Chapter 1
In the center of the podium sat club president Florentino Pérez, his face heavy with gravity.
“Based on the team’s recent performances and our plans for the future, the club has decided to terminate the head coach’s contract with immediate effect.”
And then, the room erupted like a landslide crashing into the sea. The rapid-fire shutters of cameras merged into a torrent, like a thunderous downpour on a sheet-metal roof.
Journalists were in an uproar, whispering, exchanging glances—shock and frenzy written across their faces.
Who would be the successor?
Capello? Hiddink? Or perhaps some world-renowned manager currently without a job?
Florentino turned and gestured toward a young man who had remained silent at his side.
“Julian, only 28 years old, previously worked as a data analyst for our C-team in the youth system.”
Boom.
If the earlier outcry had been a landslide, this was the full eruption of a volcano. The press room was completely out of control.
Flashbulbs went berserk, converging on the young man.
He was very young, with sharply cut Germanic features. He wore an ill-fitting club-issued suit, looking more like a student who had wandered into a hall of power than a man about to lead a galaxy of superstars.
That was Julian Bach.
A transmigrator.
A month ago, he had been scrambling for an internship with a second-division German side. A car accident had sent him here—reborn as the lowest-level staffer at Real Madrid’s youth academy.
A veteran journalist from Marca suddenly sprang to his feet and snatched the microphone.
“President Pérez! Forgive my bluntness—but is this a joke? A German with a blank résumé? An analyst with no professional playing career? How is he supposed to manage a squad that includes Ronaldo, Zidane, Raúl, and Beckham?”
The question was sharp as a blade.
They didn’t even bother to look at the podium. They spoke quietly among themselves, smirking, their disdain undisguised.
From the very start, this magnificent battleship refused to let him board.
Florentino shielded him from the first wave of fire.
“Silence!”
The president’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that silenced the hall.
He pulled a document from his folder and held it up.
“This is a report Julian submitted to me a week ago. Its title: ‘On Tactical Rigidity and the Risks of Systemic Physical Collapse.’”
“In this report, he used data models to predict—down to the minute—our tactical breakdowns from the last match. He even forecasted the cliff-like drop in physical fitness after the 70th minute. Every detail matched reality.”
“What Real Madrid needs isn’t fame. We need someone who can identify problems—and solve them.”
His words landed with force.
But the journalists weren’t convinced. It was easy to sound clever on paper. Coaching world-class superstars was another matter entirely.
More questions shot toward Julian.
The voices tangled together into a suffocating net, threatening to swallow him whole.
And then, under the crushing weight, Julian’s retina flickered.
A faintly glowing blue interface appeared before his eyes—like something out of a sci-fi film.
Finally.
After a month of silence, endless trials and despair—his system had awakened at the moment he needed it most.
This was the only reason he had dared to accept the impossible job.
Julian’s body remained still, but his mind was razor sharp.
His gaze slid toward the back row, fixing on Captain Raúl.
“Scan.”
The command echoed silently in his mind.
In an instant, Julian’s vision transformed.
The real world faded into grayscale. In its place, a 3D model of Raúl—woven entirely from data streams—flared to life before his eyes.
From muscle fibers to skeletal structure, even neural responses—nothing was hidden.
Lines of data raced past, then froze.
…
Julian’s heart thudded hard.
Grade III risk!
Even Real Madrid’s elite medical team, with their cutting-edge equipment, might not catch this.
He now held knowledge beyond the reach of this entire era.
This would be his weapon at the Bernabéu.
By the time he returned to himself, the press conference was already winding down.
Guided by staff, Julian rose.
He ignored the barrage of unanswered questions and walked straight toward the tunnel leading to the home dressing room.
The corridor stretched deep and long. The walls were lined with photographs of legends, every step echoing with the weight of giants.
As he approached the heavy door marked with the Real Madrid crest, the system flashed again.
This time, in blazing red.
He pushed the door open.
The scene inside was even colder than the data.
“Il Fenomeno” Ronaldo and Roberto Carlos lounged against the lockers, laughing loudly in Portuguese. They didn’t pause or adjust when Julian entered—not even out of courtesy.
Across the room, Raúl and Guti held court among the Spaniards, the divide from the Brazilians sharp and absolute.
And Zidane—the maestro—sat alone in a corner, head bowed, polishing his boots with a white cloth. Slowly. Repeatedly.
Comments (0)
See all