Chapter 6: Chapter 6
The day after that starting eleven was unveiled, its shockwaves still lingered.
There was only one training session left before the match.
Valdebebas, Pitch A, looked unusually empty.
Julian had not scheduled a full squad practice.
Only eleven players remained.
They were the very eleven who would start at the Bernabéu.
The rest—including Ronaldo and Salgado—had been sent to the gym on the other side for individual strength work.
A massive glass wall blocked the sound but not the view.
Inside, the atmosphere was so stiff it felt frozen.
The treadmill's dull hum mixed with the metallic clang of weights, yet instead of energy it only added to the lifeless silence.
Salgado was hammering away on a stationary bike, sweat soaking through his vest, burning his anger into every frantic pedal stroke.
The other substitutes stretched half-heartedly, eyes flicking now and then—uneasy, complicated—to the Brazilian walking alone on a treadmill.
Ronaldo hadn't touched a single piece of heavy equipment.
In just a training vest, he walked at a near-leisurely pace, slow enough to look like he was strolling through a park.
Sweat slid down his bloated cheek, and he didn't bother wiping it.
His eyes pierced the spotless glass, locked on the German figure across the pitch.
The weight in that stare was heavier than any barbell in the room.
On the training ground, the closed-door tactical drill wrapped up.
Julian gave no summary. He simply led his starting eleven straight into the tactical briefing room.
The heavy door clicked shut behind them, sealing the outside world away.
The lights inside were dim.
Only the massive projection screen at the front illuminated the room, its pale glow sharpening every face.
The players sat scattered, expressions mixed.
Zidane and Raúl exchanged a glance.
Both men saw the same doubt in the other's eyes.
They respected authority, always had.
But this felt like humiliation—like a betrayal of their service.
Beckham folded his arms, silent, unreadable.
Julian spoke without wasting a single word.
He walked to the console, woke up the computer with a practiced hand.
The deep-blue interface of Apex Tactical Suite lit the room, painting their faces in cold light.
"Gentlemen," Julian said, calm and steady.
"Before we dive into the details, I want you to see something."
He pressed Enter.
The screen shifted—Tactical Simulation loaded up.
A virtual model of the Bernabéu appeared, Real Madrid against Zaragoza.
"This is Simulation A," Julian explained.
"We stick to the classic setup—Zidane pulling the strings, Beckham crossing from the right, Raúl and Soldado up front."
Colored dots representing the players moved fluidly, attacking in familiar patterns.
The players leaned in. This was the Madrid they knew.
Soon the simulation ended.
Data filled the center of the screen.
[Simulations: 1000]
[Win: 35%]
[Draw: 45%]
[Loss: 20%]
Murmurs broke the silence.
Thirty-five percent?
At the Bernabéu?
Against Zaragoza?
It wasn't just a forecast—it was an insult.
"Why?" Raúl's brows knotted tight.
Julian didn't answer. He pressed another key.
A red line of analysis exploded across the screen:
[Main causes of failure: Lack of defensive bite during transitions; exploitable gaps behind fullbacks; highly vulnerable to direct counterattacks.]
Zidane and Guti's faces paled.
It was too accurate to dismiss—because it wasn't theory.
It was the brutal reality of the last two seasons, written in data.
"Now," Julian said, voice cutting the tension, "Simulation B."
He switched the lineup.
Ronaldo's dot vanished. Soldado shifted forward, anchoring like a nail.
Salgado's dot disappeared. Cicinho appeared at right back, coiled to sprint.
"Adjusted tactics: high press, fast wide attacks."
He launched the simulation.
The pace leapt.
Madrid's dots swarmed in the opponent's half, suffocating space, winning the ball high, surging down the flanks like a storm tide.
Every breath in the room grew shallow.
They watched, spellbound, as the unfamiliar system ripped across the virtual pitch.
A minute later, the sim ended.
New numbers appeared:
[Simulations: 1000]
[Win: 75%]
The room froze.
In the silence, the only sound was the players' breathing, suddenly harsh, ragged.
Raúl sucked in air, eyes wide in disbelief.
Beside him, Zidane leaned so far forward his hands dug into his knees, desperate not to miss a pixel.
Everyone stared at the blood-red 75%.
From thirty-five to seventy-five.
A forty-point swing.
Impossible.
"Zaragoza's center-backs, Álvaro and Gabriel Milito, are strong in duels," Julian said, his tone like a scalpel, "but their turning speed is fatal."
"Soldado's pressing denies them time on the ball. Cicinho's pace turns their line into a nightmare."
With a click, Simulation B became fully visualized in 3D.
The view shifted into a first-person perspective.
Beckham received the ball—only he didn't whip in the trademark angled cross.
He cut inside instead, drawing the left-back and left center-back toward him.
In that heartbeat of imbalance, a white flash streaked down the sideline.
Cicinho, full sprint, stormed into the massive space Beckham had carved.
Inside the box, Soldado's clever decoy run dragged the other center-back away from the far post.
Beckham slipped the ball wide.
Cicinho hit it first time across.
Back post—Raúl, unmarked.
Goal.
The animation ran crisp as clockwork. Every run, every pass timed to perfection, like a machine's blueprint.
Zidane's pupils shrank.
A lifetime on the pitch, and still—this was something alien.
It wasn't instinct.
It wasn't artistry.
It was math.
Raúl swallowed hard. When he looked back at Julian, his eyes had changed.
The head coach's decisions weren't reckless gambles, nor vendettas against the stars.
Behind every choice lay cold, ruthless, terrifying logic.
"David."
Julian's gaze turned to Beckham.
On screen, a heatmap of Beckham's passes appeared, his famous 45-degree cross zone blazing red.
The system overlaid a new arrow in bright blue—a narrower, central golden zone.
[Timing: 0.5s after Cicinho crosses midfield]
[Target: Right sideline, three meters ahead]
[Power: 75%]
"For this match," Julian said evenly, "you abandon the long diagonal cross."
"Your job is to link with Cicinho. Play the short ball. Create the space. Trust me—your precision will be deadlier here than anywhere else."
Beckham stared at the data, then at Julian.
There was no plea in those eyes—only command.
He paused, then nodded firmly.
Two days later.
Santiago Bernabéu.
The crowd was restless, smothered in silence.
No chants. No songs. Only a suffocating tension.
Some ultras held banners that read: "German fraud, get out of the Bernabéu!"
When the stadium announcer rolled out the starting lineup, the silence shattered.
"…Forward, Roberto Soldado!"
"…Right back, Cicinho!"
As the unfamiliar names echoed, a tidal wave of boos crashed down, shaking the roof.
And those jeers weren't for the visitors.
They were for their own coach.
Julian walked out alone from the tunnel to the touchline.
His black suit was sharp, pressed, his posture unbending.
The media's flashbulbs detonated in a frenzy, trying to devour the man at the storm's center.
Tens of thousands of eyes—angry, mocking, disbelieving—stabbed at him like blades.
On the bench, Ronaldo leaned back, arms folded, watching coldly, like a guest awaiting a tragedy.
Julian ignored it all.
He lifted his head, glanced at the giant scoreboard, his face calm, utterly unshaken.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone