Chapter 7: Chapter 7
The referee's whistle pierced the Bernabéu, sharp and merciless.
The match had begun.
With the ball barely rolling, Madrid's players surged forward like beasts released from their cages, charging headlong into Zaragoza's half.
High pressing.
That was Julian's only demand.
But between ideals and execution yawned a gulf—one named "cohesion."
Guti lunged to press high, only to collide head-on with Emerson tracking back. Both men tumbled to the turf in a heap.
Ramos launched himself into a tackle, fierce and uncompromising, but a fraction late. One deft feint sent him sprawling past his mark. The whistle followed, and the yellow card flashed.
Through the entire first half, Real Madrid looked nothing short of chaotic.
They abandoned the possession play that had once been their pride. They abandoned the individual brilliance that had once defined them. Instead, they stumbled through a style utterly foreign, awkward, and joyless.
Misplaced passes.
Overlapping runs into the same channel.
Defensive gaps yawning open.
The whistles from the stands began scattered, then multiplied, until they fused into a heavy tide that pressed down on every white shirt on the pitch.
"This is a disaster."
The Spanish television commentator did not sugarcoat it.
"I can't even begin to understand Julian's so-called tactics—if they can be called tactics at all. He has taken the finest artists in world football and turned them into lumberjacks. It's not just wrong—it's an insult to the sport itself!"
On the sideline, Julian stood tall, unmoving.
The insults battered his ears. The chaos of the pitch boiled before his eyes.
But in his mind, the [System] displayed the failures with brutal clarity—every botched press, every mistimed sprint.
And within his chest, the fire only burned hotter.
This was the pain of transformation.
The thorny path before the coronation of a new king.
Zaragoza, by contrast, played with ease. Their Liga-hardened composure broke apart Madrid's frantic pressing again and again, carving out ruthless counterattacks.
17th minute: Diego Milito's shot skimmed past the post.
28th minute: Aimar's free kick forced Casillas into a full-stretch save.
41st minute: Cani's drive stung the keeper's gloves once more.
San Iker was Madrid's busiest man, each desperate save buying Julian's tenure a few more fragile breaths.
Julian's nails dug silently into his palms. He forced himself to stay locked on the data streaming across the [System], not on the suffocating chorus of whistles crashing down from eighty thousand throats.
Halftime.
0–0.
The boos swelled into a storm, deafening, furious—betrayal made sound.
The commentators began sharpening the epitaph.
"This might be one of the ugliest, most chaotic halves in Real Madrid's history. The fans are right to be furious. This is not what they paid to see!"
Down the tunnel, Madrid's players trudged, heads bowed, faces grim.
The locker room door shut, sealing out the crowd but not the suffocating weight that hung inside.
No one spoke.
Only heavy breathing filled the space.
Julian entered.
No rage.
No theatrics.
His face was calm, almost unnervingly so.
He walked to the tactics board, uncapped a red marker.
Inside, his mind hammered like a thousand tiny mallets, each strike forged in a single obsession: clarity.
This was no time to vent.
His players didn't need fear.
They needed direction.
Every pair of eyes fixed on him.
Julian drew no formations.
Instead, on the whiteboard he sketched a single downward-sloping curve, then wrote a string of numbers.
Zaragoza – Left-back: Juanfran
First-half sprint distance: 4.8 km
Estimated stamina remaining: 68%
Sprint peak decline: –12%
He tapped the "68%" with the pen.
"He's close to the edge."
His voice wasn't loud. But it struck like a nail into each man's ear.
"In the second half, this side is our target."
His gaze shifted to Beckham and Cicinho.
"David," he said.
"Forget the crosses. Forget the glory. Your job is to run. Drive him until the last ounce of his stamina is gone."
Then he turned to the Brazilian fullback.
"Cicinho. Wait for my signal."
The second half began.
The jeers hadn't stopped.
But in the eyes of Madrid's players, something subtle had shifted.
Especially Beckham.
He abandoned his trademark arcs, his famed right foot. Instead, he exchanged relentless short passes with Cicinho, running, moving, demanding, again and again.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Juanfran chased, chased, and chased again—like a bull run ragged, his legs dragged toward exhaustion.
Minute by minute, the clock wound down.
Julian stood at the touchline, eyes blazing, the [System] feeding him the metrics of every labored step. He could feel it building.
The breaking point.
67th minute.
Juanfran finally cracked.
After another desperate recovery run, he stopped, hands on hips, chest heaving, gasping for air.
Now.
Julian lifted two fingers in the faintest of gestures.
The signal.
Beckham saw it. He cut inside sharply, abandoning the wing. Zaragoza's defense tilted toward him, drawn by instinct.
And then—out of nowhere—a shadow streaked forward like a ghost unleashed.
Cicinho.
From deep, he thundered down the right flank, sprinting into the exact channel Julian had carved out for him.
Beckham never even looked up. With the outside of his right boot, he whipped a diagonal ball across the line.
Not high. Not looping. Perfect.
The pass cleared the back line. It soared over the gasping, rooted Juanfran's head—dropping like destiny at Cicinho's feet.
No touch needed.
Cicinho lashed it across goal first time.
At the near post, Soldado's darting run dragged the last defender away.
The ball skipped on.
At the far post, a figure arrived.
Raúl González.
The captain. The flag. The prince of the Bernabéu.
He was there, as he always was, in the right place, at the right time. One touch. Net bulging.
1–0.
Raúl didn't sprint. Didn't celebrate.
He simply stood tall, raised his arm, and pointed—directly at the lone black-clad figure on the touchline.
The man booed since the opening whistle.
In that instant, eighty thousand voices fell silent.
Julian's entire body went taut, then released.
Elation surged, violent, addictive. He forced down the urge to roar, inhaled deeply instead, drawing the silence and the storm into his lungs.
The Bernabéu stood frozen, caught in an uncanny hush.
On the bench, Ronaldo's folded arms had fallen away. He leaned forward, eyes locked on the figure by the sideline—no longer with contempt, but with something he could not name. Shock. Confusion. Perhaps even awe.
And when the final whistle came, the scoreline held.
Real Madrid 1, Zaragoza 0.
An ugly victory.
But three precious points.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone