Chapter 10
1053 Words
On Copa del Rey matchday, Julian turned the fixture into a laboratory for rotation with a single stroke of his pen.
The opponent was a lower-division side, the gulf in strength enormous.
Zidane, Raúl, Roberto Carlos—those veterans who had drained their reserves in the last league match—were all left out of the squad entirely.
In their place came Solari, Morientes, and a cast of fringe players and academy graduates desperate to prove themselves.
The decision stirred waves of debate among the media and fans.
Julian remained unmoved.
He needed a low-cost victory.
More than that, he needed a live testing ground—to see just how much real strength his “temporary” data access could unlock.
Training ended.
As the players dispersed, the clamor of Valdebebas faded, and the setting sun washed the training ground in a soft orange glow.
Inside Julian’s makeshift office, only the crisp staccato of his keyboard remained.
He was organizing the day’s newly collected data, inputting it one by one into the Apex Tactical Suite.
The door opened without a knock.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure filled the doorway, blotting out the light and casting a silent shadow across the floor.
Ronaldo Luís Nazário de Lima.
He wore a gray training kit, the collar darkened with sweat, droplets still clinging to his short hair.
The flamboyance was gone. In its place, his eyes—once enough to terrify defenders—were clouded, heavy with fatigue and doubt.
This was their first private encounter since the “benching incident.”
The air grew taut.
Julian’s fingers froze above the keyboard. He didn’t look up, but he could feel the weight of the gaze pressing down on him.
Ronaldo didn’t accuse. He didn’t rage. The fire had already burned out on the bench.
He only stood there in silence, for a very long time.
Until the office seemed dimmer still, and at last, he spoke—his voice hoarse.
“Coach… when will I play again?”
Coach.
From the “Phenomenon,” the word carried a rough humility.
He was no longer the untouchable superstar who lived above the rules.
He was a player yearning to return to the pitch.
And with that word, he acknowledged Julian as his head coach.
Julian finally looked up.
He didn’t answer right away. His calm eyes studied the Brazilian, as if assessing a piece of precision machinery—brilliant in design, but prone to breakdown.
Then he turned the laptop toward Ronaldo.
The glow of the screen lit the striker’s startled face.
A complex interface, filled with curves and data models.
The Apex Tactical Suite.
Julian tapped the touchpad, opening a flagged module.
Peak Efficiency Zone.
Next to a digital model of Ronaldo’s body, streams of cold numbers spilled across the screen.
“Roni, your body is a supercar,” Julian said, breaking the silence.
“But even a supercar has an optimal range.”
He pointed to the first steep curve.
“Your first twenty-five meters of acceleration—on this planet, no one matches that. Pure explosive power.”
“But beyond that distance, your speed drop-off spikes, and the load on your muscles multiplies exponentially.”
The screen shifted.
A tactical map of the Bernabéu appeared.
Highlighted in crimson: an arc-shaped zone stretching from the top of the box to the six-yard line.
“This is your Ronaldo Zone,” Julian explained.
“In the last three seasons, your shot conversion rate here is forty-eight percent.”
His finger slid to the vast blue spaces beyond.
“Step outside this zone, and the conversion rate plummets—to twelve percent.”
Ronaldo’s breath hitched.
He couldn’t decipher the models, but the red zone and the brutal percentages needed no translation.
That was his hunting ground.
Julian’s voice carried on, steady, sharp as a blade.
“I never wanted you to be a workhorse covering the whole pitch, Roni.”
“You are the Phenomenon. The finisher.”
“But your body no longer allows you to roam as you once did.”
“Every pointless sprint, every dribble outside your core area—it’s wasted fuel from your supercar’s tank.”
“Fuel that should be saved for the kill.”
With a keystroke, he played an animation.
White dots—Madrid players—moved through crisp sequences of passes and runs, pulling the opposition apart.
Ronaldo’s dot hovered near the Zone, shifting only in tight patterns.
No retreating into midfield. No lung-bursting runs from the wing.
He was a shadowy assassin, biding his time.
Until the ball arrived in that crimson territory.
Then—ignite. A burst of speed, a clean touch, a ruthless finish.
Goal.
The simulation looped again and again.
The team’s movement revolved around feeding him in the Zone.
Not the vague “play for Ronaldo.”
But the surgical: “use Ronaldo at maximum efficiency.”
Ronaldo stared, transfixed.
At the version of himself who feasted with ease inside the box.
His chest rose and fell. His breath was harsh, ragged.
But in his dulled eyes, sparks caught flame again—and grew brighter.
He saw it.
He saw the path back to the summit.
“Get your conditioning back above eighty-five percent,” Julian said, delivering his verdict.
“Complete the specialized program I’ll set for you.”
He shut the animation, meeting Ronaldo’s gaze. His words came measured, final.
“Do that—and in the next league match, the Bernabéu will witness a reborn Phenomenon.”
Silence stretched.
Ronaldo’s fists clenched, knuckles whitening.
At last, he exhaled, lifted his head.
All the frustration, doubt, and struggle condensed into a single word.
“…Alright.”
The moment the word left his lips, Julian knew—the most unshakable fortress in the dressing room had been breached.
When Ronaldo turned to leave, his steps no longer dragged. His stride carried a lost conviction, now reclaimed.
Julian leaned back in his chair, exhaling quietly.
In his vision, a faint blue interface flickered to life.
Milestone Achieved: Initial Control of the Dressing Room
Reward: New Module Unlocked — Tactical Design Optimization
New Long-Term Mission Generated: Build a Data-Driven Championship Team
The first act of this saga closed here.
But a tactical revolution poised to sweep across Europe—was only beginning.
- Writer
