During the fifteen-minute halftime break, the stands of Camp Nou were buzzing with noise as fans still savored Messi's low-driven strike from the first half that had broken Buffon's curse. However, inside the home team's locker room, the atmosphere was chillingly calm and oppressive.
This wasn't the dead silence born of tension, but rather the focus of a hunter cleaning his rifle.
Valverde stood before the tactics board, his marker pen flying across the whiteboard. "Listen, gentlemen. A 1-0 lead is the most dangerous. Allegri is an old fox; in the second half, he will definitely push Sandro and Cuadrado forward, trying to cut off our wing connections."
"But," Valverde spun around sharply, his eyes blazing, "that also means they will leave a vast prairie behind them. That is your hunting ground."
He looked towards Sadio Mané, who was sitting in a corner gulping water. "Sadio, you gave Barzagli a hard time in the first half. In the second half, I want you to be even more ruthless. Don't always go to the byline; try cutting inside. Their center-back Chiellini is slow to turn; that's your opportunity."
Mané wiped the sweat from his forehead, revealing his trademark rows of gleaming white teeth, his eyes flashing with a wild light: "Don't worry, Coach. That old man's legs are already gone. I can hear him wheezing like a broken bellows."
At that moment, Bartomeu, who had been standing by the door without speaking, walked in. He didn't discuss tactics; that was the coach's job. As Chairman, he was responsible for injecting soul.
"gentlemen," Bartomeu's voice wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the enclosed space. "Six months ago, on this very pitch, we were knocked out by Juventus. Back then, the whole world mocked us, calling Barcelona the'sinking Titanic.'"
"Tonight, 1-0 is not enough." Bartomeu's gaze swept over every face, finally resting on Messi. "I want a massacre. I want Allegri to have nightmares tonight. I want all of Europe to know that when Barcelona bares its fangs, no one escapes unscathed."
Messi, who was adjusting his shin guards, looked up at these words, his eyes calm yet profound: "We'll do it, Mr. Chairman."
When the players from both teams re-emerged from the tunnel, the lights of Camp Nou seemed even more glaring than in the first half. Juventus had indeed made adjustments; Sturaro was warming up on the sidelines, ready to bolster the midfield's steel at any moment. But Allegri underestimated Barça's determination and, even more so, the physical reserves of this 'mutant Barça.'
Right from the start of the second half, the game's character changed dramatically. Barça no longer patiently passed the ball around in their own half to kill time. Instead, like a pack of sharks that had smelled blood, they began a frenzied high-press in the attacking third.
In the 49th minute, Juventus tried to build from the back. Pjanić received the ball, turned, and tried to find an outlet on the wing. "Boom!" A figure came roaring in. Paulinho. This Brazilian from the Chinese Super League showed what 'violent aesthetics' truly meant. He didn't slow down at all, directly using his powerful chest and shoulder to smash into Pjanić's side.
It was a physical challenge right on the edge of the rules. Pjanić flew out like a doll hit by a truck, landing two meters away and clutching his ribs in pain. Referee Skomina's whistle twitched in his mouth, but he ultimately didn't blow it. The boos and cheers from Camp Nou intertwined, putting immense pressure on the referee.
Possession changed hands! Paulinho followed through with a direct through ball. The ball sliced through Juventus's still-forming defensive line like a scalpel, rolling into the open space on the left flank.
Sadio Mané was off. Facing De Sciglio's defense, this time Mané didn't choose to pass or force his way down the wing. He remembered the coach's halftime instructions.
He tapped the ball with his left foot, shifted his body weight violently, feigning a move to go down the line and cross. De Sciglio, after all an Italian international, desperately adjusted his balance to block the path to the byline. But the moment his weight shifted, Mané displayed breathtaking explosiveness—he suddenly cut the ball back with his right foot, changed direction, and cut inside!
This change of direction was too fast, too sharp. De Sciglio's ankle even emitted a protesting crack, and the man slid to the ground in disarray. Mané broke into the box!
Now, Barzagli, who had scrambled back to cover, tried to block the shooting angle. Mané showed no panic. At full speed, he suddenly unleashed his right foot—a thunderous shot towards the near post!
The ball flew like a cruise missile leaving its chamber, whistling past Barzagli's ear, straight into the top corner of the near post! Buffon made a diving save; his fingertips even felt the airflow disturbed by the ball. But the speed was simply too great, too fast for the eye to follow.
"BOOM!" The ball slammed into the back of the net with a heavy thud, as if trying to tear the netting.
2-0! Mané scored his first Champions League goal for Barça!
After scoring, Mané didn't run to the corner flag. Instead, he charged straight towards the bench, locked eyes with Bartomeu from a distance, and gave a crisp military salute. The ninety thousand fans at Camp Nou chanted his name frantically. "Mane! Mane! Mane!" This kind of chant had previously belonged only to Messi or Suárez. But tonight, this lion from Senegal had conquered the demanding Catalans.
The 2-0 score plunged Juventus into desperate chaos. Allegri waved frantically on the sidelines, urging his team to push forward, trying to salvage the game. But this played right into Barça's hands. Huge gaps were left behind Juventus, and for a Barça with Mané and Paulinho, this was Disneyland.
In the 65th minute, a Juventus corner came to nothing. Ter Stegen caught the high ball and immediately launched a counter-attack with a long throw. The ball sailed over the halfway line, landing near the center circle.
Paulinho cushioned the ball with his chest. Facing Matuidi's close marking, the Brazilian showed why he was the 'King of the Box-to-Box in the CSL.' He didn't try to dribble past with skill. Instead, he knocked the ball powerfully ahead of him and began an unstoppable, brute-force sprint.
He ran like a bulldozer, dragging Matuidi along for twenty meters! Matuidi tugged at Paulinho's jersey, stretching it out of shape, but Paulinho remained unshaken, his core strength outrageously powerful. Finally, exhausted, Matuidi helplessly let go and fell onto the turf.
A 3-on-2 counter-attack was on. Paulinho drove the ball to the edge of the box, facing a retreating Chiellini. Everyone expected this 'rough player' to take a wild shot. But he once again showed his delicate side. Mid-stride, he suddenly paused and delivered a gentle square pass with the outside of his boot.
Messi received the ball on the right wing. Now, only Sandro stood before him. It was a one-on-one situation. For Messi, this was a gift.
Messi didn't rush. He made two consecutive shoulder-drop feints, completely unbalancing Sandro, who stumbled to the ground like a drunkard. Then, Messi lifted his left foot and curled a shot towards the far corner.
The ball traced a perfect, physics-defying arc, bending around a despairing, outstretched Buffon and nestling into the far corner of the net.
3-0! Messi with a brace!
Allegri slumped into his seat on the bench, covering his face with his hands. His pride and joy, the concrete defense, was as fragile as wet paper against this new Barça of 'technique + power.'
Barça didn't let up. Bartomeu watched the scoreboard from his box in the stands, expressionless. "Not enough," he muttered to himself. "We'll return the humiliation you gave us double today."
In the 78th minute, substitute Iniesta orchestrated an attack on the left. Though his pace had slowed, Iniesta's vision remained top-class. He strolled casually through a triple-mark, lofting a pass into the box for Suárez.
Suárece received the ball with his back to goal, tightly marked by Benatia. But he was clever; he didn't try to turn. Instead, he flicked the ball with his heel.
The ball rolled to the edge of the penalty spot. That area should have been Juventus's most tightly defended zone, the so-called 'absolute defense circle.' But at that moment, it was empty—because Paulinho's earlier off-the-ball run had drawn the attention of both center-backs.
And in that fatal space, Messi appeared. He was like a ghost, always in the right place.
Facing the onrushing Buffon, Messi didn't even put power into it. Watching the diving goalkeeper, a slight smile touched his lips as he deftly chipped the ball with the tip of his left foot. A Panenka-style chip!
The ball traced a humiliating parabola through the air, floating over Buffon's head and gently, lazily dropping into the net. This manner of scoring is the greatest psychological blow to a goalkeeper.
4-0! A hat-trick!
The entire stadium went crazy. In the stands, countless fans began bowing in worship towards the pitch. It was reverence for a god. Messi ran towards the camera, held up three fingers, then smiled and pointed towards the presidential box in the stands. It was as if he was saying: Chairman, is this the revenge you wanted? Is it enough?
Buffon picked the ball out of the net, shaking his head helplessly. He watched Messi's retreating back, his eyes filled with the helplessness of a hero past his prime. Faced with a Messi like this, faced with a Barça team possessing both physicality and technique, who could possibly stop them?
As the match neared its end, Juventus had completely collapsed. Their players' eyes were glazed over, they just wanted to escape this hell as quickly as possible. But Barça was still attacking. They were like bloodthirsty beasts, unwilling to let go of even a single morsel of meat.
In the 88th minute, Eriksen took a corner kick from the right flank. The ball flew towards the back post with a fierce spin. Piqué leaped high, but instead of shooting, he used his height advantage to head the ball back towards the center of the penalty area.
On the edge of the six-yard box, a powerful figure leaped high, overpowering both Khedira and Chiellini, two defensive stalwarts. Paulinho! He was like a hunting eagle, displaying astonishing hang time in the air, pausing for a full 0.5 seconds before slamming the ball powerfully towards the goal!
"Bang!" The ball bounced into the net! The force was so great that the ball even spun several times in the netting before falling.
5-0! The Five Finger Mountain!
After scoring, Paulinho charged towards the sidelines, in the direction of Bartomeu's box. He slapped his own muscles forcefully, roaring, venting the anger of being underestimated by the European media. Meanwhile, on the pitch, Piqué raised his right hand high, spreading five fingers, displaying them to the stands. The Five Finger Mountain! This was Barça's highest honor for humiliating their arch-rivals! The last time was against Mourinho's Real Madrid; this time, it was the turn of Serie A's overlords, Juventus.
Allegri lowered his head and walked back to the locker room. He knew exactly what tomorrow's Italian newspapers would write about him – 'The Shame of Turin: Juventus Stripped Bare at Camp Nou.'
The final whistle blew. 5-0. An epic massacre. Barça had washed away the shame from six months ago in the most brutal way possible.
In the locker room, the atmosphere was at its peak. Champagne had already been opened, foam spraying everywhere. Piqué was still making the 'Five Finger Mountain' gesture to everyone, shouting, 'Did you see Buffon's expression? He was about to cry!' Mané was teaching Paulinho a Senegalese dance, the two muscular giants twisting their bodies, causing the whole team to roar with laughter. Messi sat quietly in a corner, holding the match ball, watching his teammates' antics, a satisfied smile on his face.
At that moment, the locker room door was pushed open. Bartomeu straightened his suit, a victor's smile on his face, and walked in. 'gentlemen, tonight you are gods.' Cheers erupted once again. Suárez even tried to spray champagne on the Chairman.
Just then, the private phone in Bartomeu's pocket rang. It was a red, encrypted number. Only a very few top executives knew this number, and it was agreed it was only to be used for matters of 'life and death' importance.
Bartomeu's smile instantly froze. He made a gesture, signaling everyone to be quiet. The music in the locker room stopped. The players, seeing the Chairman's serious expression, gradually fell silent.
Bartomeu walked to a corner and answered the call. 'Bartomeu speaking.'
From the other end of the line came the trembling voice of Vice Chairman Vilallonga; in the background, there seemed to be the wail of police sirens and the clamor of a crowd: 'Chairman, big trouble has arrived. Just now, the Guardia Civil raided the Economics Department of the Catalan regional government, arresting 14 high-ranking officials. It's chaos outside, tens of thousands of people are besieging the government building.'
Bartomeu's knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone, his eyes instantly turning icy cold. The wheel of history had finally rolled to this moment. September 20, 2017. The famous 'Operation Anubis.' This was the Spanish central government's hardest strike against the referendum, and the fuse that would ignite the entire situation.
'And also...' Vilallonga's voice was choked with tears, 'La Liga President La Liga President has just held an emergency press conference. He declared: if Barcelona makes any pro-independence moves in the coming days, or cannot guarantee safety on match days...'
'What will he do?' Bartomeu's voice was as cold as a Siberian wind.
'He cited Article 6 of the Sports Law, threatening to expel Barcelona from La Liga and deduct all our points! Even... revoke our professional League registration!'
Boom! It was like a bucket of ice water had been poured over them from head to toe. The lingering scent of champagne in the locker room now tasted somewhat bitter.
Expulsion from La Liga. It was a nuclear-level threat. What would leaving La Liga mean? It would mean no matches to play every weekend. It would mean hundreds of millions of euros in broadcast revenue vanishing to zero. It would mean sponsors like Nike and Rakuten would immediately activate termination clauses. It would mean superstars like Messi and Suárez would be forced to leave.
This red-and-blue warship, just repaired, just tonight demonstrating its invincible form, would sink overnight.
Bartomeu hung up the phone. He slowly turned around, looking at the players still riding the wave of excitement. They didn't know yet that the sky above their heads had already cracked open.
'What's wrong, Chairman?' Messi, sensing the change in Bartomeu's mood, walked over, still holding the ball.
Bartomeu looked at Messi, at this hero who had just scored a hat-trick. He had to protect these people, protect this team.
'Turn off the music.' Bartomeu's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a suffocating authority.
The locker room instantly fell deathly silent. Only the sound of water from the showers continued to run.
'gentlemen, I'm sorry to interrupt your celebration.' Bartomeu walked to the center, his gaze sweeping over everyone's face, finally resting on Piqué and Roberto, the local Catalan players. 'We beat Juventus 5-0 on the pitch. It's a great victory, one worthy of the history books.'
'But,' Bartomeu took a deep breath, his tone becoming incredibly heavy, 'our war has only just begun.' 'La Liga President has just threatened from Madrid to expel us from La Liga.'
'What?!' Piqué abruptly stood up, the champagne bottle in his hand crashing to the floor, shattering into pieces. Alba's eyes widened in disbelief. Even Mané and Paulinho, who didn't understand Spanish, seeing their teammates' expressions, realized the severity of the problem.
'From now until October 1st.' Bartomeu held up one finger, his voice echoing in the silent locker room. 'The entire team is under the highest level of media blackout. No one is allowed to tweet, give interviews discussing politics, or respond to any of La Liga President's statements.'
'Piqué, especially you. Hand your phone over to me for safekeeping, or lock it in your locker yourself.'
'Chairman! We can't...' Piqué tried to argue.
'That's an order!' Bartomeu cut him off sharply. 'Gerard, if you want Leo to keep playing for Barça, shut your mouth.'
Piqué glanced at Messi, gritted his teeth, and sat back down, his eyes reddening.
Bartomeu looked around at everyone, his expression shifting from stern to resolute: 'What we are about to face is no longer a visible opponent like Juventus. It's an invisible, life-and-death political strangulation.'
'But I promise you.' Bartomeu straightened his collar, regaining the composure of a financial godfather. 'I will handle all of this. Your task is only one: play football, win matches. As long as we are invincible on the pitch, no one can truly destroy us.'
Bartomeu walked to the door, glanced back at the glaring 5-0 on the scoreboard. It was a heavenly scoreline. But now, they stood on the edge of hell.
'Be careful going home tonight. There are a lot of police... on the roads.'
With that, Bartomeu pushed the door open and left, leaving a room full of bewildered superstars. In the corridor, he dialed that red encrypted number.
'Vilallonga, get me in touch with Manchester City's Soriano, and Manchester United's Woodward.' A crazed glint flashed in Bartomeu's eyes.'Since La Liga President wants to kick us out, let's talk to him about the 'possibility' of the Premier League. I want him to know that Barcelona is not just an army, it's a commercial empire he can't afford to mess with.'