The Bernabéu. This colossal, silver-white arena was like a giant beast with its maw agape, devouring the Madrid night sky. Eighty-one thousand die-hard Real Madrid fans clad in white shirts were generating a sound wave that rattled eardrums.
The air was thick with a peculiar scent—a mixture of adrenaline, anxiety, and fervent hostility. For the visiting team, this smell usually meant one thing: a'slaughter'.
Three days ago, in the first leg of the Spanish Super Cup at Camp Nou, Barcelona suffered a crushing 1-3 home defeat. Despite the debut of their new signing, Piqué's own goal and Cristiano Ronaldo's world-class strike rendered all their efforts futile. Post-match, the Newspaper headline was merciless: 'Barcelona's Funeral: Money Can't Buy a Soul'.
Tonight was the second leg. This was the first true 'life-or-death trial' Lin Feng had faced since his rebirth. If they suffered another utterly helpless, humiliating defeat tonight, the sliver of authority he had built through the transfer dealings would crumble instantly.
...
Four minutes before kickoff, in the Barcelona Dressing Room.
The atmosphere was suffocatingly oppressive. Piqué sat in a corner, a thick ice pack wrapped around his knee, his eyes somewhat vacant. Iniesta was slowly tying his boots. The dismantling of the MSN trio had sucked the soul out of this team; the first-leg defeat had broken their bones. They were exhausted, a deep-seated psychological fatigue more terrifying than any physical injury.
'Hey! Heads up!'
A roar, delivered in a mix of non-standard English and stilted Spanish, shattered the dead silence. It came from Sadio Mané. The Senegalese newcomer, who had only arrived a few days ago, was bare-chested, revealing a physique of black, granite-like muscle. He pounded his own chest with a 'thump-thump' sound and shouted,'So what if this is the Bernabéu? All I know is, if we don't run, we die! Christian and I didn't come here to watch Real Madrid lift the trophy!'
Eriksen, who had been polishing his glasses, offered a gentle smile and added in fluent English, 'Sadio is right. Down 1-3, the whole world expects us to lose. That's a kind of freedom. We have nothing left to lose, gentlemen.'
Messi had been sitting silently in front of his locker. Hearing the words of these two newcomers, he slowly raised his head, a flicker of something different in his eyes. The old Barcelona Dressing Room was elegant, steady, but also somewhat lethargic. Now, it seemed some... wild elements had been mixed in?
At that moment, the Dressing Room door swung open. Bartomeu, dressed in a dark blue suit, walked in. He didn't launch into one of his usual lengthy speeches. Instead, he strode directly to the tactics board, picked up a marker, and wrote a single, massive digit on it:
'Tonight, I'm not asking you to overturn the aggregate score and win the trophy. That's unrealistic; we've only trained together for three days.' Bartomeu pointed at the number, his gaze sweeping across each face. 'Forget the last match. Treat everything as a new beginning. I demand only one thing: win tonight's game. Even if we lose on aggregate in the end, even if we watch them lift the cup, I want you to walk out of here after 90 minutes with your heads held high. I want you to turn the cheers of the Bernabéu into silence.'
After speaking, he turned to the trio of newcomers—Mané, Eriksen, Martínez. 'Especially you three. Prove to Leo, prove to the whole world, that my money was well spent.'
Mané grinned, flashing his white teeth, his eyes as fierce as a black panther spotting its prey.
...
In the VIP Presidential Box at the top of the Bernabéu.
This was the pinnacle of power in Spanish football. Through the bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows, one could overlook the entire stadium. The box was carpeted with thick Persian rugs, and tailcoated waiters circulated with top-shelf champagne.
Bartomeu stood by the window, a glass of red wine in hand, his expression calm.
'Josep, it seems your luck won't be too good tonight.'
A gentle, elegant, yet supremely authoritative voice sounded behind him. Lin Feng turned and saw the bespectacled, gray-haired old man—Florentino Pérez.
'Luck usually favors the prepared, Florentino,' Bartomeu replied with a slight smile, raising his glass in a toast, neither subservient nor arrogant. 'Congratulations on last year's Champions League. Zidane truly is a great coach.'
'It wasn't just luck,' Florentino said, walking to his side and standing shoulder-to-shoulder, his gaze falling on Cristiano Ronaldo practicing shots on the pitch below. 'It was planning. Honestly, Josep, I've been... surprised by your maneuvers this summer.'
The Old President's eyes sharpened. 'When Neymar left with 222 million, I thought you'd panic like a headless fly and go splurge on Coutinho or Dembélé. That was the script we anticipated. But you didn't.'
'You went to London, to Liverpool. You bought Mané, bought Eriksen, and snatched Iñigo from under our noses,' Florentino said, turning his head to give Bartomeu a deep look. 'Even though Madrid's media are mocking you for buying a bunch of 'workhorses,' losing Barcelona's 'art'... I must admit, when you stopped chasing 'glamour' and started chasing 'effectiveness,' Barcelona became dangerous.'
Lin Feng felt a chill. Truly worthy of the Old President. While the whole world mocked Barcelona's 'downmarket' transformation, only this old fox had seen through the essence at a glance.
'Art needs bodyguards, Florentino,' Bartomeu replied calmly, taking a sip of wine. 'The old Barcelona was too obsessed with violinists; they forgot you also need people to carry the piano. Mané and Iñigo are the piano carriers I found.'
'Piano carriers?' Florentino chuckled, a smile brimming with the confidence of a man at the top. 'But you must know, the stage at the Bernabéu belongs only to the top-tier protagonists. Your workhorses might get torn apart by my artists tonight.'
'Then let's wait and see.'
...
'Peep!' Referee Sánchez Martínez blew the opening whistle.
Valverde fielded a surprising 4-4-2 starting lineup: ter Stegen in goal; a back four of Alba, Umtiti, Iñigo, Semedo; a diamond midfield with Busquets holding, Mané and Rakitić on the left and right, and Eriksen as the advanced playmaker; Messi and Suárez up front.
From the kickoff, Real Madrid, leveraging their home advantage, launched wave after wave of attacks. It was the terrifying pressing power of the peak 2017 Real Madrid. Modric and Kroos orchestrated the midfield with surgical precision, while Marcelo and Carvajal bombarded down the wings.
For the first 10 minutes, Barcelona could barely cross the halfway line. The lack of chemistry between the new signings was painfully evident. Disaster struck in the 14th minute. Asensio received the ball 30 yards out and, without any warning, unleashed a fierce left-footed strike. The ball traced a wicked arc and rocketed into the top corner. 1-0! 4-1 on aggregate!
The Bernabéu erupted. The commentator screamed hoarsely, 'Another worldie! Barcelona are finished! Even after spending two hundred million, they're still no match for the mighty Real Madrid! Tonight will be a slaughter!'
In the box, Florentino applauded politely, glancing at Bartomeu with a hint of 'I told you so' pity in his eyes.
Bartomeu's face remained impassive, but the knuckles of his hand gripping the wine glass were white. He was waiting. Waiting for that variable.
In the 25th minute, Real Madrid still controlled the game. Their right-back, Carvajal, confidently pushed forward as usual, trying to dribble past Iñigo Martínez. But this time, he ran into a brick wall.
'Thud!' A solid impact. Iñigo didn't retreat like Piqué might have. Instead, he lunged forward like a hungry wolf, winning the ball with a fierce but fair shoulder-to-shoulder challenge that sent Carvajal staggering.
'Sadio! Run!!!' After winning the ball, Iñigo didn't even look up. He swung his left foot and launched a long, hopeful ball towards the empty space on the left flank in Real Madrid's half.
It looked like a lost cause. Varane had already started his recovery run, and Carvajal was sprinting back desperately. But on everyone's retina, a black bolt of lightning suddenly exploded.
Sadio Mané. The lion from Senegal finally bared his fangs.
He started his run from his own half, instantly leaving his marker in the dust. Facing the rapidly recovering Varane, Mané didn't slow down. Judging the ball's flight perfectly while at full sprint, he cushioned it with his chest, knocking it a full ten yards ahead!
'My God! What is he doing? That's Varane! He's burning past Varane!' The commentator's voice cracked with shock.
This is the pinnacle of Premier League physicality. Mané, like an out-of-control heavy motorcycle, used sheer explosive power and a robust physique to overtake from a trailing position, muscling Varane aside and gaining control of the ball first!
The cheers inside the Bernabéu instantly turned into gasps of shock.
Mane, having broken into the penalty area, did not selfishly go for goal. With a glance from the corner of his eye, he spotted a teammate arriving centrally and played a cutback pass to the edge of the box. There, it wasn't Messi waiting, but the blond-haired Dane—Christian Eriksen.
Eriksen didn't even control the ball. Facing this chest-high pass, he turned his body and with the outside of his right foot, gave it a delicate flick. A scalpel-precise through ball, straight from a god's-eye view!
This pass was like a laser beam, instantly slicing through the three-man defensive line formed by Ramos, Nacho, and Marcelo, landing perfectly in the space to the right of the six-yard box.
There, Leo Messi appeared as if by magic. Facing the onrushing Navas, Messi needed no adjustment, deftly lifting the ball with the tip of his left foot. It traced a gentle arc into the back of the net. 1-1!
The stadium fell dead silent. This goal was too fast, too fluid, too brutal, and yet too elegant. From Iñigo's iron-willed tackle, to Mané's unreasonable 'violent overtaking', to Eriksen's intelligent 'one-touch pass', culminating in Messi's 'lethal finish'.
After scoring, Messi didn't point to the sky as he usually does. He immediately turned and charged towards Mané, who was still catching his breath, jumping directly onto the Senegalese's back. Then he turned, pointed at Eriksen, and gave a thumbs up.
In the VIP box. The smile on Florentino's face froze. 'That through ball...' the Old President muttered to himself, 'it's a bit like Xavi in his prime?'
'No, that's Eriksen,' Bartomeu turned around, looking at Florentino with a hint of pride in his eyes. 'He doesn't have Xavi's control, but in a counter-attacking moment, his through balls are more direct, more lethal.'
If the first half was stunning, the second half was shocking. Real Madrid tried to regain control of the match, but they were surprised to find this Barça side had become incredibly tenacious.
Mané was a man possessed, and not just in attack. On the defensive end, he was like a tireless mad dog, pressing frantically from the front line. In the 6th minute, when Carvajal tried to carry the ball forward, Mané charged straight at him with a fair shoulder charge, knocking him out of bounds.
In the 78th minute, the climax of the match arrived. Modric tried to shake off a challenge in midfield, but he didn't expect Eriksen's recovery speed to be so fast, poking the ball away from behind. It rolled to Mané's feet. At that moment, Real Madrid's defensive line was pushing up.
'Counter-attack!' Mané sprinted with the ball for forty meters. Facing Ramos's challenge, he didn't attempt any fancy feints, opting for a simple, brutal change of direction and acceleration! Ramos had to reach out to pull him back, but failed to hold on!
Mané drove to the byline. This time, he didn't cut it back. Instead, he fired a powerful, low-driven cross across the face of goal. It was the type of pass defenders and goalkeepers hate most. In the ensuing scramble, Luis Suárez displayed a striker's instinct, slipping like an eel in front of Nacho to poke the ball home with his toe!
1-2! Barça had taken the lead!
The Bernabéu fell completely quiet. Eighty thousand fans looked at each other. Although the aggregate score was 4-3, with Real Madrid still ahead, that long-lost feeling of 'being dominated' had unexpectedly returned. Barça had taken the lead? At the Bernabéu?
'Defend! Fall back completely!' Zidane on the sidelines grew anxious, shouting loudly. In the final minute, Barça launched a frantic assault, trying to score a third goal to level the tie. Eriksen's long-range shot crashed against the crossbar! Messi's free-kick whistled just past the post!
Real Madrid had never been so disheveled. In their own stadium, they were being pummeled in their own half by this 'patchwork' Barça side.
'Peep! Peep! Peeeeep——!' The final whistle blew. The score remained 1-2. With an aggregate of 4-3, Real Madrid claimed the Spanish Super Cup.
But a bizarre scene unfolded on the pitch. The victorious Real Madrid players sat slumped on the ground, gasping for air, their faces showing little joy, instead bearing expressions of relief as if having survived a disaster. Meanwhile, the defeated Barça players held their heads high, walking towards the away supporters' section to receive the cheers of the few hundred die-hard fans.
...
Post-match mixed zone.
Messi stopped and gave an interview to Mundo Deportivo. The reporter cautiously offered the microphone: 'Leo, it's a shame to lose the trophy...'
'A shame? Yes, because we had a chance to score a third goal.' Messi wiped the sweat from his brow, his eyes showing no trace of dejection, instead gleaming with an intimidating light: 'But tonight, we won the match. We won at the Bernabéu. Sadio is a beast; he created huge space on the left flank. Christian understands me well. Even though we lost the trophy, I feel... that fearsome Barça is coming back.'
These words, broadcast live, reached the entire world. Fans who were ready to blast Bartomeu, upon seeing that GIF of Mané bulldozing past Varane and witnessing Real Madrid's disheveled (disheveled) defense in the final ten minutes, silently put down their keyboards. This Barça team... seemed to really have something?
...
Bernabéu underground parking lot.
Bartomeu was about to get into his car. 'Josep.' Florentino called out to him. The Old President hadn't gone to the Dressing Room to celebrate, instead waiting for him here on purpose. He stood in the shadows, his expression grimmer than if he had lost.
'Congratulations on the trophy, Florentino,' Bartomeu smiled and extended his hand, 'even though the real winners tonight were us.'
Florentino didn't shake hands, merely sighing: 'Josep, you've ruined my good mood. I thought tonight would be a celebration.'
'Because you saw fear,' Bartomeu looked directly into the old man's eyes. 'You saw Mané's speed, you saw Eriksen's through ball. You know, if we had three months to gel, the scoreline next time we meet in El Clásico wouldn't be 4-3.'
Florentino was silent for a moment, then suddenly smiled, though the smile didn't reach his eyes: 'Interesting. It seems La Liga won't be boring this season. However, Josep, don't get too happy too soon. Your midfield spine is still a bit soft. If Casemiro had been in better form tonight, Eriksen would have been knocked flying.'
'Thanks for the reminder,' Bartomeu opened the car door. 'I'll address that issue. Goodbye, Mr. Chairman.'
Watching the Real Madrid Chairman's Rolls-Royce drive away slowly, Lin Feng got into his own armored Audi.
'Chairman, we won at the Bernabéu!' Grau excitedly looked at his phone. 'Twitter is exploding! The fans are all praising Mané!'
'We won a battle, but the war has just begun,' Bartomeu loosened his tie and leaned back in his seat. Florentino's final words had reminded him. Yes, the spine was still a bit soft. Against the physicality of a team like Real Madrid, Busquets was too fatigued, Eriksen was at a physical disadvantage. We need a bodyguard. A true violent machine.
'Óscar,' a glint flashed in Bartomeu's eyes. 'Contact Guangzhou Evergrande.'
'Evergrande? We're buying a Chinese Super League player?' Grau thought he'd misheard. 'Chairman, the fans will riot! We just bought a Premier League superstar, and now we're buying a retirement-league player from the CSL? The Drop (drop in quality) is too great!'
'Retirement? No, he's in his prime. Florentino was right; our midfield isn't hard enough,' Bartomeu sneered. 'I want to activate Paulinho's release clause, 4 million euros. I want to bring that 'Violent Bird' back, let him teach the gentlemen of La Liga what a real box-to-box midfielder is.'
'But... after just winning at the Bernabéu, won't buying a CSL player draw criticism?'
'Criticism?' Bartomeu looked out at the Madrid night. 'Just wait. When Paulinho bulldozes through Ramos like a steamroller, they'll be lining up to apologize.'
'Make it happen. The moment Paulinho stands at Camp Nou, the final piece of this 'Monster Barça' puzzle will be in place.'
The motorcade drove into the night. Behind them, the Bernabéu was still buzzing, but it was a false prosperity. The real storm was rising from Catalonia.