"Since the second half of the 2011-12 season, Barcelona had been winless in three consecutive El Clásico matches," Santiago remarked, his voice echoing through the silent stadium during the final moments of the broadcast. "But today, the Blaugrana secured a monumental victory at the highly anticipated Bernabéu, ending a period of Madrid' dominance. Lorenzo's brace in his La Liga debut isn't just a win; it's a statement that the hierarchy of Spanish football has shifted overnight."
In the press box, Inés Valdes watched the scenes below. "He's at the top of the charts with one less game played. Every scout in Europe is currently rewriting their reports."
On the field, when the final whistle blew, the atmosphere at the Bernabéu remained in an extremely subtle state. There was no pre-match frenzy, only the hollow, haunting sound of eighty thousand people coming to terms with a home defeat. The white sea of supporters slowly receded from the stands, leaving behind only faint murmurs and the occasional, frustrated whistle.
The Bernabéu's home DJ clutched his microphone on the main stand, trying to salvage the morale of the departing crowd. "It's okay! We lost at home in 2011 and still took the title! We will strike back at the Camp Nou! Messi didn't score today, and Cristiano is still our King!"
But his words fell on deaf ears. A group of veteran Madridistas near the dugout looked at the scoreboard with grim expressions. They realized that for the first time in years, the threat to Cristiano Ronaldo's Golden Boot wasn't just the man in the Number 10 shirt. It was the seventeen-year-old "Beast" who had just put two past Saint Iker.
As night fell over Madrid, the sunset bleeding into a deep violet over the horizon, the tension of the match began to dissipate into professional respect.
Pautasso rushed onto the field, his face alight with joy as he embraced the players. "Tata! We took all three points! This is a legendary night!"
Martino, ever the stoic Argentinian, adjusted his glasses. "It's a long season, Jorge. Let's enjoy the flight home before we start worrying about the next one."
Puyol, despite his aching knee, limped out from the bench to embrace every teammate. He was the first to reach Lorenzo, pulling the boy into a fierce, brotherly hug. "You silenced them, kid. You did exactly what you said you'd do."
Nearby, the "Spanish Iron Triangle", Xavi, Iniesta, and Xabi Alonso gathered in a tight circle. In the heat of the match, they had been at each other's throats, but now, they were simply the masters of the Spanish midfield again. Alonso offered a tired, respectful nod to Lorenzo as he passed.
Di María, who had been substituted earlier, went straight to Messi. The two Argentinian stars spoke in low, hushed tones about the national team, their friendship transcending the club rivalry.
Álvaro Morata walked over from the Madrid bench, looking for Lorenzo.
"Lorenzo, honestly, you gave us a nightmare tonight," Morata sighed, offering his hand. "Don't forget our U-21 match against France in a few days.
With you in the middle, Varane and Umtiti are going to have a very long afternoon."
Lorenzo smirked. "Varane is your teammate, Álvaro. You're already betting against him?"
Even Sergio Ramos, the man who had wrestled Lorenzo to the ground an hour earlier, approached. Puyol instinctively stepped in, wary of a final conflict, but Ramos merely held up a white jersey.
"Relax, Carles," Ramos said, his voice husky with exhaustion. "I just want to swap with the Number 9. He earned it."
Lorenzo pulled off his sweat-soaked Blaugrana shirt and handed it to the Madrid captain. Ramos looked at the fabric for a moment, the first jersey of a boy who had just changed the course of the season before draping it over his shoulder.
Inside the Barcelona locker room, the celebration was deafening. Historically, they had won here before, but this felt like the start of something different.
"Lorenzo! You are the undisputed Man of the Match!" Messi shouted over the music, pulling Lorenzo into a group photo with Neymar. "The LMN era starts tonight!"
Neymar was already posing, his golden dreadlocks bouncing as he held up a peace sign. "BBC who? Tomorrow the papers will only have three letters on the front page!"
Busquets, usually the "Professor" of the midfield, had climbed onto a treatment table and was performing a chaotic, jubilant dance that had the entire room in stitches. Even the veterans, who had seen a dozen Clásico wins, couldn't help but be infected by the energy of the young trio.
Lorenzo eventually found a moment of quiet, sitting in front of his locker. The weight of the evening began to settle in, along with the familiar hum of the system in his mind.
[Ding! Congratulations to the Host for completing the side quest: Who is the King of the Bernabéu?]
[Quest Completion: 2 / 2 Goals! Result: Victory!]
[Quest Rewards Settling... Settlement Successful!]
[Reward 1: Gold Treasure Chest - 1, Silver Treasure Chest - 1, Bronze Treasure Chest - 1.]
[Reward 2: Main Quest "Dream Voyage" Difficulty -20%! (Goal target reduced from 20 to 16).]
[Reward 3: Real Madrid "Star" Treasure Chest - 1.]
[Ding! Congratulations to the Host for illuminating "Santiago Bernabéu" in the Stadium Codex!]
[La Liga Codex Progress: Alfredo Di Stéfano, Santiago Bernabéu (2 / 3).]
Lorenzo's heart hammered against his ribs as he opened the Gold Chest.
[Ding! Congratulations! You have obtained: Claudio Caniggia "Son of the Wind" Speed Template (65% Initial Load).]
A sudden, intense heat flooded Lorenzo's lower body. It felt as if his muscle fibers were being rewoven, becoming leaner and more explosive. Caniggia, the man who could run the 100m in nearly 10 seconds flat was an Argentinian legend of pure, unadulterated velocity. At 65%, Lorenzo felt as though he could beat any defender in a footrace, even without the ball.
Then, he opened the "Star" chest.
[Reward: Kaká "Man-Ball Combination" Template!]
The sensations were overwhelming. The Kaká template brought a sense of effortless grace to his dribbling, the ability to keep the ball glued to his foot during those long-distance sprints. Combined with his "Iron Body" immunity, Lorenzo realized he was becoming a physical and technical anomaly.
"The press conference is about to begin!" Pautasso shouted, poking his head into the locker room. "Reporters are swarming. They're demanding to see Lorenzo. Tata, you need to bring him out."
Martino looked at the seventeen-year-old, who was calmly pulling on a clean tracksuit. "Are you ready for the cameras, kid? It's a different kind of pressure than the pitch."
Lorenzo stood up, his height seeming even more imposing than before, his presence filling the small space of the locker room. "I've spent my whole life being told I shouldn't be here, Coach. A few microphones aren't going to stop me now."
Martino smiled, a rare look of pride in his eyes. "Let's go then. Let's show them the face of the new La Liga."
As they walked toward the media room, passing the grim-faced Real Madrid staff and the heavy silence of the Bernabéu corridors, Lorenzo felt the "LMN" era truly beginning. He wasn't just a guest in this league anymore. He was becoming its greatest nightmare.
[Status: Post-Match Press Conference Imminent.]
[System Note: New Skills Integrated - Son of the Wind (Speed), Man-Ball Harmony (Kaká). Codex Progress: 2/3.]
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