Chapter 232: Bernabéu Undercurrents Surge, Power Vacuum Sparks Internal Strife

Late at night.

Apartment in Yamal, Barcelona.

The light from the phone screen was reflected on the ceiling.

The nineteen-year-old supernova curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a black hoodie with the hat pulled over his head.

The living room lights were off.

The TV wasn’t on either.

On the coffee table in front of her sat an unopened takeout order and a half-drunk bottle of water.

He was clutching his phone.

Her fingertips paused on the screen.

His personal social media account homepage is filled with various posts accumulated over the past few months.

There are celebratory selfies when he was selected for the national team.

There was a provocative gesture after a league goal.

Two days ago, just hours before the El Clásico kicked off, he posted that post.

That provocative post @Cristiano Ronaldo.

The caption read, ‘Are you ready to be lectured?’ Old man, followed by three laughing emojis.

Under that post, there were tens of thousands of positive comments just two days ago.

Now, opening the comment section, it’s full of mockery.

All of them.

“Education, you got grabbed by the collar and taught a lesson.”

“He looks pretty handsome when he spits gum, but when he runs with his head covered.”

“Nineteen and already so arrogant, Cristiano Ronaldo must have cried with just one sentence.”

Yamal stared at the screen for a long time.

He started deleting it.

Delete them one by one.

Every single one.

Every arrogant, arrogant, and reckless post.

Delete them all cleanly.

Finally, his homepage was empty.

It was as empty as a blank sheet of paper.

He threw his phone onto the coffee table.

A few minutes later, he picked it up again.

He turned on the camera.

I spent a long time flipping through the album.

I found a video.

That was last month during the Spanish national team’s training camp, on a rainy day training ground.

He was practicing shooting alone.

No coach called him.

No teammates to accompany him.

He was kicking the empty door one by one.

The rain was pouring heavily.

The training clothes were soaked and clinging to his body.

But he played very seriously.

Every step was full of force.

Yamal made this video the only post on his homepage.

The caption was just four words.

See you at the World Cup.

No memes.

No @ anyone.

After sending it, he turned his phone over and slammed it onto the coffee table.

The screen faces down.

He raised his arm to cover his eyes.

A faint glow streamed through the night sky of Barcelona outside the window.

His lips moved slightly.

No sound was made.

“I remembered.”

Two days later.

Baldebebas Training Base.

Carlo Ancelotti sat in the tactical analysis room all morning.

The whiteboard in front of him was nailed with printed matchup data, player movement heatmaps, and tactical analyses of opponents for the next two league rounds.

But his gaze kept falling on the area circled in red at the upper left corner of the whiteboard.

Four days after the second leg of the Champions League semifinals.

Carlo Ancelotti took off his reading glasses and rubbed the corners of his eyes.

After some thought, he had already made his decision.

The last two rounds of the league are fully rested, and Kylian Mbappé, who can’t play in the Champions League, will have to take on the main responsibilities.

Meanwhile, Cristiano Ronaldo, Vinícius Júnior, Jude Bellingham, and Courtois are not on the field.

With goal difference and a one-point advantage, as long as the bench doesn’t mess up, La Liga championship is already a done deal.

Carlo Ancelotti has no intention of taking any risks in the league finale.

The only thing he cared about was the night four days later at Bernabéu.

There, you’ll find tickets to Wembley for the Champions League final.

That was the most important ninety minutes of the entire season.

He put his reading glasses back on, picked up a red marker, and wrote a line on top of the whiteboard.

The pen cap snapped shut with a click.

After getting up, he headed toward the changing room.

The locker room wasn’t occupied by the main lineup.

These are the substitutes who played no more than five games a season.

The young, awkward eyes held longing but also a hint of unease.

Most of them last started in the league at the start of the season.

Someone sat in front of their locker tying shoelaces.

Someone was looking down at their phone.

Someone was whispering something to a nearby teammate.

Carlo Ancelotti pushed the door open.

The entire locker room instantly fell silent.

The old man stood in the middle, looking around.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but the echoes from the locker room made every word clear.

“You were thinking, I’ve finally gotten my chance.”

“You think this is a rest period, so the intensity won’t be too high.”

“You guys are thinking, since you have the points advantage in hand, losing doesn’t matter.”

He paused.

His gaze changed, from gentle to cold.

“Who dares think that? Stand up right now and I’ll let you sit in the stands.”

No one moved.

No one is breathing.

“There are only two rounds left in the league, and the opponents are weak teams. Do you think weaker teams are easier to play?”

Carlo Ancelotti pointed to the flag hanging on the locker room wall with the team motto.

“Once you wear the Real Madrid shirt, there’s no such thing as a good game.”

“I don’t care how many minutes you played last season, I don’t care when you last started.”

“From the moment you put on this outfit and walked onto the Bernabéu lawn, you weren’t substitutes.”

“You are Real Madrid.”

His gaze swept over each of them.

Everyone felt the weight of that gaze falling on them.

“Kick with your life.”

“Bring back the league championship for me with confidence.”

“Who dares to slack off?”

Carlo Ancelotti’s mouth twitched.

“See you on the summer cleaning list.”

The locker room door closed.

The sound of Carlo Ancelotti’s leather shoes gradually faded into the hallway.

But the war off the court is far more complex than he can control.

Because during the days Carlo Ancelotti was buried in preparation,

Real Madrid’s management has some trouble.

The cause of the incident.

Executive Vice Chairman of Real Madrid.

The name of this vice president has rarely appeared in any sports media in recent years.

But this year, he has a lot of screen time.

They are not optimistic about Cristiano Ronaldo and are blocking Chairman Karl Lagerfeld’s return.

In previous years, his daily work involved handling club administrative affairs, membership relations, and some less important public relations activities.

In short, he is a shadow behind Florentino Pérez.

But Florentino Pérez has gone missing.

It’s been over three weeks.

No one knows exactly what the Empress Dowager is busy with in the Middle East.

His phone couldn’t be reached, and emails were not answered.

The last time he logged in the club’s internal communication system was on the night after the Champions League group stage ended.

He reminded Carlo Ancelotti to play with confidence.

Then it disappeared.

Vacuum.

A power vacuum.

This is the most dangerous thing in the world.

Because the power vacuum won’t last long; someone will always want to fill it.

This executive vice chairman is the one who wants to fill in.

This time, he chose a carefully calculated time to act.

Right after winning the El Clásico.