Spain, Barcelona
Night fell like a giant black velvet curtain, slowly covering the Mediterranean coast. But in Barcelona's Les Corts district, the Camp Nou stadium was like a burning supernova, radiating a dizzying light and heat.
Tonight, in the first round of Group D of the UEFA Champions League, Barcelona hosted Juventus at home.
This was a war that needed no motivation. The air was filled not only with the salty dampness of the Catalan sea breeze but also with a thick, even rusty-smelling aura of Revenge.
Just five months ago, that night that broke the hearts of all Blaugrana faithful. The MSN Trio led by Luis Enrique was slaughtered 3-0 by Juventus in Turin. Dybala's left foot dissected the defense like a scalpel, and the defensive line formed by Chiellini and Bonucci left Messi in despair. After the match, the image of Messi covering his face and crying in the players' tunnel became one of the most glaring scars in Barça's history.
And tonight, Barça was back with 200 million euros worth of anger.
Bartomeu stood before a huge bulletproof floor-to-ceiling window, holding a glass of deep red Rioja wine. His gaze pierced through the transparent glass, overlooking the surging human waves on the stands below.
"Ninety-eight thousand people," said CEO Òscar Grau from behind, looking at the data tablet in his hand, his voice trembling slightly. "Chairman, this is the highest group stage attendance at Camp Nou since the 2015 Champions League semi-final against Bayern. Even the aisles are packed. The fans are thirsty for blood."
"It's not blood they thirst for, Óscar. It's dignity."
Bartomeu turned around. He didn't drink the wine but placed it on the table. He straightened his deep red tie, the color he had specifically chosen for tonight—symbolizing battle.
"What did Allegri say at the pre-match press conference?" Bartomeu asked.
Sports Director Robert Fernández looked somewhat displeased and reported in a low voice, "That Italian was arrogant. He said: 'We respect Barça's history, but football isn't won by buying a few musclemen. Juventus's defensive system is a work of art tempered by time. Six months ago, we kept a clean sheet against MSN; today, we are even more confident of keeping a clean sheet against this... cobbled-together team.'"
"Cobbled together?"
The corner of Bartomeu's mouth curled into a cold arc. He walked to the tactical board and looked at the starting lineup he had personally crafted.
"Arrogance is the Italians' greatest virtue, and also their fatal poison," Bartomeu said, his finger tapping heavily on the names of three new signings. "Allegri is still living in the old dream. He thinks we are still that team that only knows fancy footwork, collapses at a touch, with not only a soft midfield but also soft knees."
"Tonight, I want Sadio Mané's speed to tear apart their 'artwork,' Paulinho's body to shatter their elegance, and Eriksen's passing to show them what efficiency is."
Bartomeu raised his wrist and glanced at his Patek Philippe.
"It's time. Let's go to the presidential box. Tonight, I want to witness this 'Old Lady' wailing at Camp Nou with my own eyes."
...Compared to the frenzy in the stands, the atmosphere in the players' tunnel was oppressively suffocating. This was the final zone of silence before the battle, filled with the mixed scents of liniment, freshly cut grass, and male hormones.
On the left side of the tunnel, the Juventus players appeared unusually relaxed. Gianluigi Buffon, the legendary goalkeeper about to turn 40, was adjusting his gloves with a calm smile on his face. Chiellini and Barzagli were quietly discussing defensive positioning, their eyes exuding a veteran's cunning sense of control. Higuaín was chewing gum, occasionally joking with Dybala beside him.
As last season's Champions League runners-up, they had the right to look down on everyone. In their eyes, a Barça without Neymar was like a snake with its fangs pulled.
On the right side of the tunnel, however, the Barça contingent exuded a completely different aura.
Leo Messi stood at the very front of the line. He didn't speak, his lips tightly sealed, his eyes fixed intently on the sliver of light at the end of the tunnel. That gaze was no longer gentle but sharp, like a freshly honed blade.
Behind him was Sadio Mané. The Senegalese forward was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like a boxer. Fine beads of sweat already covered his dark skin, and every muscle was trembling slightly—a sign his body was entering a state of extreme excitement. He stared at Barzagli opposite him, his eyes showing no reverence, only hunger.
Further back was Paulinho. He stood like a silent iron tower. Compared to the lean builds of Rakitić and Busquets, Paulinho's broad shoulders and bulging chest muscles seemed out of place. He expressionlessly scanned Juventus's midfield linchpin Pjanić, as if assessing the opponent's ability to withstand a hit.
"Hey, Leo," Buffon walked over, trying to greet Messi with a hug like a benevolent older brother. "Long time no see."
Messi politely extended his hand for a handshake but didn't offer his usual shy smile. He merely replied softly, his words carrying immense weight: "Gigi, tonight will be a long one."
Buffon was taken aback, his smile freezing on his face. He keenly sensed that the once gentle and refined Argentine had changed. The old Messi was a pure football fanatic, but today, he carried an extra air of... killer instinct.
"Beeeeep—" Referee Skomina blew the whistle for the players to enter the pitch.
As the players of both teams emerged from the dim tunnel and stepped onto the brightly lit Camp Nou turf, the cacophony of boos and roars from the 98,000 fans erupted like a nuclear explosion, soaring into the sky.
In the center of the stands, a massive TIFO slowly rose in the southern end. It wasn't Barça's traditional "Més que un club" (More than a club) but a violent, aesthetically charged painting: a lion clad in blaugrana armor, its maw wide open, tearing into a black-and-white zebra. Beneath the lion's feet, written in Catalan in shocking blood-red letters, was: Revenge (Revenge)!
...The match began. Just as Allegri had anticipated, Juventus deployed their favored 4-2-3-1 formation, attempting to cut off Barça's passing lanes with tight positioning.
For the first ten minutes, the game was exceptionally cagey. Barça still dominated possession, with Busquets and Eriksen patiently passing in midfield, looking for opportunities. But against Juventus's chain-like defensive system, Barça found it difficult to penetrate the crucial 30-meter zone.
Whenever Messi received the ball, Matuidi and Sandro would immediately swarm him like mad dogs, pressing him physically, using niggling fouls to disrupt him, cutting off his connection with Suárez.
"This is the essence of Italian defense," the commentator on Catalan TV said anxiously. "They're not in a hurry to tackle but compress space through positioning, tightening their grip on the prey like a python. Barça's new signing Eriksen seems to still be adapting to this suffocating rhythm; his two attempted through balls were both anticipated and intercepted by Chiellini."
On the sidelines, Allegri stood with his hands in his overcoat pockets, nodding in satisfaction. Everything was going according to script. As long as they survived the first 20 minutes, Barça would grow impatient, their formation would push forward, and that would be the chance for Douglas Costa and Dybala to counter-attack.
However, in the 15th minute, the script took an unexpected turn that no one had anticipated.
Juventus won the ball and launched a counter-attack. Khedira received the ball near the center circle. The German midfielder was known for his physical strength and ability to shield the ball. He habitually turned his back, using his body to protect the ball, preparing to turn and distribute it to the overlapping De Sciglio on the wing. This was muscle memory developed over a decade of top-level football—in La Liga and Serie A, few could dispossess him from behind through sheer force.
But he forgot that among today's opponents, there was an unreasonable man. A man from a distant land, viewed by mainstream European media as'scrap.'
"THUD!!!"
A sickeningly dull thud, picked up clearly by the pitch-side microphones, reverberated around the world.
Khedira felt as if he had been rammed in the back by a high-speed forklift. The immense impact instantly destroyed his balance. The 1.89-meter-tall German powerhouse stumbled forward like a kite with its string cut, crashing heavily onto the turf, getting a mouthful of grass.
Behind him, Paulinho stood like a god of war. The Brazilian didn't use any fancy tackling moves, no ghostly footwork—just a pure, physical collision, delivered with the maximum force allowed within the rules.
After barging Khedira aside, Paulinho extended his powerful leg and cleanly poked the ball away, not even glancing at the fallen German.
Khedira angrily raised his hand, appealing for a foul. But referee Skomina was right there. He shook his head, arms outstretched horizontally: play on! Fair challenge!
"My God!" the commentator exclaimed, his voice cracking with shock. "That's Khedira! That's the German tank, Khedira! He was just sent flying by Paulinho in a physical duel as if he were a schoolboy! Is this still the Barça we know—the polite, delicate Barça that falls over at a touch?"
The Barça fans in the stands were stunned for a second before erupting into wild cheers! "Well done, Paulinho!" "Crush them!"
That collision shattered Juventus's composure. It also awakened Camp Nou's long-dormant, bloodthirsty nature. The fans realized that besides exquisite short-passing, this kind of violent beauty of flattening the opponent could also be so exhilarating!
On the Chairman's podium, Bartomeu watched this scene, a slight smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He knew that from this moment on, steel and concrete had been injected into this team's DNA.
After winning the ball, Paulinho did not look for a safe back pass like previous Barça midfielders would have. Instead, he directly passed it to Eriksen ahead of him.
Eriksen didn't control the ball. As a midfielder forged in the high-tempo battles of the Premier League, he understood the golden three seconds of transition between attack and defense all too well. The moment he received the pass, he had already assessed the situation: Juventus's right-back De Sciglio had just pushed up five meters in preparation for a counter-attack, leaving a huge gap behind him.
"Sadio!" Eriksen didn't look up. With a flick of his ankle, he delivered an incredibly penetrating low diagonal pass. The ball sliced past Barzagli's feet like a scalpel, heading straight for the left flank byline.
There, a black bolt of lightning surged forward. Sadio Mané.
Facing Barzagli, who had scrambled over to cover—this 36-year-old Italian legendary center-back, whose defensive experience was as rich as a textbook. He immediately positioned himself to block the inside line, adjusted his center of gravity, and prepared to cut off Mané's route to cut inside. This was the standard move against a speedy winger.
If it were Neymar, he might have chosen to stop abruptly, perform step-overs, trying to unbalance the defender with skill. But Mané was not Neymar. He was a beast from Senegal.
Facing Barzagli's positioning, Mané made a choice that shocked all 98,000 people in the stadium: He didn't slow down at all. Instead, he knocked the ball hard toward the byline—a full fifteen meters ahead!
Overtaking on the outside! Simple, brutal, unreasonable, even a trampling on the defender's dignity.
"Is he crazy? The ball's going out!" Juventus fans exclaimed in shock.
But in everyone's retinas, that black figure wearing the number 11 jersey accelerated again. It was a second acceleration that defied physics! Mané was like an F1 car, forcefully going around the outside of Barzagli, catching up to the ball like a black whirlwind in the last 0.1 seconds before it rolled out of play!
The aging Barzagli desperately chased back, but he despairingly found that figure's back getting farther and farther away, as unstoppable as the flow of time itself. In that instant, experience was useless; only speed was eternal.
"Too fast! This is simply cruel!" the commentator roared. "Barzagli is like chasing a Ferrari in a tractor! Juventus's proud steel defense looks so old in the face of absolute speed!"
After catching up to the ball, Mané didn't hesitate for a second. He directly struck a left-footed cutback pass across the goalmouth. This pass was also full of power, extremely fast, giving goalkeeper Buffon no chance to come out.
Suárez, following up in the center, attracted the full attention of Chiellini and Benatia. The two closed in on Suárez like two iron gates. But Suárez was also cunning. He saw the situation behind him and made an incredibly convincing dummy shot, intentionally letting the ball run past him!
The ball skidded past the near post, landing at the top of the penalty area. That was a complete vacuum. And a figure appeared there as if by magic.
Leo Messi.
He stood there quietly, like a hunter waiting for prey. There was no defensive player within three meters of him, because everyone had been drawn away by Mané's speed and Suárez's run.
The ball flew toward him with fierce spin. Facing the incoming ball, Messi didn't control it. He knew Buffon was shifting his weight, Benatia was trying to slide in to block the angle. The opportunity lasted only an instant.
Messi adjusted his steps, leaned his body slightly, and swung his left foot rapidly. In that moment, time at Camp Nou seemed to stand still.
"Thump!" A crisp, dull sound.
The ball shot out skimming the turf. It seemed to have a life of its own, precisely slipping between Benatia's sliding legs—nutmeg! Then, with a fierce backspin, it headed straight for the bottom left corner of the goal!
Buffon reacted. The world's best goalkeeper displayed his astonishing speed getting down. His fingertips even brushed the ball. But the shot was too precise, the angle too perfect. The ball grazed the inside of the post and smashed into the net!
1-0!
Camp Nou erupted. All 98,000 people rose simultaneously, the massive roar like a volcanic eruption nearly lifting the roof.
After scoring, Messi didn't point to the sky as he usually did. He charged madly toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees on the turf, leaving three deep marks. He pounded the Barça crest on his chest forcefully, then stood up, faced the stands, spread his arms, and roared at the sky.
In this moment, he was released. The tears from Turin five months ago transformed into flames of Revenge at this moment. This was the first time in his career he had scored past Buffon! That 'Buffon curse' hyped endlessly by the media shattered into dust before absolute skill.
Teammates swarmed over. Suárez hugged him, Mané jumped on his back, Paulinho bulldozed everyone together like a bulldozer. On the Chairman's podium, Bartomeu watched this scene, clenching his fist tightly, his knuckles white, his eyes slightly red.
"Do you see, Florentino? Do you see, Allegri?" Bartomeu roared inwardly. "This is the new Barça! We have Mané's speed to tear apart defenses, Paulinho's physicality to win duels, Eriksen's passing to find gaps. And all of this is to allow that God to comfortably take that shot from this position!"
The match restarted. After conceding, Juventus tried to fight back. They were unwilling to fail like this. In the 42nd minute, Dybala received the ball on the edge of the penalty area, used his individual skill to dribble past Rakitić and Busquets in succession, and prepared to take a long-range shot.
This was Juventus's best chance of the first half. However, the moment Dybala went to shoot, a red-and-blue figure flew horizontally across.
Iñigo Martínez—this basque center-back bought for a 32 million release clause—showed his worth. He didn't recklessly stick out a leg. Instead, he anticipated Dybala's shooting motion, throwing his whole body horizontally like a sandbag, using his chest to block Dybala's powerful strike.
"Thud!" A dull sound. Iñigo grunted, falling to the ground. But he didn't lie there feigning injury to waste time. He immediately got up, clutching his chest, roaring encouragement to his teammates: "Stay focused! Don't let them in!"
This scene made Allegri on the sidelines feel utterly chilled. He crossed his arms, his brows furrowed into a deep 'Sichuan' character. He realized the most terrifying thing about this Barça team wasn't that Messi had scored—Messi scoring was normal. The most terrifying thing was that their defense had changed.
The old Barça's defense relied on possession. Once they lost the ball, they could only depend on Piqué and Busquets's positioning, Easy to collapse (prone to collapse) in tough battles. But now, this Barça team had physicality, had toughness, had that 'bandit-like' spirit of 'blocking a gun muzzle to win.' This kind of temperament (mentality/character) usually only appeared in teams like Atlético Madrid or Chelsea. When Barcelona's technique combined with Atlético Madrid's toughness... it was simply a monster.
"Peeep—" The halftime whistle sounded.
Barcelona 1-0 Juventus. Although the score difference was small, in terms of the match, Barça had completely dominated Juventus: Shots: 12 to 3; Tackle success rate: Barça 75%, Juventus 40%; Possession: Barça 55%, Juventus 45%. Although possession was down, the attacking threat had multiplied.
In the player tunnel. Messi wiped his sweat, walking ahead. Mané came over, flashing a bright white smile, excitedly patting Messi's shoulder: "Leo, that goal just now was really beautiful. I'll send you a few more in the second half. That Barzagli can't run anymore; I feel like I can get past him ten times."
Messi turned his head, looked at this new partner, and for the first time showed a genuine, relaxed smile: "Sadio, your speed is simply incredible. I was stunned watching that overtake from behind. Keep running, I'll get the ball to you."
"That's a must," Mané patted his chest. "The Chairman said I'm here to help carry the piano. You just focus on playing."
Inside the Chairman's box.
Halftime. Bartomeu didn't go to the lounge for snacks. He still stood by the window, looking down at the pitch being watered. He once again picked up that cigar, and this time, he lit it.
Pale blue smoke rose, blurring his face, which was slightly tired but full of ambition. The first half proved one thing: his team-building Ideas (philosophy/plan) was completely correct. Mané's speed, Paulinho's physicality, Eriksen's playmaking, plus Messi—this puzzle had fit together seamlessly.
"Óscar," Bartomeu said to the CEO behind him. "Notify the Commercial Department to start full-channel promotion of Mané and Paulinho's jerseys tomorrow. I want the whole world to know this new Barça is no longer just about one name."
"Understood, Chairman. But..." Grau hesitated slightly. "Juventus will definitely counterattack in the second half. Should we play it safe?"
"Play it safe?" Bartomeu looked through the smoke at the bright red "1-0" on the scoreboard. "No. For avengers, 1-0 is far from enough." "What I want is a slaughter. A slaughter that will make all of Europe tremble."