Chapter 201 Camp Nou

At the pre-match press conference, Magath was furniture.

He sat beside Guardiola, watching the entire room aim their lenses and microphones at the Barcelona manager. The only question that drifted toward Magath came from a Spanish reporter who asked, with a completely straight face, whether Schalke would be willing to sell Mateo in the summer.

The rest of the questions were reserved entirely for Pep. How many goals would Barcelona score? Would Messi lock up his third straight Champions League top-scorer trophy? What would the final at Wembley look like? Nobody in the room seemed to consider the semi-final even remotely in doubt, and nobody bothered to disguise it.

Magath walked back into the dressing room in a foul mood, which turned out to be the exact state of mind he needed.

Standing in the Camp Nou away dressing room, which felt far too large and luxurious compared to their lockers in Gelsenkirchen, he stared down a squad of players who had gone stone-faced and quiet. Annan looked curled up in his corner seat, eager to blend into the wall. Even Jones, who usually lived to pick fights, looked like a nervous patient waiting for a dentist.

“Are you scared?” He started low, his voice barely carrying over the hum of the air vents. “Has the name frightened you stiff?”

Nobody said a word.

“Jones. You fool. Where were you two years ago?” He didn’t wait.

“You arrived at my door on reserve-squad wages, practically begging for one last chance to prove your career wasn’t finished. When I threw you onto the grass, you played like you wanted to tear people apart. Your knees weren’t shaking then.”

He took three slow steps down the bench.

“Neuer. What about you? Are you worried Messi is going to humiliate you in front of Europe?”

Neuer stood up instantly from the bench, jaw clenched and eyes flashing with temper.

“We barely made it out of the group stage,” Magath barked, his voice rising against the concrete walls. “We started the season losing our first two matches. We have teenagers in this room. We have blue-collar grinders. One of you learned your trade in places that barely had professional leagues, and another,” he shot a quick, pointed glance toward Vardy, “was working menial factory jobs just eighteen months ago. Yet here you are, leading the Bundesliga table ahead of Bayern Munich. It was you lot who walked into the San Siro and knocked the treble winners out of Europe.”

He let the words bounce off the lockers, letting the silence build.

“This is the first time Schalke has ever stood in a Champions League semi-final. It is the first time in my career, too. I am not afraid of Barcelona. They are just a very expensive squad of footballers, that is all. They have Xavi. We have Mateo. The reporters out there think the rest of you are just dead weight carrying one genius. I don’t believe that. I never believed that for a second. We didn’t get to the final four because of one player. We arrived here because all eleven of you worked until your lungs gave out.”

Magath drew a long breath, staring directly into the eyes of every starter.

“Every great run ends eventually. But before it does, let’s lose our minds one more time. Let the Camp Nou feel the crush of Die Königsblauen.”

The roar that burst out of the room echoed straight down the concrete tunnel, loud enough to challenge the ninety thousand supporters waiting upstairs.

Mateo watched the manager from his locker with genuine admiration. Magath usually struggled with emotional speeches, preferring raw fitness drills, sprint counts, and rigid positioning. Yet backed into a corner with nothing left to lose, he could ignite a frightened room better than anyone. It worked because every player could tell the old man genuinely refused to bow to Barcelona’s budget, and that stubborn pride caught fire across the entire squad. Even Annan had jumped to his feet, shouting along with the rest.

Mateo activated the Partner card on Jones before they lined up. As he took his first steps toward the tunnel leading to the Camp Nou pitch, the system interface flickered into his field of vision.

[Random quest triggered: Ascend to the Summit of the World.]

[Difficulty: Unknown.]

[Reward: Football King, Maradona template.]

Mateo nearly broke stride.

A template. A fully realized, top-tier template, the kind of grand prize the system usually kept completely hidden. It was dangling a legendary reward right in front of him on the biggest night of his young career.

Then he read the text again, noting the strange lack of details. The difficulty was listed as unknown. There were no specific conditions attached, no requirements to fulfill, and no progress bar. Just a massive reward without any clear manual on how to unlock it. The system had never presented a prompt quite like this.

Mateo dismissed the glowing screen. There was no time to analyze system prompts now.

The Camp Nou opened up around them in an enormous sea of red and blue. The Champions League anthem echoed from the stadium speakers, followed by the stadium announcer roaring through the Barcelona starting eleven. Puyol, Piqué, Xavi, and Iniesta each drew a massive wave of noise from the stands, building up until the final name rattled the seats.

“Lionel Messi!”

In the tunnel, Messi had glanced over at Mateo with a slight nod of recognition. Mateo simply nodded back.

Mateo had nodded back.

Now the referee lifted the whistle to his lips, and the Camp Nou went quiet as both sides settled into position.

The referee blew the whistle, and the match began.