapid step-over, and cut a low pass back to Messi lurking at the edge of the area. Messi struck it first-time with his left boot, aiming low for the near corner. The ball whistled past Casillas's outstretched gloves but shaved the outside of the woodwork before rolling out of play.
Camp Nou groaned in unison. So did Xavi, throwing his hands to his head. So did Iniesta and Neymar. The chances were finally opening up, but the finishing touch was still missing.
"They're finding space," Zidane warned quietly on the touchline. "Tell the boys to stay compact. We just need to hold the line."
Real Madrid were visibly exhausting themselves. Modrić was still fighting for every ball, but his distribution was arriving half a beat later than it had during his flawless first half. Alonso was beginning to concede cheap fouls in areas he had previously kept clean.
Meanwhile, Ronaldo found himself drifting further away from the action. He had gone nearly six minutes without touching the ball. Modrić tried to pick him out with long switches, but the passes were either intercepted or ran long. Marcelo, who had been an attacking powerhouse in the first half, was now pinned deep just trying to cope with Alves. On the opposite flank, Carvajal and Bale were forced into desperate defending against Alba. The dynamic Madrid attack that had run Barcelona off the pitch before halftime was suddenly reduced to a scrambling backline.
Ronaldo pointed emphatically toward his midfield, demanding service. Modrić threw his hands up in a brief, helpless shrug. There simply wasn't any time or space to give.
In the 62nd minute, Lorenzo climbed above Pepe to win a header from an Alves throw-in. He glanced it down to Messi, immediately dropped into space to receive it back, and ignited a fluid passing sequence that sliced through Madrid from box to box in seven clean touches. Xavi to Iniesta. Iniesta to Busquets. Busquets to Neymar. Neymar slipped it back into Lorenzo, who pirouetted on the spot and squared it for Messi. Messi's first-time strike was charged down at the last split second by a desperate block from Pepe.
The resulting corner floated into the mixer. Ramos rose high to head clear, but Barcelona refused to let Madrid breathe.
The equalizer arrived in the 63rd minute, sparked by Lorenzo executing a piece of improvisation nobody anticipated.
Busquets swooped in to claim the second ball outside the Madrid box immediately after Ramos's clearance. He didn't waste a second. He laid a soft pass off to Iniesta, who didn't hesitate either. Iniesta delivered an exquisite, no-look reverse flick directly into the vacant corridor Lorenzo was already charging through.
Ramos had stepped up to close down the passing lane, while Pepe had shifted laterally to cover the near post. Between the two defenders lay a six-yard pocket of space, and Lorenzo burst right through it at maximum velocity.
The ball rolled perfectly into his stride inside the box. He didn't take a touch to settle it. He didn't even look up at the net. Lorenzo simply struck the ball with the inside of his right boot, driving it low, hard, and true across Casillas's body toward the far corner.
Casillas lunged. Ramos threw himself into a desperate slide. Neither got anywhere near it.
The ball clipped the inside of the far post with a crisp thud and settled into the back of the net.
2-2.
Camp Nou erupted into total, uninhibited pandemonium. The sound was an overwhelming physical wave that swept across ninety-five thousand throats, rattling the very concrete beneath the stands. It was the sound of an entire stadium releasing nearly an hour of bottled-up anxiety in a single instant.
"LORENZO! IT'S TWO-TWO! CAMP NOU IS ABSOLUTELY ROCKING!" Santiago shouted over the roar. "A sensational diagonal run from Lorenzo, a breathtaking first-time strike past Casillas, and the Clásico is completely level! Barcelona have fought back from two goals down to pull level at home!"
Inés broke down the goal over the noise. "That is world-class forward play. Lorenzo anticipated the passing lane into the gap between Ramos and Pepe, met the ball in full stride, and finished across the keeper without breaking his momentum. That is precisely the predatory instinct Real Madrid's entire defensive setup was designed to stop."
Lorenzo ran straight toward the corner flag near the south stand where the supporters had been singing since the 34th minute. He skipped the knee slide. He skipped the badge celebration. He simply stood tall on the touchline with his arms spread wide, taking in the roaring stadium. Behind him, Busquets was jumping with joy, Iniesta pumped his fists from the turf, and Piqué had sprinted forty yards upfield to drag Alba into a wild bear hug.
Neymar caught up to Lorenzo, throwing an arm around his neck and pointing directly across at the Real Madrid technical area.
"Look over there, man," Neymar laughed breathlessly. "Just look at Ancelotti's face."
Lorenzo glanced over. Ancelotti had his hands planted firmly on his hips, his jaw set hard. His usual icy composure was back in place, but beneath the surface sat an emotion that hadn't been there ten minutes earlier: genuine doubt.
Across the pitch, Ronaldo walked slowly back toward the center circle. His shoulders slumped, hands resting on his waist, his body language reflecting the frustration of watching a dream start unravel in twenty minutes.
Ramos was already shouting at his backline, waving his arms to reset their shape. "Hold the lines! Don't lose your heads! There is still half an hour left to play!"
Yet the psychological momentum had completely flipped, and every player on that pitch could feel it.
In the front row, Cecilia was on her feet screaming at the top of her lungs, her jacket unzipped. Lucia was right beside her, clapping so hard her palms were bright red. Cecilia turned and shouted something with a wide grin, and though Lucia couldn't hear a word over the deafening noise, she smiled and nodded along anyway. Neither of them even thought about sitting down.
On the Barcelona touchline, Martino allowed himself a brief, genuine smile.
"Stay sharp, boys!" Martino shouted toward the pitch. "The next twenty minutes are the ones that decide the match!"
You know what time it is! Drop those Power Stones to keep us climbing the ranks!
Read Advance Chapters Here:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_