The final quarter of the match at the Mestalla was a formality dressed up as a football game. With twenty-five minutes remaining and the score at 4-1, Djukic had already made his peace with the result. His instructions to the remaining players were simple: keep the shape, concede no more, leave the pitch with professional dignity. They were outclassed tonight. That was football. You absorbed it, you worked out why, and you came back in the week.
Martino made his substitutions efficiently, Iniesta off at sixty-eight minutes, Sandro on, Neymar off at seventy-two for Pedro. The front three had done their work. There was no need to risk injury chasing a fifth goal that the scoreline didn't require.
Lorenzo stayed on. Martino had told him sixty-five minutes before the match, but the hat-trick changed the calculation. The coach left him on with a single instruction delivered during a water break: "Keep it simple. Don't force anything."
Lorenzo kept it simple for seventeen minutes.
Then, in the Eighty-second minute, Parejo miscontrolled a clearance under pressure from Pedro. The ball ricocheted to the edge of the Mestalla centre circle. Lorenzo had tracked the move from twenty metres, the Inzaghi instinct reading the second ball before the first had landed. He collected, drove toward the final third, shielded off the covering Romeu, and as Guaita narrowed his angle, rolled the ball into the corner with his left foot.
Just a composed, precise, simple finish from a player who was already inside Guaita's decision before the goalkeeper had started it.
5-1.
The Mestalla gave it a short, dispirited noise. There was no energy left for outrage. Guaita picked the ball out of the net, placed it on the spot, and walked back to his line.
"FIVE-ONE! LORENZO'S FOURTH GOAL OF THE EVENING! HIS TENTH OF THE LEAGUE SEASON!" Santiago called. "Four games. Ten goals. The Pichichi table doesn't have a second name within reach — it has a gap, and then a list of names below it."
Inés checked the updated standings on her monitor. "Lorenzo leads with ten. Cristiano Ronaldo is second with four. The margin is six goals after four matchdays. At this rate, the Pichichi conversation will be over before October ends."
The final whistle came minutes later.
Final score: Valencia 1 — 5 FC Barcelona.
Djukic shook hands with Martino at the centre circle, two managers who had watched the same player all evening and arrived at the same conclusion by different routes. Djukic said something brief. Martino nodded. Both men walked to their respective tunnels without theatre.
In the handshake line, Parejo found Lorenzo. The Valencia captain had spent ninety minutes chasing him across every channel of the Mestalla, and he had done it with intelligence and discipline and it had still produced a four-goal night for his opponent.
"How old are you?" Parejo asked flatly.
"Seventeen," Lorenzo said.
Parejo looked at him for a moment. "Enjoy it," he said, and moved on down the line.
Piatti stopped briefly. He and Lorenzo were countrymen, age gap aside, and they shared the silence of two Argentines who had spent the evening on opposite sides of a result neither could change. No words needed.
In the Barcelona dressing room, the mood was calm and professional, the specific atmosphere of a team that has won well and knows it. Messi was already changed, phone in hand. Neymar was in the corner doing kick-ups.
Martino addressed the group briefly. "Good performance. Valencia are a quality side and we were better tonight. Enjoy tonight. We train Thursday. Sevilla on Saturday." He looked around the room. "Professional throughout. That is how we keep winning."
He pulled Lorenzo aside before leaving.
"Sixty minutes against Sevilla," Martino said. "You have the U-21 final at the end of the month. I need you fresh for both."
"Sixty is enough," Lorenzo said.
Martino studied him for a moment, the particular look of a manager assessing whether a player means it or is just being agreeable. He decided Lorenzo meant it.
"Good. Get some rest."
Pautasso stopped beside Lorenzo as the room emptied. "Four goals, one assist. Match rating 9.9. Ten league goals in four appearances." He looked at his tablet, then at Lorenzo. "The system just updated the Pichichi graphic. You're the only name in the top five with double figures."
Lorenzo towelled his hair, said nothing.
Busquets, walking past, looked at the tablet over Pautasso's shoulder. "At this rate he'll have thirty by Christmas. Can we start building the trophy case now or do we wait for the formality?"
"Thursday," Xavi said from across the room, the dry, settled voice of a man who had seen this team win before and knew it started with the next training session. "We celebrate nothing until it's won."
Lorenzo sat in front of his locker as the room thinned. The system had been waiting patiently since the final whistle, two notifications unread in the background of his awareness. He let them surface now.
[Ding! Side Mission 'Conquer the Devil's Home Ground' - COMPLETE.]
[Final match rating: 9.9. Hat-trick and assist confirmed.]
[Rewards settling...]
[1. Attribute Breakthrough Potion — SECURED and APPLIED.]
[System Note: The 80-point training ceiling has been lifted to 90. Shooting, Jumping, and Heading are now growth-unlocked. Certain restricted physical potentials have been released.]
He felt it immediately, a faint but distinct sensation, as if something had been loosened that he hadn't known was tight. For weeks his natural attributes had plateaued at the 80-point mark regardless of how hard Pintus pushed him in training. Now that ceiling was gone. The work could mean something again.
[2. Valencia 'Legendary' Star Chest × 1 - SECURED.]
[Open now?]
He looked at the chest icon for a moment. The team bus was loading outside — he could hear Alves already complaining about legroom. He would open it on the bus. No rush.
"Later," he thought, and stood up.
[Status: Full Time. Valencia 1 - 5 FC Barcelona. La Liga Matchday 4.]
[System Note: Breakthrough Potion applied. Training ceiling: 90.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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