February arrived and the calendar compressed.
The Champions League semi-final draw produced the matchups the continent had been waiting for: Barcelona vs Juventus and Real Madrid vs Bayern Munich. Two La Liga clubs, the Bundesliga hegemon, and the Serie A powerhouse — the last four standing.
But before European football resumed, there was domestic business to finish.
Copa del Rey Semi-Final L2 — Barcelona 2–0 Atlético Madrid (6-1 agg). Camp Nou, February 2nd.
The press conferences before the match produced two distinct performances.
Simeone sat at the podium, grim-faced, giving the kind of answers that said everything and nothing: "Atlético Madrid will not give up. My answer will always be the same."
A reporter stood. "Will Courtois concede another goal to Lorenzo tonight? The best goalkeeper in La Liga for the first half of the season has a goal-conceding rate against Barcelona's number nine of close to three per match."
Simeone dropped the microphone, stood up, and walked out of the media room without a word.
In the adjacent room, Martino was characteristically brief. "Atlético Madrid is a resilient team. Their rise is probably already underway." He paused. "But tonight, only one team reaches the final."
The match at Camp Nou unfolded as the four-goal first-leg advantage predicted. Barcelona controlled possession. Atlético pressed but couldn't sustain the intensity required to overturn the deficit. Bartra, rotated in at left-back, neutralised Koke's wing runs with a composure that belied his age.
Toward the end of the first half, Lorenzo and Messi swapped positions — Lorenzo drifting to the right wing, drawing Miranda wide, before delivering a reverse pass across the face of goal. Messi arrived at the far post and finished. 1-0.
In the 67th minute, a Valdés quick throw launched the counter. Three passes through midfield — Xavi, Iniesta, Busquets — and the ball reached Lorenzo at a tight angle inside the area. He didn't try anything elaborate. Low finish, inside the near post, past Courtois.
2-0. (6-1 on aggregate.)
Simeone watched from the touchline, expressionless. The record continued — he had never beaten Barcelona since taking charge of Atlético Madrid.
In the other semi-final, Real Madrid dismantled Athletic Bilbao 6-2 on aggregate.
The Copa del Rey final was confirmed:
FC Barcelona vs Real Madrid. Mestalla Stadium, Valencia.
February 6th. Single match, winner takes all.
At the Bernabéu, after confirming their progression, Ancelotti and Cristiano Ronaldo held a joint press conference.
Ancelotti sat with his arms folded, chewing gum, his small eyes carrying the specific focus of a manager who has coached in four countries and won league titles in three of them. Beside him, Zidane — his assistant, the man who would eventually sit in that chair himself — watched the room with the quiet attention of someone absorbing everything.
"The final against Barcelona? We predicted this outcome. Our city rivals weren't good enough to reach the final stage." He stroked his chin. "And there's no need to emphasise the 'brilliant achievements' of Barcelona's number nine. Our form in the second half of the season has been excellent."
A reporter pressed: "Cristiano has withdrawn from all Golden Boot races this season. Does that concern you?"
"That's not the point," Ancelotti said. "The point is that Barcelona's winning streak has lasted too long. So long that they don't know where their weaknesses are. Only losing teaches you something. A continuous winning streak gives you no opportunity for reflection." He leaned forward slightly. "Before the league Clásico, this Copa final is an early warm-up. We intend to lift our first trophy of the season."
Ronaldo took the microphone, not even waiting for the first question to be asked.
"The Golden Boot race is far from over," he said, his jaw set, his posture radiating the immense, unshakable intensity of a man who had dominated the sport for over a decade. "I am fully prepared to explode in the second half of the season. I know the level I can reach, and I know exactly what it takes to finish at the very top."
He looked directly into the cameras, his focus razor-sharp. "People love to talk about the numbers and the competition, but my only focus is on my own performance. This weekend is a massive final, and these are the exact types of stages where I thrive. I am completely confident that I will prove, once again, who is the most lethal goalscorer on this planet."
The press room was dead silent for a beat. Then, a furious wave of camera shutter clicks filled the air.
Back in Barcelona, Lorenzo sat at the villa kitchen table, scrolling through Ronaldo's quotes on his phone. Lucia was sitting directly across from him, reading the exact same article on her own screen.
"He's right about the media obsessed with numbers part," Lucia said quietly, not looking up from her screen.
Lorenzo set his phone face-down on the counter. "He is. And he's right about thriving on these stages — but that kind of big-game experience is only something you get by actually playing in them. You can't magically have it before you've lived it."
"Very philosophical," she murmured.
"Very obvious."
Lucia smiled, finally looking up. She held his eyes for a moment—that specific, lingering gaze she'd been giving him more and more over the last two weeks. It lasted just a fraction longer than a normal friend's look should, always ending with her glancing away right before the silence turned into an actual question.
"Are you nervous?" she asked.
"No."
"Not even a little bit?"
"A massive final against Real Madrid, at a hostile neutral stadium, with Cristiano Ronaldo publicly laying down the gauntlet?" Lorenzo weighed it genuinely. "Yeah. Maybe a little."
Lucia nodded, her expression softening. "Good. A little nervous is honest. Zero nerves means you're either a liar or completely insane." She paused, tracing the rim of her glass. "I was a nervous wreck just watching the Atlético match from my sofa tonight. With absolutely zero physical danger to myself whatsoever."
Lorenzo leaned forward slightly. "What exactly were you nervous about?"
She looked right at him, her defenses slipping for a split second. "I'm not entirely sure I want to answer that honestly."
The silence stretched between them for two heavy, unbroken seconds. Then, abruptly, she stood up and carried her plate over to the sink, letting the moment slip away without either of them daring to hold onto it.
As she reached the front door, she paused, her jacket hooked over her arm. "Is Cecilia going to be at the Mestalla?"
"Yeah, I think so," Lorenzo said. "She said she'll be there."
"Good." A beat passed, her voice dropping a fraction. "Tell her I said good luck."
Then she was out the door, the latch clicking shut behind her. Lorenzo stood frozen in the quiet kitchen, the realization hitting him a second too late — she had explicitly wished Cecilia good luck, but hadn't said a single word to him. He stared at the empty doorway for a moment, overthinking the weight behind the words, before finally picking up his phone to distract himself with the schedule for the rest of the week.
The Copa del Rey final was only four days away.
[Copa final confirmed. Barça vs Real Madrid. Mestalla.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
For Advance/Early Chapters:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_