For the first eleven minutes, Real Madrid subjected Barcelona to a level of dominance no opponent had managed all season.
Luka Modrić completely commanded the midfield. He won first balls, claimed second balls, and systematically shut down passing lanes that Sergio Busquets usually owned. The Croatian was playing the match of his life, and he knew it. Every touch was razor-sharp, every diagonal switch dropping precisely where it would inflict the most damage. When Busquets tried to step up and press, Modrić spun effortlessly out of danger to find Gareth Bale on the right. When Iniesta closed him down, Modrić calmly shifted play left to Di María. He seemed to be everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, and Busquets was beginning to look visibly rattled, something that almost never happened.
"Sergio, don't lose your position!" Xavi shouted from deeper in the pitch. "He's pulling you out on purpose!"
"I know what he's doing!" Busquets snapped back, his frustration boiling over.
Out on the flanks, Bale hugged the touchline against Alba, stretching Barcelona's defensive line until it creaked under the strain. Marcelo pushed aggressively high on the opposite wing, pinning Dani Alves deep and effectively severing the supply line to Messi. In the middle, Ramos and Pepe operated as a terrifying unit against Lorenzo. Wherever the teenager moved, one tracked him. Whenever a pass was directed toward him, the other arrived instantly to contest it.
Lorenzo managed just three touches in those opening ten minutes. Every single time, Ramos or Pepe was on his back before he could even register a second touch. On the third occasion, Pepe threw his weight into a shoulder challenge that was technically within the rules but bordered on sheer violence, knocking Lorenzo off the ball. The referee waved play on. Lorenzo picked himself up from the turf without a word of complaint, but the statement was crystal clear: tonight, nothing would come easy.
Messi dropped deeper toward Busquets to collect the ball himself, attempting to slide passes into the channels for Lorenzo. But Ramos anticipated two of those attempts, and Pepe intercepted a third. The double-coverage was working to perfection, and Ancelotti knew it. On the touchline, the Italian manager offered a short, sharp clap of approval.
Up in the stands, the Camp Nou crowd grew visibly uneasy. Barcelona had not been pinned into their own half like this since the opening forty-five minutes against Manchester City at the Etihad back in September. When the stadium displays flashed the possession stats, 44-56 in favor of Real Madrid, a wave of nervous murmurs rippled through the stands. A visiting team controlling the ball at Camp Nou in a crucial league fixture was a sight no one could remember seeing.
"Real Madrid are completely suffocating the game," Santiago noted from the commentary booth. "They have Lorenzo trapped in a cage. Double-marking from the center-backs, Alonso cutting off the passing lanes from deep. He hasn't had a clean second on the ball since kickoff."
Then, in the 12th minute, Real Madrid struck with lethal force.
It began with Modrić stripping the ball from Iniesta right in the center circle. It was a crunching, clean tackle, his right boot sweeping through the pass to send the ball spinning out to Di María. Di María drove forward five yards before sliding a crisp pass inside to Cristiano Ronaldo, who had drifted off the left flank into the dangerous pocket between Mascherano and Busquets.
Ronaldo collected the ball on a half-turn, taking one precise touch to set it onto his right boot. He was fully thirty yards out from goal. No sensible player shoots from that distance twelve minutes into El Clásico.
But Ronaldo had no intention of playing sensible football tonight. He hadn't come to Camp Nou to be subtle. He had come to make a statement.
He put every ounce of power in his body into the strike. The ball rocketed off his boot like a guided missile, rising rapidly before dipping late, covering thirty yards in a fraction of a second. It reached the goal before Valdés's mind could even register its trajectory. Valdés threw himself across the air at full stretch, but his dive was useless.
The ball slammed off the underside of the crossbar with a thunderous crack that instantly silenced ninety-five thousand people, bouncing viciously over the line and into the roof of the net.
Fweet—!
0-1.
Camp Nou produced the exact sound ninety-five thousand people make when they all stop breathing at once. A second later, the Real Madrid away section, exploded into absolute delirium.
Ronaldo sprinted straight toward the corner flag. He skipped his usual celebration entirely. Instead, he stood completely still, facing the sea of Blaugrana, opening his arms wide and holding the glare of ninety-five thousand silent faces. His expression carried a single, unmistakable message: I told you. I told every single one of you.
"GOOAALLLL! CRISTIANO...!" Santiago roared into his microphone. "A thirty-yard screamer off the underside of the bar! The Ballon d'Or winner opens the scoring at Camp Nou! Real Madrid take a 1-0 lead!"
Inés was already parsing the replay data. "Santiago, that ball was traveling at over 110 kilometers per hour. Valdés read it, dived early, and it still beat him before his hands could react. This is the Cristiano Ronaldo the world knows. He might have arrived at Camp Nou six months late, but he has arrived."
Pepe sprinted thirty yards down the pitch to jump on Ronaldo's back at the corner flag. Marcelo and Ramos arrived a second later, swarming him. The Real Madrid celebration was loud, aggressive, and deeply physical. They had arrived in Barcelona with a precise game plan, it was executing flawlessly, and their star player had just delivered on his promise.
Over on the touchline, Ancelotti clenched both fists and turned to Zidane. "That's the Cristiano I've been waiting for."
Zidane gave a firm nod. "Exactly. Now let's see how they react over the next twenty minutes."
On the opposite side of the technical area, Martino stood with his hands tucked behind his back. His face remained a complete mask, but beside him, Pautasso had gone noticeably pale.
Back at the center circle, the restart found Barcelona looking genuinely rattled for the first time all season. Busquets tapped the ball to Xavi, who shifted it sideways to Iniesta, who immediately played it back to Busquets. The iconic midfield triangle that had systematically disassembled every team in Europe was suddenly cycling possession without any penetration, like a grand clockwork mechanism that had momentarily jammed.
Lorenzo stood sandwiched between Ramos and Pepe, waiting for a pass that simply refused to arrive. He glanced across at Messi. Messi met his eyes. Neither man said a word, but the shared look said everything: this is going to be a battle.
Down in the front row, Cecilia instinctively grabbed Lucia's arm. Lucia didn't move an inch. She remained fixated on the pitch, watching Lorenzo walk back toward the center circle with his chin tucked low, her white-knuckled grip practically crushing the plastic armrest beneath her hand.
You know what time it is! Drop those Power Stones to keep us climbing the ranks!
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