The record-breaking headlines lasted three days.
"La Liga's New King: 53 Goals in 23 Matches" — Mundo Deportivo.
"The Boy Who Broke Messi's Record — And Messi Applauded" — Sport.
"Unstoppable: Lorenzo's Season Defies Statistical Analysis" — Marca.
Every European football broadcast ran the step-over goal and the header relay on repeat. The step-over was studied in slow motion. The header relay became a GIF. The 51st goal was nominated immediately for the Puskás shortlist, joining what was becoming an embarrassingly long list of Lorenzo's own candidates.
MD25 — Barcelona 4–1 Real Betis. Camp Nou, March 2nd.
Martino fielded a semi-rotated squad. Sergi Roberto started alongside Busquets and Iniesta. The match carried no particular tension. Betis sat seventeenth in the table, fighting relegation, and Barcelona's form made the outcome feel predetermined before kickoff.
Lorenzo scored once, a close-range finish from a Neymar cutback and assisted Messi for the second. Neymar added the third from a curling shot on the left wing. Iniesta completed the scoring with a goal from the edge of the area. Betis scored a late consolation.
La Liga: 54 goals in 24 matches. 95 goals in all competitions.
The ninety-five sat in the press coverage like a countdown to a different record - Messi's 91 goals in a calendar year from 2012. Lorenzo's pace, if maintained, would surpass it before summer. But the calendar-year record was a secondary target. The primary one was approaching from Italy.
After the final whistle, the squad gathered back in the dressing room. Pautasso switched on the television and turned up the volume, drawing everyone's attention to the screen. A grand UEFA exhibition hall appeared, complete with polished marble floors, formal seating, and the iconic Champions League trophy resting on a pedestal.
It was time for the semi-final draw.
The usual post-match chatter quickly died down. Busquets hopped up to sit on the edge of the physio table, while Messi leaned quietly against his locker, pulling off his tape. Xavi stood right near the front with his arms crossed, watching the screen with the sharp focus of a veteran who had been through enough of these draws to know that while the ceremony was mostly just theater, the result changed everything.
The four names were displayed: Bayern Munich. Real Madrid. Juventus. FC Barcelona.
The draw produced two matchups:
Bayern Munich vs Real Madrid.
Juventus vs FC Barcelona.
The dressing room instantly stirred.
"Juventus!" Busquets muttered, shaking his head. "Man, they're the only team in Europe that we have never beaten since the new century."
Xavi nodded slowly, the memory clear in his mind. "That's true. Even back in 2003, they knocked us out in the quarter-finals during extra time at our own stadium. Del Piero, Nedvěd, Trezeguet — what a side they had. We just haven't crossed paths with them since."
"True, but their defensive setup now is totally different from anything we've run into this season," Iniesta pointed out, leaning forward. "That back three of Chiellini, Bonucci, and Barzagli is easily the best defensive unit in the world right now. They play a zone that triggers into aggressive man-marking the second you step into their half. And if you somehow get past them, you still have Buffon waiting."
Messi looked up from his boots. "Buffon is incredible."
"Wait, Leo, you've never actually scored against Buffon, right?" Busquets asked.
"No," Messi replied quietly. "Never."
A heavy silence settled over the room as everyone let that sink in. The greatest goalscorer in Barcelona's history, a man who routinely dismantled the best teams on earth, had faced the Italian icon across club and international friendlies and had never once managed to put the ball past him. Buffon was the ultimate gatekeeper, the closest a modern goalkeeper had ever come to winning the Ballon d'Or.
"The man has been named Serie A Goalkeeper of the Year more times than most people have a career," Pautasso added from the back.
"It's a scary record, honestly," Iniesta said softly.
"It's a challenge," Messi corrected, his voice calm but firm. "Not a scare."
Busquets glanced across the room, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Well, I have a feeling Lorenzo is already planning to rewrite those statistics."
Messi smiled, looking over at the teenager. "I think so too. Lorenzo will definitely try. Whether Buffon agrees to let him is a whole different story."
Martino appeared in the doorway, having watched the draw unfold from the quiet of the coaches' office. He carried the absolute composure of a man who had gotten the exact opponent he expected and was already mentally drawing up the tactical boards.
"Alright, listen up," Martino said, drawing every eye in the room. "First leg is in Turin, second leg back here at the Camp Nou." He let that sink in before continuing. "Conte's Juventus is the most defensively disciplined side in Europe right now. They didn't just win Serie A this season; they absolutely steamrolled it with a record-breaking 102 points, and that backline isn't just athletic, it's a collective brain. Chiellini handles the muscle, Bonucci cuts the passing lanes, and Barzagli anticipates the danger before it even happens. You aren't going to just run through them the way we did against Chelsea or Manchester United."
He paused, leaning against the doorframe to let the warning breathe. "Their midfield is just as rigid. Pirlo pulls the strings from deep, Pogba provides the explosive runs forward, and Vidal acts as the engine, covering every blade of grass between them. Then you have Lichtsteiner and Asamoah on the flanks. In a 3-5-2, the wing-backs dictate everything, and Conte's wing-backs can transition from defending to attacking in a heartbeat."
Xavi was already nodding along, his tactical mind locked in. "It's exactly what I remember. The last time we faced Juve in the Champions League, they had Nedvěd, Del Piero, and Trezeguet. Completely different players, but the exact same defensive culture. Italian football never changes its DNA. It just refines it."
Martino looked around the circle of players, his tone shifting to business. "We are going to prepare differently for this tie. Film sessions start first thing tomorrow morning. We fly out to Turin on Thursday."
That evening, Lorenzo sat alone at the kitchen island in the villa, the quiet a stark contrast to the noise of the stadium. His phone buzzed against the marble countertop. It was Lucia.
I'm really sorry about last night, the text read. About leaving that draft... that wasn't fair to either of you.
He picked up the phone and typed back immediately: It's fine. It wasn't unfair at all. It was just honest.
A pause. I don't know how to be honest about any of this without completely changing things between us.
Lorenzo didn't hesitate. Look, things between us have already changed, Lucia. They changed weeks ago.
A heavy silence stretched over the chat. Minutes passed before her reply finally popped up. I know. I just wasn't ready to admit it to myself.
Are you ready now? Lorenzo asked.
An even longer pause followed, the tension almost tangible through the screen. Then, her final message arrived: Ask me again after the Juventus match. I just need some time to think.
Lorenzo looked at the screen and couldn't help but smile. She was stalling, plain and simple. Honestly, she had been buying time ever since the Calderón. But the fact that she had told him to ask her again, rather than telling him to drop it entirely, was an answer all on its own.
He set the phone down on the counter and reached for the thick Juventus scouting report Martino had handed out earlier. Flipping it open, the names on the page seemed to practically carry their own weight: Buffon, Chiellini, Bonucci, Pirlo, Pogba. It was a roster built for war.
The Champions League semi-final was just three days away.
You know the drill: Hand over those Power Stones to keep the momentum rolling!
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