97:41 Minutes of play. Mateo King had equalized. In the dying moments of the game, Barcelona 2–Bayern Munich 2, but with the 3–2 victory in Munich from the first leg, the aggregate read 5–4. Barcelona had punched their ticket into the 20/21 semi-finals in a way that felt like chaos incarnate.
Just moments ago, a penalty had threatened to crush them, a moment when time itself seemed to stop, when the stadium held its collective breath as Lewandowski planted the ball and every heartbeat counted. It should have been over. It almost was. But then—the save. The clearance. The desperate sprint. The finish. And suddenly, the impossible became reality.
The Camp Nou was a storm. Fans erupted in a madness that transcended belief. Neutral supporters fell to the ground, stunned, unable to process the eruption of emotion around them. Phones hovered mid-draft; Twitter banger boys like Trey, Janty, and the rest had been moments from posting scornful jabs, ready to mock Barcelona if Lewandowski had scored. Now, their drafts froze in shock.
The Barcelona supporters had been incensed just moments earlier, clinging to despair, clutching their heads, some already crying, some on the floor, throwing scarves, hats, anything within reach in frustration. Security, tasked with keeping the crowd from overflowing onto the pitch, found themselves powerless, unable to contain the tidal wave of jubilation. Even the low advertisement boards had been barely enough to contain the surging mass; they shook and buckled as fans poured forward, unable to believe their eyes.
Moments ago, they had been broken. Heartbreak had coursed through the stands like a physical weight. Why us? Why again? Why always this cruel, Champions League fate? Fans had lived that agony time and time again, watching dreams dissolve in the final minutes. And now, the same stadium, the same fans, the same moments, had flipped entirely. The despair had morphed into pure, unadulterated joy.
And at the center of it all was Mateo King. He had taken the moment and made it his own, running with the ball, finishing the move that turned panic into triumph. But he was not alone. Ter Stegen, the goalkeeper, whose save had sparked this entire sequence, had been the silent guardian of their victory. Without him, none of this would have been possible. Every fan, every heartbeat, every scream that shook the stands owed a nod of thanks to him.
Mateo was swarmed. He could barely breathe through the chaos, through the hands, the hugs, the bodies pressing in from all sides. He laughed, he screamed, he ran. Fans reached out, some grabbing his arms, some pulling him toward the front row, some lifting him up into the air as if he were weightless. The boy who had been at the center of a miracle had become, in that instant, a living symbol of everything Barcelona had ever dreamed of in this stadium.
The noise was volcanic. Every shout, every scream, every foot stomping against the stands, every flag whipped in the wind, was a declaration: Barcelona had survived. Barcelona had won. Barcelona were through.
The sheer, chaotic euphoria carried across the pitch, across the city, across every fan who had dared to hope. It was a moment of pure football magic, one that would be replayed, remembered, and revered for years. The Camp Nou was alive. The people were alive. And in the center of it all, Mateo King, Barcelona's wonder boy, was Sanctified for this moment.
Apart from the Bayern fans, who were facing the direct opposite of what the Barcelona supporters were feeling—joy turned into despair—and perhaps the staunch rival fans of Barcelona, who had been hoping for a crushing defeat, the whole world celebrated. It wasn't just the Camp Nou; over 94,000 of the 99,354 present were in sheer euphoria, voices hoarse, flags waving, scarves flailing. But the streets of Barcelona were no less alive.
Oriol had been right when he told the girls that going out before the match would have been a waste; everyone would be glued to screens, watching every twitch, every heartbeat of the game. But he had left out a crucial part the best time to be out in Barcelona Spain was exactly now: the moment Barcelona actually won a match of this magnitude. Suddenly, the streets transformed. Free drinks spilled onto tables in clubs, music boomed from open windows, strangers hugged, high-fived, jumped, danced, and laughed in unplanned carnivals, spontaneous celebrations erupting in every corner. The cheers carried over from alleys, plazas, and boulevards; bicycles were hoisted in triumph, scooters screamed down avenues, and even the faintest echo of a car horn became part of a citywide symphony. It was chaos, it was love, it was pure football ecstasy, and it wasn't contained to Catalonia.
In India, the time was a brutal 2:30 AM due to the difference, but that did nothing to deter the most dedicated supporters. Siddarth was one of those fans. Mid-twenties, living alone in a cramped apartment in Mumbai, walls thin enough to hear every sigh, every cough, every neighbor moving furniture—but nothing could contain his passion.
When Mateo's goal hit the net, Siddarth erupted. He screamed so loudly that the sound rattled the fragile apartment walls. "GOAL! GOAL! GOAL!" he shouted, almost falling over in the frenzy but refusing to stop, stumbling back to his TV just in time to see Mateo being engulfed by the throngs of fans. His fists punched the air, voice hoarse, trembling with the energy of thousands. "You are who the fuck you are! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I knew you would score! FUCK! MATEO! FUCK!"
The noise didn't go unnoticed. Neighbors banged on walls, shouting back. "Who's that? That brat Siddarth again!" another yelled. "Not everyone is jobless! Some of us have work tomorrow!" a woman shouted, her voice slicing through the din. Siddarth paused mid-cheer, eyes locked on the screen, letting the shouts wash over him. He said nothing, didn't flinch, didn't even blink. He only returned to the TV, watching Messi, Pedri, and the other Barcelona players celebrating, being lifted by the fans, faces radiant with joy. Slowly, he raised a fist again, muttering to himself in a quiet, almost inaudible scream: "Yes… yes… yes…"
And this scene wasn't unique to Mumbai. Across India, similar explosions of passion erupted. In New Delhi, Kolkata, Bangalore, Chennai, Hyderabad, and Pune, living rooms became miniature Camp Nous, voices clashing, neighbors yelling, families shaking heads, lovers laughing, boy too ecstatic forgetting his protection a deal where he would see the result nine months later and shouting, children clapping in delight, every screen showing the miracle play that had lifted an entire city at odd hours.
Barcelona was not just a football club—it was a global phenomenon. Fans sprawled across continents, from Iran to Qatar, Thailand to the Philippines, Nigeria to Vietnam, even in rare corners like Madagascar, Estonia, and Belize, were united in ecstasy. Regardless of time zones, apartments, offices, or streets, everyone paused to feel it. Fathers laughing at their Madrid-supporting sons, wives nudging husbands who bled for Atletico or Real, entire households erupting as their own rivalries became trivial next to the majesty of a Barcelona victory.
As real life descended into insanity, social media became something else entirely. Twitter—chaotic, relentless, merciless—was on fire. The only app that still kept a visible list of the top ten trending topics had been completely hijacked. The win, the timing, the last‑minute goal had swallowed everything whole, even overshadowing the other Champions League match between Chelsea and Porto that had quietly finished in the background, barely noticed.
The top ten told the story on its own:
Barcelona
KING
Lewandoski
Messi
Bayern Munich
Ter Stegen
Wattford
Pedri
17 Years Old
Revenge
The tweets started rolling in. Not slowly. Not cautiously. They came like a flood.
@Nekroz_07 · 97m
What did I just watch??? WHAT DID I JUST WATCH 😭🔥 I swear football is the greatest thing ever created.
💬 1.2K 🔁 890 ❤️ 5.4K
@KeiGoals · 96m
Bro… BRO. Did you guys realize that Deeney goal vs Leicester? Mateo just did that. AND HE DID IT BETTER. I'm shaking.
💬 870 🔁 620 ❤️ 4.1K
@AmosFCB · 95m
We need to talk about Pedri. Seriously. This kid is running Champions League games like it's training. Send Las Palmas another 50 million, honestly.
💬 430 🔁 310 ❤️ 2.7K
@God_0f_Thunder · 94m
Ter Stegen keeps deceiving us man don't fall for it 😭 every time you start realizing he's finished and needs to leave he pulls out a save like THAT. Insane tonight. Absolutely insane.
💬 620 🔁 510 ❤️ 3.6K
@Kill3rKingXX · 93m
Despite EVERYTHING… FUCK YOU LAHOZ 😤 even you couldn't stop us tonight.
💬 410 🔁 350 ❤️ 2.1K
@FateRen_ · 92m
We really need to start a petition FAST. Lahoz is horrible. We cannot let this man ref us against Real Madrid. He literally hates us.
💬 310 🔁 280 ❤️ 1.9K
@JasonG_88 · 91m
Red card for Piqué and we're toast. City is going to finish us next round 😭 why is Barca always like this.
💬 270 🔁 210 ❤️ 1.4K
@KopeFCB · 90m
FUCK YES. I HATE BAYERN. Those guys scarred me for life. I needed this revenge. PLEASE I need the cameraman to show me Thomas Müller NOW. NOW. I need to see that fucker's face. Never fuck with Barça, bitch.
💬 510 🔁 430 ❤️ 3.2K
And it wasn't just the Barça fans that filled the feed. The Bayern fans, while far fewer in number, still formed a massive, vocal presence on Twitter, their frustration spilling out in real time.
@MaxMünchen · 15m
How could we lose this? FUCK. Lewandowski mahn, what the actual fuck was that 😡
@LeonieFCB · 14m
Our players tried their best… I mean, Barca's offense is insane. Let's cheer them. They really tried their best 😔👏
@Tobi_Hoff · 13m
After Messi equalized against us, I knew it was over. We shouldn't have even given them the chance… terrible timing 😭
@Reinhardt_89 · 12m
REMAIN LEWANDOSKI IS JUST COMING BACK FROM INJURY AND HE STILL SCORED A SCREAMER 💥 no one should blame him
@Kwame_Bayern · 11m
Mateo pisses me off. He was silent most of the game but dude just had to fucking score. Conceding 4 goals against a 17-year-old in 2 games… I don't even recognize my club anymore. Flick needs better defensive tactics, everything isn't just offense.
@LukasJ · 10m
"Offense wins you games, defense wins you titles." Flick needs to do better. He's a great coach—bringing in Musiala was brilliant—but removing a fullback for it and no defensive subs again hurt us.
@Kwame_Bayern replied to @LukasJ · 9m
What are you all even saying? How was defense our problem that match? What would an extra defender have done against that Messi goal or the last-minute counter? Are you forgetting we could have actually won because of Lewan and Musiala?
@Franz_94 · 8m
God, when did Barca get this good?? Didn't we beat these people 8-2 just last year?? What the fuck is this 😭 I miss the good old days.
While the two fanbases went back and forth, the main source of viral tweets came from the neutrals, the casual watchers, the observers, and even fans of rival clubs.
@Carlos_Madrid · 22m
Fuck Bayern, seriously. How did they let this slip 😭 Perez needs to buy properly… we need Mbappé yesterday.
@RiyadQ_10 · 21m
Mateo King is unreal. We cannot let them get another Messi when we don't even have a proper striker yet 😳 absolute genius.
@Ahmed_Khaled92 · 20m
Can't wait to face Barcelona in the semis. Their attack is insane, but I trust Pep has something ready 👀 this will be fun.
@Lukas_Dortmund · 19m
Look at Bayern embarrassing themselves again 😂 just padding stats. How are they even allowed to play like this?
@IshaanPatel · 18m
Was anyone watching IShowSpeed live?? Dude legit broke his setup when Mateo scored, just launched into it 😂 absolute madman.
The Twitter feed became a living organism, a digital carnival of rage, awe, and joy. Every fan, every observer, and every casual watcher seemed to collide in this endless stream of reactions, and for a moment, the whole world—across continents, time zones, and allegiances—was tuned in to the same pulse: Mateo King had scored, and Barcelona had punched their ticket into the 20/21 semi-finals.
And the major influencers were not to be outdone. Social media exploded, the firestorm of reactions impossible to contain. Twitter feeds flooded with Barcelona glory, disbelief, and chaos.
@utdtrey · 3m
"Let's laugh at Bayern Munich 😭 but… I can't believe they let those bastards Barcelona qualify 😤🔥 #ChampionsLeagueMadness"
@cfc_janty · 2m
"City vs Barcelona… oooh what a glorious hate-watch 😅💀 #SemiFinalsDrama"
@berneese · 2m
"Are you kidding me, Mateo??? 😳😳 #KingMateo"
@theEuropeanlad · 1m
"Insane game tonight 😮🔥 What a stacked semifinal ahead — Barcelona vs Manchester City, Chelsea vs Real Madrid. The 20/21 Champions League is delivering." ⚽🔥
Even accounts outside football were joining the chaos:
@kira · 1m
"Soccer is insane 😱 Happy I stayed up to watch that match. Absolute madness 😭⚽"
And it wasn't just the fans lighting up the timelines. Many football legends and active players couldn't resist sharing their thoughts, reacting to the carnage and brilliance of the night.
@erling.haaland · 1m
"Wish I was there 😤 @Dortmund, we go harder next season. #Respect #BarcelonaVsBayern"
@rioferdy5· 1m
"Pedri was brilliant tonight 😳 Controlled everything in midfield like a 30-year-old veteran dude plays like Carrick. Unreal talent. Also, can't wait to meet you all in Manchester. #NextGenMagic"
The flood of reactions carried on, spreading across time zones, languages, continents. People watched, shared, screamed at their phones, and argued with neighbors and friends. But this wasn't just about joy that Barcelona had won, or the despair of Bayern losing.
For some, it wasn't even about fandom—it was about personal obsession, an outlet for their own passion, their own excitement, their own goals and dreams. And no one embodied that more than the destroyer of the Premier League himself.
The noise of the world felt far away in that wealthy Manchester neighborhood, where the houses were spaced wide apart and the streets stayed quiet even on nights when football shook continents. Inside one of those homes, tucked away from the city's roar, a study glowed softly under warm lights, the match between Barcelona and Bayern Munich still playing on a large screen mounted to the wall—on mute.
The room itself looked like a battlefield after a long war. Papers were everywhere, scattered across the desk, spilling onto chairs, some even lying half-crumpled on the floor. Every sheet was marked with frantic handwriting: arrows, circles, names underlined again and again, formations redrawn until the ink bled through. It smelled faintly of coffee gone cold and ink that had been pressed too hard onto paper.
Dominating the room was a large tactical board fixed to the wall. Names were written across it in thick marker, some bold, some scratched out violently. Haaland sat at the top, circled over and over again, the marker strokes heavy, almost aggressive. Just beneath it was Mateo, his name crossed out in red, a hard, final line through it. Harry Kane followed, also struck through, as if dismissed after long consideration. Below them, Julián Álvarez remained untouched, a small note written above his name—promising. Jack Grealish sat underneath, a single question mark beside him, neither accepted nor rejected. Around them were dozens of other names, marked with symbols, arrows, doubts, possibilities—but for the man in the room, the board wasn't what held his attention.
Pep Guardiola, Manchester City's head manager, sat slumped at his desk, his forehead resting against the cool wood, one hand hanging loosely at his side. He looked exhausted. His study reflected his mind—chaotic, restless, relentless. He lifted his head slowly, eyes heavy, and pulled a stack of papers toward him. They were plans he had written in anticipation of facing Bayern Munich. He glanced at them for barely a second before pushing them away, tossing them aside like something already irrelevant.
His focus had shifted.
Now, every page he picked up carried the same name written in different ways: Barcelona. Shapes, movements, passing lanes, rotations—everything circled back to them. With the round now over and the opponent confirmed, there was no need for hypotheticals anymore. Manchester City had opened a large gap at the top of the Premier League that season, clear of second-place Manchester United. The league could wait. His entire attention belonged here now—to the semifinal, to dismantling his former club.
He sat upright, rubbing his face, staring at the board again, not blinking, already dissecting patterns in his head. The muted television flickered in his peripheral vision, players still running, celebrations still unfolding, but he didn't look at it.
The door to the study creaked open.
Cristina Serra stepped inside quietly. She was dressed in pajamas, her hair still carrying the softness of travel, trying—despite the hour and the fatigue—to look presentable. She had just returned from Spain, where she'd been handling her fashion business, and had flown back to Manchester to reconnect with her husband. Instead, she found him like this—unshaven, untouched bath waiting, lost in ink and paper.
She sighed, not loudly, but deeply.
"The match is over, dear," she said gently. "I'm jetlagged. Let's go to bed."
Pep startled, lifting his head quickly. He turned, eyes widening slightly as if only just realizing someone else existed in the room.
"Honey—is that you?"
Cristina nodded once, repeating herself calmly. "Yes, dear. Why don't we head inside and sleep?"
He opened his mouth immediately, words tumbling out. He talked about being busy, about the team, about problems he still needed to solve—tactical issues, selections, how to line them up, how to prepare. He spoke faster than he realized, hands already reaching for another paper.
Then he looked up.
Cristina was staring at him. No anger. No shock. Just emptiness. A quiet, tired nothing that said more than any argument could.
Pep hesitated. His voice softened. "Just ten minutes, baby. Ten minutes."
She didn't respond. She turned and walked away.
"I love you," he called after her, forcing a smile that she didn't see. "More than you believe. Just give me ten minutes. I'm coming."
His voice echoed faintly in the study as Cristina Serra left the room, already knowing he wasn't going to come join her after ten minutes.
A/N
Seems I still underestimated you all… but damn — over 300 Power Stones?! Wow. Wow. Wow. That's insane.
I'm here to pay my debt.
Enjoy the chapter.
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