Mestalla under floodlights had a particular quality — borrowed territory, neutral ground, the kind of stadium that belongs to neither side and therefore amplifies both. Fifty thousand fans split evenly between Barcelona and Real Madrid, with five thousand Valencia supporters and neutrals filling the remaining seats. The noise was not the sustained roar of a home ground but the competitive, overlapping wall of sound that two rival fanbases produce when placed side by side with a trophy between them.
In the wide player tunnel, the two squads stood in parallel lines. The lights were bright and the noise from outside was close enough to feel in the chest.
At the front of the Real Madrid line, Casillas stood with his armband already on. Across from him, Xavi wore Barcelona's. They had shared a Spanish national team dressing room for twelve years. Tonight they did not speak. On the stage of El Clásico, personal friendships were temporarily suspended — not abandoned, just placed somewhere the match couldn't reach.
Ramos exchanged a brief word with his captain. Bale and Modric — the Tottenham connection, still the closest pairing in the Real Madrid squad — spoke in low voices. Benzema rubbed the head of the child mascot beside him. Pepe stretched his joints with the particular intensity of a player who intended to make his physical presence felt early.
At the back of the Real Madrid line, Cristiano Ronaldo stood alone. He spoke to nobody. His eyes were fixed on the tunnel exit, his jaw set, his body carrying the particular tension of a man who has spent five months watching someone younger occupy the conversation that used to belong exclusively to him and Messi.
The Ballon d'Or had been his in January — the sixty-nine goals, the Champions League scoring title, the calendar year that represented the absolute peak of what he could produce. And yet, within weeks, the press had pivoted to Lorenzo's debut season, his records and his trajectory. Ronaldo didn't resent talent. He resented the implication that someone else's arrival had diminished what he had built.
Tonight was the correction. A final. A trophy. A performance that reminded the world that Cristiano Ronaldo was still Cristiano Ronaldo.
In the Barcelona line, Iniesta leaned toward Busquets.
"This is a World Cup year, Sergio. Don't let things escalate with the Real Madrid players. We'll need some of them in the summer."
Busquets shrugged. "I deal with things as they happen. What's on the pitch stays on the pitch."
"That's exactly what worries me."
At the back of the Barcelona queue, Lorenzo had his arm around Messi's shoulder. They spoke quietly, the particular calm of two players who have stopped being anxious about big matches because they've played enough of them.
"In the Clásico at the start of the season, you put two past Casillas," Messi murmured, a slight grin touching his lips. "Planning on showing him a little mercy tonight? Otherwise, by the time the World Cup rolls around and you're teammates, he won't be able to look at you."
Lorenzo smiled, looking down the tunnel. "He should be well aware of the reality by now. Barça is the core of the Spanish national team anyway. Only three Real Madrid players even made the World Cup squad."
"That's just cruel," Messi chuckled.
"It's not cruel," Lorenzo replied, his smile widening. "It's just mathematics."
In the Mestalla stands, Cecilia had found her seat in the neutral section — Garrido had refused to sit in either the Barcelona or Real Madrid fan areas on principle, which meant the family occupied three seats in the Valencia zone surrounded by people who had no particular investment in either outcome.
"This is the worst seat in the stadium," Cecilia said.
"This is the only seat in the stadium where I won't be politically compromised," Garrido said.
Cecilia was wearing Lorenzo's jersey under her jacket. She had stopped pretending otherwise.
The lineups appeared on the screens above both ends.
Real Madrid (4-3-3): Casillas; Carvajal, Pepe, Ramos, Marcelo; Di María, Xabi Alonso, Modric; Cristiano Ronaldo, Benzema, Bale.
FC Barcelona (4-3-3): Valdés; Alves, Piqué, Mascherano, Alba; Xavi, Busquets, Iniesta; Neymar, Lorenzo, Messi.
Up in the ESPN Sur booth, Santiago adjusted his headset as the roar of the stadium swelled below them. "Two classic 4-3-3 formations tonight. The BBC against the LMN. This is only their second meeting of the season — the first being that brutal Super Cup back in August, which Barcelona walked away with 5-1 on aggregate. Real Madrid have been stewing on that for six long months."
Beside him, Inés kept her eyes locked on the tactical monitor. "Ancelotti's midfield trio of Di María, Xabi Alonso, and Modrić is built perfectly for control and rapid transition. But without Khedira, that single-pivot system puts an immense defensive burden on Alonso's positioning. Now, his reading of the game is elite, but it naturally leaves a vacuum behind him — and you can bet Barcelona will look to exploit that exact space by having Lorenzo drop deep to pull the center-backs out."
The system delivered its notification as Lorenzo walked onto the pitch.
[Ding! Side Mission: Challenge for the third title of your career.]
[Reward: Copa del Rey Champion Chest × 1.]
Fweeet—!
Mestalla erupted. Fifty-five thousand voices converging into a single sound.
Real Madrid kicked off. Benzema tapped to Ronaldo, who received and drove immediately — not sideways, not backward, directly at Barcelona's defensive line. He brushed past Iniesta's instinctive press with the explosive acceleration that had defined him for a decade and swept toward Barcelona's half.
The intent was unmistakable. This was not a team building from the back. This was Cristiano Ronaldo announcing, with his body and his direction, that he had come to Mestalla to score and that the first thirty seconds of the match belonged to him.
The Real Madrid formation surged forward behind him. Bale sprinted down the right, his stride covering ground in a way that forced Alves to abandon his advanced position and track back. Di María pushed into the left channel. Marcelo overlapped on the far side, his attacking instincts overriding any defensive caution. The opening seconds of the Copa del Rey final looked like a team that had been storing six months of competitive frustration and had chosen this moment to release all of it simultaneously.
Busquets read the play perfectly. He immediately dropped back between the center-backs, providing the extra body that allowed Piqué and Mascherano to firmly hold their defensive line rather than being forced to retreat. Real Madrid's first real attack arrived with terrifying intent — Ronaldo cutting inside with explosive width and driving a powerful shot toward goal. But Barcelona's defensive shape held like a brick wall; the shot slammed directly into a defender and was instantly blocked. As the loose ball spun away, Barcelona recycled possession, and Xavi calmly stepped in to collect it.
On the touchline, Ancelotti stood with his arms folded, chewing his gum rhythmically, his expression unchanged. Across the technical area, Martino watched Ronaldo's tracking run with his hands tucked behind his back, completely expressionless.
The message had been sent. The final had begun.
Don't forget to drop those Power Stones on your way out!
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P.S. Just to clarify a quick detail for the Madrid fans reading along: the dialogue mentioning that only three Real Madrid players made Spain's 2014 World Cup squad isn't a dig at the club's quality! During this specific period, Real Madrid's squad relied heavily on world-class international superstars rather than domestic Spanish talent. Their biggest stars at the time — Cristiano Ronaldo and Pepe (Portugal), Karim Benzema and Raphaël Varane (France), Gareth Bale (Wales), Luka Modrić (Croatia), Ángel Di María (Argentina), and Marcelo (Brazil) — were all key figures for their own respective national teams. The dialogue simply reflects the unique squad demographics of that specific era.