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The flight from Barcelona to Paris took just under two hours, but for Lorenzo, the shift in atmosphere felt like crossing into a different dinsion. As the chartered shuttle bus pulled onto the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle Airport, the reality of the UEFA Champions League, the pinnacle of club football finally began to settle in his marrow.
As the entourage walked through the arrival gate, the noise level spiked to a deafening roar.
"So many people here for a group stage ga?" Andres Iniesta asked, looking around in surprise. "There are people wearing our colors everywhere."
Sergio Busquets craned his neck, squinting at the crowd. "It's not just the colors, Andres. Look closer."
Outside the security cordon, a massive group of young fans, many of them Argentinian expats and international students from across Europe, had gathered. While ssi's Number 10 remained the dominant icon, a startling number of fans were draped in the Number 9.
Neymar peered around, spotting only a few scattered fans wearing his Number 11 jersey. The Brazilian prodigy let out a dramatic, playful sigh. "Did Ronaldinho not help open the Paris market? Why is my popularity so low in the City of Light?"
"Relax, Junior," Dani Alves chuckled. "You're new. Lorenzo here silenced Madrid twice. That's a universal currency."
The "Lorenzo-mania" was particularly evident among the young South Aricans. A group of students from the University of Paris waved a massive Argentinian flag.
"Lorenzo! We ca from the Latin Quarter just for you!" one fan scread. "Your 'Bicycle Volley' at the Calderón is the only thing we talk about in the bars!"
Lorenzo paused to sign a few notebooks and jerseys. One young man roared, "Tell Zlatan that the King of Argentina is here to take his tower!"
Lorenzo gave a calm, imperious nod, a silent acknowledgnt fueled by his "Cantona Temperant." He wasn't just a guest in Paris; he was a challenger.
The pre-match press conference was a study in professional civility masking deep tactical anxiety. Laurent Blanc embraced Martino, but the dia was hungry for the "New Ronaldo" narrative Blanc had recently floated.
"How do you view this match against a team like Barcelona?" a reporter from L'Équipe asked.
Blanc adjusted his glasses. "The decisive factor is undoubtedly the strikers. I've watched every one of Lorenzo's professional minutes. He gives the exact feeling of Ronaldo, the Fenôno from that 96-97 season when we were at Barça. He has that sa explosive power and cold-blooded efficiency. However," Blanc added, glancing at the headlines, "I believe Zlatan is in the form of his life. He has four goals in three gas. He will give the Barcelona defense a nightmare they won't forget."
The "storm" the dia had anticipated between the coaches never materialized. Both were masters of polite, calculated conversation. The real tension was brewing in the fan forums and the player tunnel.
In Paris, tickets for the Parc des Princes were trading for five tis their face value. The Qatari consortium had transford PSG into a "Money Era" titan, and the fans were desperate to see their "God" defeat the traditional giants of Catalonia.
Inside the tunnel, the atmosphere was suffocatingly cold. Lorenzo stood at the back of the Barcelona line, his height allowing him to look over the heads of the match officials. He observed the PSG lineup: Ibrahimović, Cavani, Thiago Silva, Verratti, and Marquinhos. It was an assembly of world-class talent, a team built to conquer the continent.
Lucas Digne, who had recently faced Lorenzo in that Jerusalem U21 final, cast a look of resentful hostility toward the Number 9. Lorenzo simply stared back, his "Imperial" gaze making the French defender look away first.
[Ding! Detecting Host stepping onto the Champions League stage for the first ti!]
[Side Mission Activated: Journey to the Champions League.]
[Objective 1: Score your debut Champions League goal! Reward: PSG 'Iron Tower' Star Chest * 1.]
[Objective 2: Lead the team to defeat Paris Saint-Germain! Reward: Unlock New Mode - 'Chest Reforge Roulette'!]
The Parc des Princes was a cauldron. All 46,000 seats were filled. The ho fans had used their navy and red jerseys to form a giant, human-wave Eiffel Tower in the main stand.
"ALLEZ, PARIS!" the stadium roared.
High in the ESPN Sur comntary box, Inés Valdes and Santiago adjusted their headsets.
"Welco to the first round of the 13-14 Champions League!" Santiago roared. "We are live in Paris, a clear night for a clash of philosophies! Barcelona, the established royalty, versus PSG, the new lords of capital!"
"One of the major highlights is the debut of our own Argentinian sensation, Lorenzo," Inés added. "He has beco Barcelona's primary scoring threat in record ti. Today, he faces the man who calls himself a God: Zlatan Ibrahimović."
Fweet-!
The match began with a violent, vertical intent.
Zlatan, expressionless, kicked off with a short layoff to Edinson Cavani. The two PSG strikers imdiately sprinted toward the Barcelona backfield, looking to exploit the "opening chaos" before the defense could settle.
Adrien Rabiot, the young midfield prodigy, received the ball and didn't look for a short pass. He unleashed a sixty-yard long ball over the top toward the final third. With two physical monsters like Ibra and Cavani up front, this was PSG's favorite "Shock and Awe" tactic.
"Rabiot's deep long pass!" Santiago shouted. "This is the danger of the 4-2-2-2. It has layers that compress the midfield and then explode! Ibrahimović is dragging Busquets along like a ragdoll!"
On the field, the ball arced through the night sky. Ibrahimović rose high, his 1.95m fra towering over Busquets. He won the aerial duel with disdainful ease, heading the ball down to Cavani.
Cavani chested the ball down, bypassed Mascherano with a lucky, heavy touch, and drove toward the left side of the penalty area.
"WATCH THE MIDDLE!" Martino scread from the sidelines.
Cavani, seeing Piqué closing in, attempted a powerful, low-driven cross with his non-dominant left foot. It looked like a mishit, the ball spinning with a strange, erratic trajectory that resembled a tight-angled shot more than a pass.
Victor Valdés, sensing the danger, leaped to make a save. But the ball took a freakish dip just beyond his fingertips. It scraped the underside of the crossbar and nestled into the roof of the net.
The Parc des Princes fell into a micro-second of silence before erupting into a deafening wall of sound.
1-0.
Only four minutes in, and PSG had taken the lead through a mont of bizarre luck. Cavani celebrated with a primal roar, while Ibrahimović stood in the center circle, his arms spread wide, looking toward Lorenzo as if to say: Welco to my world, child.
Lorenzo didn't look rattled. He looked at the rippling net, adjusted his jersey, and felt the Cantona temperant calming him down. The "God of Paris" had drawn first blood, but the Beast was just beginning to find his scent.
[Status: Trailing (1-0). 5th Minute.]
[System Note: Champions League Debut confird. Difficulty: Elite.]
[Target: Score the equalizer and break the Tower.]
Plz Drop So Power Stones.
If the Power Stones reach 400, I will upload a bonus chapter.
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