From Reject to Legend

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***

The match had begun at a relentless pace, a blur of touches and tackles, but after Adriano's pinpoint free-kick stunned the Camp Nou, the momentum shifted. Suddenly, Barcelona's rhythm faltered—not because they lost the ball, but because they lost control.

From the 12th minute onwards, the hosts doubled down on their identity. Pass after pass, a relentless metronome of movement.

Xavi dropped deep to collect. Busquets tucked between the centre-backs to initiate the build-up. Neymar ran through the left touchline while Messi drifted centrally, looking for space to thread needles.

"They're doing what they always do," said Martin Tyler, watching intently. "But look at City's shape—disciplined, compact. They're not chasing shadows, they're inviting Barcelona in."

Alan Smith nodded. "And that's dangerous, Martin. Because once you bring them in… then you can spring the trap."

Silva , playing just ahead of the back four, was orchestrating City's resistance. He barked instructions at Kimmich and Robertson—"Hold the line, force them wide!"—while glancing constantly over his shoulder to track Messi's movement. Hummels and Mangala maintained a tight central block, never overcommitting, never drawn out.

Messi attempted a give-and-go with Iniesta in the 17th minute that nearly opened space, but Mangala slid across to intercept, toeing the ball out for a throw.

"Good cover again," said Alan Smith. "Mangala's positioning's been immaculate so far."

A minute later, Suarez almost snuck behind the line when Neymar floated a pass between the full-back and centre-back, but the linesman's flag shot up.

"Offside," Martin Tyler confirmed. "But that's a warning. Barcelona are beginning to find tiny cracks."

In the 22nd minute, Jordi Alba made a rare burst forward and pulled the ball back from the byline toward Messi on the edge of the box. But just as the Argentine pulled back his left foot, Kimmich slid in and poked it away.

City didn't look flustered. They looked patient.

Then, a foul—Xavi clipped Silva as the Spaniard tried to spin away in midfield. The referee blew his whistle and waved for calm as the players gathered and started to argue.

"Frustration creeping in," Alan observed. "You can feel it. Barcelona want control, but City aren't letting them breathe in dangerous areas."

After conceding the early goal, Barcelona tried to get a grip on the match by controlling possession and solidifying their backline.

Busquets and Xavi dropped deeper to shield the center backs, while Dani Alves pushed higher to offer an outlet on the flank.

But Manchester City, unusually disciplined, refused to bite. Pellegrini had clearly instructed his players not to chase shadows in midfield. Instead, they held their shape and let Barcelona pass side to side.

Alan Smith noted in commentary, "City are letting them play into a trap here. They're happy to let Barcelona keep it in midfield—as long as it doesn't go anywhere."

Martin Tyler added, "It's a strange sight. Barcelona with nearly 70% possession, yet all the clear chances have come at the other end."

Mats Hummels was having one of those games that defined careers. Every loose ball, every block, every inch of space—he was there. He intercepted Messi twice in the span of five minutes and had a perfectly timed sliding tackle on Neymar that drew applause even from the home crowd.

By the 25th minute, City's entire bench was up shouting encouragement. Pellegrini remained cool, hands folded, his eyes scanning the pitch like a chessboard. "Wait for it," he murmured to Rubén Cousillas beside him. "They'll overcommit."

Sure enough, Barcelona began pressing more urgently, but they were losing shape. Busquets stepped higher. Alves was practically playing as a winger. The gaps grew.

By the half-hour mark, Barcelona's movement lost its edge. Their attacks became slower. The passes, once slick, now hesitated under the weight of City's pressing midfield. That's when the counterattack struck again.

And in the 31st minute, Manchester City struck like lightning.

It began innocently. Robertson won a throw-in deep on the left and played a simple ball back to De Bruyne, who shuffled it inside to Silva. Silva took one touch, then found Robertson again cutting into space.

"Watch Robertson here," Martin Tyler's voice rose. "He's not just defending tonight—he's dictating movements on the left! The young full back looks confident."

The Scotsman looked up and saw Hazard making a diagonal dart behind Dani Alves. With his left foot, Robertson slid a perfectly weighted ball down the channel.

Hazard was off like a rocket. Alves turned too late—his first step backward was hesitation, and by then, it was over.

"Hazard's in!" shouted Martin Tyler. "He's through—Alves can't catch him!"

Hazard reached the box and took a touch inside to shift the angle. Ter Stegen surged out, arms wide, knees bent, trying to cut down the options. But Hazard wasn't panicked. He slowed just slightly, glanced across, and spotted Salah peeling away at the far post.

With a flick of his left foot, Hazard chipped it—not toward goal, but across it.

Martin Tyler : "Salah's there—unmarked!"

The Egyptian rose, timed it perfectly, and met the ball with a firm header just five yards out. Vermaelen flailed, too late. The ball rocketed into the roof of the net before Ter Stegen could pivot.

GOAL!

"GOOOOOOAAAAL!" the announcer bellowed through the stadium speakers. "Salah makes it 2–0 for City! Is that the goal that"

"Beautiful, beautiful football!" said Alan Smith. "Hazard's run, the vision to chip it, and Salah with the finish—it's ruthless from Manchester City!"

The away end exploded into euphoria. Blue flares lit up. Flags spun violently. Fans screamed, hugged, jumped in piles. On the bench, Fernandinho bear-hugged Zabaleta and nearly knocked over a crate of water bottles.

On the pitch, Salah didn't even get time to land before Harry Kane barrelled into him, arms around his waist. "You beauty!" Kane yelled.

Silva joined, ruffling Salah's curly hair with a grin. "Timing, Mo. Timing was perfect."

Adriano approached calmly, pride in his eyes. He slung an arm around Salah's shoulders. "That's how we break them," he said, nodding toward the Barcelona half. "That's how we bury them."

De Bruyne jogged past Hazard and clapped him on the back. "There's your assist," he smirked.

Hazard was already laughing. "I want a goal now."

"You better get in line," Kane quipped.

Meanwhile, Barcelona were stunned. Vermaelen shook his head, hands on hips. Dani Alves gestured to Busquets in frustration. Busquets, panting, muttered, "We lost the runner again. Where's the coverage?"

Luis Enrique stood stone still, arms crossed, staring at the turf. His lips moved, but no words came. Xavi, walking slowly back to the centre circle, gave Messi a look—part frustration, part anxiety.

They hadn't expected this.

And as the scoreboard flickered to Barcelona 0 – 2 Manchester City, the truth was clear.

City weren't just surviving.

They were winning.

****

But while Manchester City were laughing, basking in their dream of a first-half masterclass at the Camp Nou, Luis Enrique wasn't smiling. Not for a second. He was pacing the edge of his technical area, fingers stabbing the air as he shouted at defenders.

His voice cracked as he gestured urgently to Piqué and Vermaelen. "Close the lines! Step up faster!" he barked, but it sounded more like desperation than strategy. On the pitch, Piqué and Busquets were already barking their own orders, trying to pull their teammates back into the game—but the damage had been done.

As the ball was placed at the centre circle for the restart, the mood inside the stadium had shifted. There was tension in the air—fear, even. Barcelona came out looking like a wounded animal. They weren't waiting anymore.

Messi dropped deeper, retreating from Silva's shadow to get on the ball earlier. Neymar switched to a more central role, seeking quick combinations. Suárez played off the shoulder, constantly tugging at Hummels' patience with sharp darts into the channels.

From the moment the restart whistle blew, Barcelona ignited. Messi received it from Busquets and instantly drove into the right half-space, gliding past Silva, then feinting inside . The crowd rose with him. He slipped a fast one-two with Neymar and darted into the box—but just as he prepared to shoot, Hummels came in with a perfect slide tackle, clean and timed to the millisecond.

"Outstanding from Hummels!" Martin Tyler cried. "Messi thought he was in!"

The ball bounced loose to the edge of the area, where Iniesta recycled possession to Neymar. He played it wide to Jordi Alba, who whipped in a dangerous cross. Suárez climbed above Mangala—thudded it over the bar.

"Ooooh, that was the moment!" Alan Smith gasped. "He had a clear header there, Martin. But just leaned back too far."

City breathed a collective sigh of relief. Kimmich turned to Mangala. "We stay compact. Don't step out too early." Mangala gave a quick nod, breathing heavily.

Barcelona kept coming.

In the 41st minute, Messi again slalomed his way through midfield, evading Silva and De Bruyne with a gorgeous pirouette. He glided into the box and cut inside Mangala—left him on the floor. The stadium held its breath.

"Messi!" Tyler shouted.

But Kimmich slid in at the last possible second, stretching every sinew of his frame to block the shot with his left boot. The rebound spilled to Suárez, eight yards out—and he lashed it, high and wide into the upper tier.

"He's snatched at that!" Alan exclaimed. "You expect better from Suárez. That's two chances gone begging in under five minutes."

The noise in Camp Nou dipped again, a collective groan. Luis Enrique clapped furiously from the sideline. "Keep going! One goal!" he yelled. But Pellegrini wasn't fazed. He stood with arms crossed, eyes calm.

"He's waiting for the moment they lose shape," Alan noted. "And if City get the ball in transition now, there's space to kill this game before the break."

That moment arrived on the stroke of halftime.

Barcelona committed too many forward—Xavi, Busquets, and Iniesta all pushed into the final third. Alba was high up, Alves had overlapped again. One poor corner clearance by Hart found its way toward midfield.

Adriano was there. Like a magnet, he pulled it out of the sky with a velvet first touch, cushioning it expertly as the ball dropped from orbit. He instantly turned, with Xavi clinging to his back. Busquets came in from the side to double up—but Adriano dipped his shoulder and faked right, turning left instead, leaving both of them flat-footed.

"Adriano's away!" shouted Martin Tyler, rising in tone.

Jordi Alba came flying in from behind with a crunching slide tackle—but Adriano saw it coming. He hopped over it like a ballet dancer skipping raindrops. Now the pitch opened. Piqué stepped up, desperate to stop him.

Instead of forcing another dribble, Adriano glanced up—and saw Kane. The striker had been peeling off Vermaelen like bark from a tree, timing his run to perfection.

With one fluid motion, Adriano wrapped his left foot around the ball and sent in a curling cross—diagonal, fast, precise, bending away from Vermaelen and into the gap.

"Kane's there!" Tyler yelled. "He's onside!"

Harry Kane didn't need to take a touch. He let the ball come across his body, side-footed it first-time on the volley.

Thwack.

It kissed the inside of the far post, then bulged the net.

GOAL!

"GOOOOOAAAAALLLL!!!" the stadium announcer screamed in disbelief. "Harry Kane with a brilliant finish! It's THREE! It's THREE–NIL to Manchester City at the Camp Nou!"

Martin Tyler was nearly breathless. "What are we witnessing here, Alan? Manchester City are toying with Barcelona on their own turf. Look at the crowd. They are stunned—absolutely stunned."

Alan Smith let out a low whistle. "Martin, this is one of the best first-half away performances I've ever seen. Every time Barcelona expose themselves, they're punished. And Busquets—ever since that yellow card, he's lost his edge. He's holding back, and that's all Adriano needs to run riot."

Even Pellegrini, normally as stoic as a chess master, cracked a wide grin. His assistant, Rubén Cousillas, pumped a fist. The coaching staff rose in unison, hugging and high-fiving.

On the pitch, Kane was swamped.

Adriano came charging over, laughing, pointing straight at Kane. "That's what I'm talking about! Finish it like a king!"

Kane, still catching his breath, tapped his chest and grinned. "You keep feeding me like that, I'll score five."

Hazard jogged over and threw a thumbs-up. "I told you I wanted a goal. Now it's your turn to set me up."

The away fans were delirious. Scarves spun overhead. Some fans wept. Others just screamed. And the Camp Nou—normally a cauldron of intimidation—sounded like a tomb.

From the stands came jeers. Whistles. Boos. The home crowd were in disbelief. Some fans had already risen from their seats, heading to the concourse in stunned silence.

Piqué stood with his hands on his hips. Busquets, panting, bent over and spat into the grass. Messi walked slowly to the centre circle, his face blank. Neymar stared at the scoreboard, as if unable to comprehend the glowing numbers:

Barcelona 0 – 3 Manchester City

The referee blew the whistle for restart—but the hosts had barely touched the ball again before he signaled with a sharp blast and a point to the tunnel.

Halftime.

And as the players trudged toward the dressing rooms, the story of the first half was already etched in European football folklore.

***

The referee's whistle echoed through the Camp Nou, a sharp, final note that felt less like a pause and more like a dirge. Halftime had arrived—but there was no applause, no murmurs of hope from the home crowd. Just stunned, bitter silence. For Barcelona, it was as if the bell had tolled.

On the scoreboard, the numbers burned bright in cruel clarity: Barcelona 0 – 3 Manchester City.

It was more than a surprising halftime score—it was a seismic event in European football. What was expected to be a tight, tactical first leg between two continental giants had turned into a statement of dominance. Manchester City hadn't just taken a lead—they had dismantled Barcelona's structure, unraveled their aura, and left their fans questioning reality.

In the commentary box, Martin Tyler let the silence breathe before speaking with quiet awe.

"Well, this isn't just unexpected. It's historic. Manchester City have come to the Camp Nou and silenced it—utterly. You'd have to go back years to find a first-half performance this complete against Barcelona on their own turf."

Alan Smith, shaking his head beside him, offered a deeper analysis.

"It's been systematic, Martin. Controlled, ruthless—almost surgical. People expected City to sit back, survive, maybe hit one on the counter. But they've done so much more than that. They're not reacting to Barcelona—they're dictating terms, forcing errors, and exploiting every inch of space with intelligent movement and structure."

As the players trudged off the pitch toward the tunnel, the contrast in body language spoke volumes.

Barcelona's stars looked ghostly. Messi walked with his head down, shoulders slumped. Neymar stared into the grass, barely moving. Piqué wiped sweat from his brow with a blank stare. Busquets didn't speak to anyone. Suarez kicked at the ground as he went by Hummels.

By contrast, Manchester City's players kept their celebrations muted but couldn't hide the glimmers of satisfaction on their faces. Kane gave Adriano a light pat on the back. Hazard and De Bruyne exchanged knowing smirks. Casemiro bumped fists with Kimmich, who simply muttered, "Perfect half."

Yet as they neared the tunnel, Manuel Pellegrini raised one calm hand. "Focus," he said firmly. "It's only halftime."

Even with a three-goal cushion, the veteran Chilean wasn't smiling. He knew better than anyone what Barcelona were capable of. The job wasn't done. Not yet.

Back in the studio, replays rolled and the commentators broke down how the stunning 3–0 lead had come to be.

Martin Tyler narrated with precision:

"Adriano's opening free-kick set the tone—a rocket into the top corner that silenced the early pressure. After that, Barcelona tried to regain control with their possession game.

But Manchester City didn't chase shadows. They let Barcelona have the ball in non-threatening areas and sprang forward with intent."

Alan Smith chimed in, pointing at the replay.

"Hummels deserves a lot of credit here. He's playing brilliantly today. He didn't just sit deep—he plugged passing lanes and doubled up intelligently, especially when Messi dropped into those half-spaces. And look at the full-backs—Kimmich and Robertson. They stayed disciplined, never overcommitted. It was as much about positional awareness as physical effort."

Replays rolled through Hazard burning Dani Alves for pace on the second goal, then Salah arriving unmarked at the far post. The camera zoomed in on the Barcelona defenders looking at each other in confusion.

"You don't often say this," Alan added, "but Dani Alves has looked every bit his age tonight. Hazard toyed with him. And what a ball from Robertson—that's the sort of pass that cuts you in two."

The third goal played again, in slow motion—Adriano's feint past Busquets, the slick control, the inch-perfect curling cross, and Kane's cool volley into the bottom corner off the post.

"That's the best of them all," said Martin Tyler. "Adriano—what a half he's had. That's a midfield display worthy of the world's best. And the finish from Kane… composure personified."

Alan nodded. "Busquets' yellow card changed everything. He had to play more cautiously, and Adriano took full advantage. You can't give a player like that time on the ball."

They paused again as the cameras panned across the shell-shocked Barcelona fans. Some stood with their arms folded in disbelief. Others stared silently at the pitch. A few whistled and jeered—not at City, but at their own team.

"Look at that," Martin said quietly. "The Camp Nou, speechless. I've never seen it like this."

In the players' tunnel, Barcelona's dressing room door slammed shut with force. Luis Enrique was already inside, likely tearing into his team.

Across the corridor, Manchester City's players filed calmly into their own changing room. Pellegrini waited at the door, nodding once at each man who walked in. No yelling. No celebration. Just focus.

The scoreboard didn't lie.

Barcelona 0 – 3 Manchester City.

And across Europe, every rival club, every pundit, every fan watching… was already whispering the same thing.

City weren't just here to compete.

They were here to conquer.

****

The heavy door slammed shut behind them like the final note of a requiem. Inside the Barcelona dressing room, the air was thick—not just with sweat, but shame. Steam clung to the tiled walls. Shin pads were tossed onto the floor. No one spoke. No one dared.

Luis Enrique was already moving.

"¡Esto es vergonzoso!" he roared, his voice slamming through the silence like a hammer on glass. This is embarrassing!

His chest rose and fell in fury, pacing the floor like a man trapped in a nightmare he couldn't wake from. The players sat scattered—heads down, shirts off, all of them soaked in disbelief.

"Three goals," he spat, eyes scanning each face. "Three goals… in our own f***ing house!"

He jabbed a finger at Piqué. "Gerard, what the hell are you doing? Letting Kane drift into space like it's a Sunday kickabout?"

Piqué looked up but didn't answer. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His eyes were vacant.

"Busquets," Enrique continued, voice hardening, "You're standing off like we're playing Real Betis in a charity match. Since when do you let Adriano waltz into midfield unchallenged?"

Busquets clenched his jaw, but he too stayed silent. His pride already stung.

Then he turned on Alves.

"And Dani…" Enrique paused, shook his head slowly, like he couldn't believe he had to say it out loud. "You're getting roasted out there like it's pre-season. Hazard's walking past you. Walking."

Alves sat on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, his shirt draped over his head. He looked up slowly, eyes bloodshot, but didn't argue. His silence said it all.

"You're all looking at each other like it's someone else's fault!" Enrique exploded, his arms spread wide, eyes blazing. "Do any of you… do any of you remember what it means to wear this shirt?!"

The question lingered like a slap. No one answered. No one could.

The only sounds were the rasp of exhausted breathing and the faint bass of music echoing from the Manchester City dressing room down the corridor—a cruel reminder of who was celebrating.

Enrique's lip curled. He turned on his heel and stalked toward the tactics board.

"Fine," he snapped. "We make changes."

His hands moved furiously over the magnets, fingers stabbing at names like he was performing surgery with rage.

"Xavi," he said without turning. "You're off."

Xavi, already untying his boots, nodded once. He didn't even flinch. There was no fight left. He simply reached for his towel, handed the captain's armband to Messi wordlessly, and took a seat in the corner.

"Rakitic," Enrique said, without looking back, "you're in. I want legs. Energy. You help Sergi contain their breaks."

Rakitic stood, pulled his shirt on quickly, and gave a curt nod.

Then Enrique turned toward Vermaelen.

"Slide to right back. I know it's not ideal, but we need the pace. Mascherano, you're in."

A beat of hesitation passed. Mascherano sat at the far end of the bench, thighs wrapped in ice packs. His face tightened. He wasn't 100%. Everyone knew it.

He nodded anyway, slowly peeling off the wraps. "I can go," he said through gritted teeth. "Forty-five minutes. I'll manage."

One of the assistants—young, nervous—stepped forward. "Coach, Javier's not—"

"I know," Enrique snapped, without turning. "But I don't care."

The room went still.

He stepped to the center again, both palms slamming onto the table in front of the tactics board. His tone dropped. Lower. Fiercer.

"They're playing with us. Laughing. In our home. In our home!"

He pointed to Messi, Neymar, and Suárez. "From the whistle—you three are up. High. Pressing. I want them rattled. I want panic. Force them into mistakes. We don't wait for the game—we take the game."

Then to Alba: "Jordi, overlap every time. I don't care if you leave gaps. We need width. Get behind Kimmich."

To Rakitic: "You sweep up. Cover the counters. Tackle everything."

He looked up slowly, eyes piercing. "If we concede again, so be it. But if we don't show some damn fire, we're already dead."

The words hit like a blow to the chest. Busquets looked over at Piqué. Neymar sat up straighter. Suarez rubbed his hands, exhaling sharply.

Finally, Messi stood.

He pulled the armband tightly onto his bicep. No words, no speeches. Just a simple nod to Enrique. Then he turned to his teammates.

"Let's go."

The room rose behind him—one by one. Shoulders rolled back. Chins lifted.

The walk back to the tunnel was silent—but it wasn't shame anymore.

It was fury.

****

Just down the tunnel from the turmoil of Barcelona's locker room, the scene in Manchester City's camp was calm—almost serene.

The walls buzzed softly with the low hum of quiet chatter. Kane sat leaned back on the bench, long legs stretched out, sipping from a bottle of water while chuckling at something Hazard said. The Belgian had his boots off, feet resting on a kit bag, laughing under his breath. Hummels had a towel over his head, breathing slowly, while Salah sat cross-legged on the floor, gently juggling a ball from foot to foot with the easy grace of someone still warming up, not someone who had just helped dismantle Barcelona in their own stadium.

Adriano sat perched on the edge of the bench, still in full kit, bouncing a knee with leftover adrenaline. He hadn't stopped grinning since his second assist.

"Mate," he said, glancing at Hazard, "you see Enrique's face after the third?"

Hazard snorted. "He looked like he saw a ghost. Or like Busquets passed him a tax bill."

Laughter rippled through the room—but not loudly. There was joy, yes. A quiet satisfaction. But there was still work to do.

The door swung open and Pellegrini walked in.

Immediately, the noise died.

The Chilean didn't say a word at first. His hands were clasped behind his back, face unreadable. Calm. Cold. Calculating.

Then, slowly, he nodded once.

"Well done," he said, finally. "That… that was one of the best halves of football we've played all season."

Eyes met his across the room—Hazard, De Bruyne, Kane, Adriano. Every one of them locked in.

"You were disciplined. You were patient. You didn't get drawn in. That's exactly what we talked about."

Hazard bumped fists with De Bruyne. Kimmich got a soft slap on the back from Hummels. Kane leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still nodding slightly.

Pellegrini took a few steps toward the tactics board and, with a quiet sweep of his hand, wiped off the magnets representing Barcelona's first-half shape.

"But," he continued, "don't think for one second that it's over."

He began reassembling the board, shifting the pieces rapidly, his voice growing more focused.

"They'll come out different. Enrique has no choice now. He'll go full risk—full-backs pushing high, Neymar and Messi coming inside, Suarez pressing the centre-backs. They'll pin us with numbers, try to force errors in our third. It'll be chaos."

Casemiro, already halfway to his feet, looked to Pellegrini.

"David," Pellegrini said, turning to Silva, "you've done well. But now we need to close the middle."

Silva gave a half-smile and pulled off his armband. "Not chasing Rakitic around for 45 minutes sounds like a blessing," he quipped, then handed the armband to De Bruyne and started untying his boots.

Casemiro nodded, pulled his shirt over his head, and tightened his gloves.

"Stay deep," Pellegrini instructed him. "Back four will need a shield. They're going to overload the half-spaces. You're the wall."

Casemiro thumped his chest. "Entendido."

Adriano leaned over to Kane, eyes still gleaming. "Told you they'd lose their minds after halftime."

Kane smirked. "That's when we finish 'em."

Pellegrini gave a faint grin, barely visible.

"If the opportunity comes," he said, "yes. But control first. Shape first. Let them chase shadows."

He raised his voice for the whole room.

"Play like we did before. Keep it tight. Use the space. Be ruthless."

The room was quiet again. Focused.

Kimmich tightened his shin pads. Hazard retaped his left wrist. Salah zipped up his top and stretched his calves against the bench. Hummels and Otamendi shared a brief nod, the understanding of centre-backs who knew the siege was coming.

As the players began to file out toward the tunnel, Hazard leaned toward De Bruyne, voice low.

"You ready for the wave?"

De Bruyne gave a small shrug. "Let them come."

Adriano passed Pellegrini near the door and clapped him on the back with a grin.

"Coach," he said, eyes gleaming, "get the fourth goal speech ready."

Pellegrini didn't reply.

But the flicker at the corner of his mouth said enough.

****

The two teams lined up once more. Barcelona were first out.

Their expressions had changed. Gone were the blank stares of disbelief. In their place—cold fury. Mascherano jogged in place, jaw tight. Neymar muttered to himself, slapping his cheeks to fire himself up. Messi stood with the armband, staring straight ahead, eyes hard as stone.

Manchester City followed. Calm. Collected. Kimmich fixed his socks. Kane adjusted his armband. Adriano chewed a gum slowly, casually.

And yet they weren't arrogant. Just… ready.

The stadium outside still buzzed with tension. The Camp Nou faithful were praying for a miracle. For a fightback. For pride.

But inside the tunnel, one side was desperate.

The other was waiting.

As the referee blew his whistle and the ball rolled, the second half began.

If the first 45 minutes had been a masterclass—this half was going to be a war.

Martin Tyler: " And we're back folks, the 2nd half of the Champion's League Quarter Final 1st leg at Camp Nou. Barcelona has a mountain to climb. Can they claw their way back against Manchester City?

They have made a couple changes during break. Mascherano and Rakitic came on, replacing Xavi and Dani Alves. Risky move, considering Mascherano is still not fit yet."

Alan Smith: " The pressure is immense Martin. They need goals , and fast. If they concede once more, they could be on their way out. All credit to Manchester City. They have set themselves up comfortably. Now they just need to hold that lead. I guess that's why they have brought on Casemiro to replace Silva."

But City didn't start the half holding back, they started with a bang.

*****

I honestly wanted to just stop last week as I said on discord before, cz it is that disappointing in terms of activity, let alone votes.

It's not about update rate either. The troll loser uploads 3 chapters now as well. He's still milking people dry.

So I'm tired of going along with this. I gave it time but nothing changed. Who would even write if their efforts are not appreciated , and even badmouthed and personally attacked.

So If I don't feel like uploading this story here, it's not unreasonable. I could have dragged this on to attract more viewers for Patreon, but like I said, money isn't my goal. I'm sorry I can't write brainless stupid wish fulfillment story with no logic and market that garbage.

Against my better judgement, I have decided to finish this current match here before I stop permanently. So 2 more chapters here.

I'll finish it on Patreon hopefully around December or January.

This could've been great, but like usual, some jealous shitty people had to ruin it.

So, there you go.