In the tunnel, before the anthem had started, Piqué had looked across at the Manchester United line and found familiar faces. He had spent four years in that academy — a teenager from Catalonia learning English football, training alongside Ferdinand and Vidic when they were at their peak. He hadn't spoken to any of them in the walkout.
De Gea, at the front of the United line, had glanced back toward the Barcelona queue. He and Lorenzo had won the U-21 Championship together in the summer. They had shared a dressing room in Jerusalem. Tonight they stood on opposite sides of a rivalry that was older than both of them.
The system arrived as they stepped onto the pitch.
[Ding! Side Mission: Conquer the Theatre of Dreams.]
[Objective: Win with a dominant performance. Reward: Manchester United Star Chest × 1.]
Manchester United (4-2-3-1): De Gea; Rafael, Ferdinand, Vidic, Evra; Carrick, Giggs; Valencia, Rooney, Kagawa; Van Persie.
FC Barcelona (4-3-3): Valdés; Alves, Piqué, Mascherano, Alba; Xavi, Busquets, Iniesta; Neymar, Lorenzo, Messi.
Santiago's voice from the ESPN Sur feed: "The lineups are confirmed. Moyes plays his strongest available hand — Van Persie and Rooney leading the attack, Giggs in the deep midfield, Ferdinand and Vidic anchoring the centre. Barcelona respond with the midfield of Xavi, Iniesta, and Busquets — and the LMN front three."
Inés noted the defensive shape. "Puyol is injured. Mascherano drops to centre-back alongside Piqué. That changes the aerial profile — Mascherano gives intelligence and positioning but concedes height to every United forward."
Fweet—!
The noise from seventy-six thousand people arrived before the ball moved. Van Persie tapped to Rooney, who laid it back to Giggs. Five seconds later, Giggs struck a long diagonal into Barcelona's half — sudden, direct, the kind of ball that says: we are not here to circulate.
"Manchester United going long immediately!" Santiago called. "This is a team that wants to impose physical terms from the first whistle."
Piqué rose above Van Persie and headed it clear. In midfield, Busquets contested the second ball with Carrick — a heading duel, both arriving at the same moment, neither winning it cleanly. For ten seconds the ball stayed in the air, bouncing between aerial contests, before Valencia brought it down on the right flank.
Valencia drove at Alba — not along the touchline but cutting inside, the diagonal run he preferred. He reached the byline and sent a low cross toward the penalty spot, the kind of delivery that looked more like a shot than a pass.
Van Persie moved to meet it. Piqué tracked him. Deep in the box, Mascherano exploded from an angle and swept the cross clear with a sliding tackle that sent the ball spinning out of the area.
Old Trafford groaned. Moyes clutched his head on the touchline.
The opening fifteen minutes belonged to United's intensity. Giggs and Carrick controlled the vertical passing — direct, purposeful, the particular rhythm of an English side that wants the ball in the final third before the opposition has time to shape. Rooney dropped deep to collect and link, his feet quicker in tight spaces than the reputation suggested. Valencia stretched Barcelona's left side repeatedly, and on three occasions Alba was forced into recovery runs that left the defensive line temporarily exposed.
Barcelona absorbed it with the specific patience of a squad that has been in this position before and knows the energy cost of pressing at this altitude. Xavi, Iniesta, and Busquets circulated when they had possession — short, lateral, the tempo gradually settling as the minutes accumulated. The early aggression from United was consuming something that wouldn't come back.
Martino stood on the touchline, arms folded, saying nothing. He had prepared for this opening. Let United push. Let them run. The space would arrive around the twentieth minute when the press dropped and the channels behind Giggs opened.
In the 14th minute, De Gea rushed out of his area to clear a Barcelona build-up, punching a looping ball away before Neymar could reach it. The clearance travelled into midfield. Manchester United pressed forward again — Kagawa swapping with Evra on the left, Giggs pushing higher.
Another aerial battle in midfield. Lorenzo used his shoulder to hold off Carrick and won the header, flicking it forward. But Evra had pushed up and intercepted Iniesta's run. Giggs recovered the ball, tapped it to Valencia, and United attacked down the right once more.
Mascherano cleared Valencia's second cross. The ball bounced to the edge of the area.
Busquets shielded it from Rooney, checked his stride, and drove a through-ball toward the right side of midfield.
Lorenzo moved to meet it. Carrick tracked from behind. Kagawa pressed from the flank — but Lorenzo's shoulder blocked the midfielder's angle before the contact arrived. He stepped around Carrick, chested the ball down, controlled it with thigh and instep in sequence, and began to drive forward.
He looked up.
De Gea was standing at the edge of his penalty area.
The goalkeeper had come out moments ago to clear the build-up and hadn't fully retreated. His feet were three yards off his line. His weight was forward, anticipating a second aerial contest or a pass into the channels. He was not expecting a long shot.
Lorenzo processed this in the time it takes to plant a standing foot. The geometry: De Gea's position, the angle of the goal behind him, the arc required to clear the goalkeeper's reach and still dip under the crossbar. The system did not activate. No World Cup simulation. This was a decision that belonged entirely to him.
On the touchline, Moyes saw the body shape change and his expression shifted from tactical attention to something closer to horror.
In the VIP box, Beckham was already on his feet. He recognised the body mechanics before the ball left the ground — the planted foot, the high backswing, the contact point on the lower half of the ball. He had made this exact decision from almost this exact position seventeen years ago, against Wimbledon, in the match that introduced him to the world.
Lorenzo struck it.
The contact was clean and violent.
The ball climbed. From the halfway line it rose into the Manchester night — an arc that looked, from every angle in the stadium, like it was going over. Giggs pressed from the side but was a second too late. The trajectory seemed wrong.
Then, at the top of its flight, the ball dipped.
De Gea saw it. He turned. He scrambled backward toward his goal, legs churning, arms reaching. Ferdinand sprinted into the area from behind.
The ball fell.
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
For Advance/Early Chapters:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_