Football Dynasty

O'Neill made no tactical adjustments at half-time.

Originally, O'Neill's instinct was to hold the line—keep the players sitting deep, stay compact, and wait for Barcelona to commit men forward. But before he could settle on that approach, Mourinho suddenly broke the silence.

"No," he said firmly. "We attack. We press—now."

By now, their team had become adept at reading the flow of a match, shifting shape and tempo with nothing more than a glance or a gesture from the touchline. They knew what to do.

The only change came with Neil Lennon, who was replaced by Frank Lampard.

Barcelona had been under heavy pressure in the first half, and Mourinho saw no reason to disrupt City's rhythm with unnecessary tinkering.

Still, protecting a slim lead would have been foolish. Doing so would hand the initiative straight back to Barcelona. Instead, Mourinho urged O'Neill and his players to stay united in mind and spirit, to ignore the scoreline, defend with ferocity, and continue chasing goals with the same hunger that had carried them through the first forty-five minutes.

This was more than just a game—it was a milestone. Every staff member, every supporter in the stands, even Richard in the VIP's box, dreamed of leaving the Camp Nou victorious.

PHWEEEEEE~

When the second half kicked off, Barcelona's forwards began dropping deeper to receive the ball, trying to spark their attack from safer ground. But City refused to ease the pressure. They carried their first-half intensity straight into the restart, once again hammering at Barcelona's right flank.

Enrique's defensive cover on the wing proved insufficient, allowing Capdevila the freedom to surge forward. The tempo quickened, the competition between the sides sharpening with every exchange.

On the left, Pires received the ball under the tight watch of Ferrer. With a quick sidestep, he shifted the play wide. Pires instantly burst past Enrique in full stride and whipped in a cross, but the ball never found its target—Hest reacted first at the near post, clearing it away.

The loose ball fell awkwardly to Celades, who hesitated just long enough.

Larsson seeing this pounced, snapping into the challenge and stealing possession. In a single motion he slid the ball horizontally into Ronaldo's path.

The Phenomenon wound up from distance, unleashing a ferocious strike—but the ball curled agonizingly wide of the post.

Ronaldo shook his head in frustration before jogging back, already bracing himself for the next Barcelona attack.

Seeing another attack from City, make Robson frowned. He noticed that it was precisely because City's forwards dropped back to defend that they had more space to launch counterattacks.

Rapid transitions caught defenders off guard, forcing them into poor judgments. From a speed standpoint, when a forward charged at full pace, defenders who had to turn and sprint from behind were far easier to shake off.

The root of Barcelona's problems was clear: their formation was stretched, their three lines disconnected, and Manchester City were slicing through them with relentless, aggressive pressing.

With the forwards isolated up front and the midfield suffocated, Barcelona's defenders sat too deep, unable to build play or link attacks effectively. Their entire structure faltered.

To regain balance, the forwards needed to drop back and help in transition, the midfielders had to work harder to create space, and the defenders needed to step up in support. But in doing so, they risked walking straight into City's trap—a scenario that perfectly suited Mourinho's strategy.

Robson racked his brain, trying to figure out how to counter City's approach. Perhaps it was their relentless running that gave them such a clear advantage.

The blurring of roles was even more thought-provoking.

Not only did most of their midfielders rotate freely, but even the forwards tracked back deep to defend, suffocating Barcelona's possession. Defenders joined the build-up, and multi-faceted offensive initiations made it impossible to assign fixed duties within City's tactical system.

Even Makelele, known for his precise short passes, contributed to Pirlo's orchestration. Pirlo might have been the brain, but he wasn't the only one dictating play. When a threatening ball was needed, Makelele too could deliver.

How should Barcelona respond?

As a manager, Robson felt the stress crushing him…

But unknown to him, just a minute later—right when he was frantically searching for answers—Barcelona struck back.

This is Barcelona we're talking about!

Figo, dropping unusually deep to receive the ball, didn't surge toward the byline. Capdevila, wary of leaving space behind him, held back instead of pressing tightly thanks to Sergi Esclusa who roaming just behind Figo.

Seeing this, like it or not, Makelele and Pirlo had to cover.

As expected, Figo drove inward with the ball, drawing Pirlo toward him first. Pirlo stepped up instinctively to intercept—but Figo glided past him with ease, brushing him aside with that sharp change of direction only he could summon.

Makelele scrambled back as he pursue Figo as he approached the edge of the penalty area. Then, without warning, Figo unleashed a thunderous strike!

BANG!

The ball cannoned off the crossbar, vibrating through the stadium. Buffon—already at full stretch—could only watch as it ricocheted violently back into play.

And there, like fate itself, stood Rivaldo.

He cushioned the rebound with a velvet first touch, the ball sticking to his foot as though magnetized. Thuram stormed in, desperate to shut him down. But Rivaldo, calm as ice, executed his trademark trick: an inside–outside flick with his left foot. One motion, sharp and deceptive.

Thuram's momentum betrayed him—he stumbled, collapsing to the turf, his outstretched hand brushing grass as he looked up in despair at Rivaldo's retreating figure.

"Damn it…!" he growled.

Canavaro was already closing, his stride urgent, teeth clenched. He knew it was now him against Rivaldo. One chance to stop him before Buffon.

Rivaldo slowed. He measured the defender, eyes locked, posture almost statuesque—like a predator waiting for its prey to make the first mistake. Canavaro lunged, trying to cut off his path.

But Rivaldo shifted the ball at the last instant, slipping past him with a silky sidestep that left the Italian chasing shadows.

The crowd roared, a deafening wave crashing over the stadium.

"Ohhh, Rivaldo! He's past Thuram—left him on the ground! Look at that flick, sensational! Cannavaro steps in now… can he stop him? NO! Rivaldo slips past him as well—this is genius, absolute genius from the Brazilian!"

The fans were on their feet, voices blending into a single thunderous chant. Rivaldo, gliding with the ball at his feet, looked unstoppable. Every touch carried danger, every feint drew gasps.

All eyes shifted to Buffon—last line, last hope.

Buffon braced himself, certain his positioning would narrow the angle. He planted firmly, chest forward, eyes locked on the Brazilian.

But in the very next instant, Rivaldo slipped the ball to the side.

The Italian goalkeeper, now directly in front of him, tried to close the space. Rivaldo feigned a shot—Buffon stretched his leg instinctively to block. He dared not commit too much, wary of being rounded completely, but still had to put pressure on the Brazilian.

A dazzling feint!

Buffon's weight shifted the wrong way. For a split second he lost balance, and by the time he lunged to smother what he thought was the real attempt, the actual strike had already been unleashed.

The ball curled away from his desperate reach, kissing the inside of the post before nestling into the back of the net.

The stadium exploded.

"Rivaldo shoots—no, he didn't! He's taken out Thuram, he's taken out Cannavaro, he's even sat Buffon down—Rivaldo! GOOOAAALLL! Barcelona equalize! This could be the goal of the Champions League!"

In the 60th minute, Barcelona were level again.

The bench erupted—players leapt to their feet, substitutes charged toward the pitch, and staff embraced one another.

Robson, lost moments earlier in tactical doubts, suddenly sprang up, waving his arms wildly in sheer euphoria. His assistant coaches sprinted down the touchline, fists pumping.

It was only an equalizer. But to Barcelona's players, the emotion was overwhelming. They knew firsthand how brutally difficult it had been to carve open City's iron wall.

On the other side, Manchester City's players exchanged glances with O'Neill. The manager responded calmly, clapping his hands firmly, urging them to keep focus. Mourinho on other hand clenched his right fist and gestured, giving a thumbs up toward Barcelona's goal.

And Richard—who had been standing to watch—sank suddenly into his seat.

Truthfully, when Rivaldo had first asked to leave PSV, Richard had been crushed. His dream of introducing the "Trio R" into the Premier League had seemed all but gone. And now, watching Rivaldo tear through his City defense to score this masterpiece, he felt a complex storm inside him—part frustration, part reluctant admiration.

"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath.

Yet as the celebrations raged, his mind was already elsewhere.

'Next season… maybe Ronaldinho, Terry, and the others can be phased into the first team. Hm… perhaps it's time to start regeneration from within the academy.'

After all, just this past winter, countless clubs had approached City's players. If nothing else, tonight reminded him: the cycle of renewal could not be delayed forever.

Seeing O'Neill's calm reaction, City's players quickly shook off the sting of conceding.

As play resumed, Barcelona looked eager to ride their momentum—but City refused to panic. From the kickoff, they moved with purpose, determined to reassert control.

The ball zipped across the pitch, each touch crisp, each pass measured.

Ronaldo—Larsson—Zidane—Pires—Lampard—Makelele—Pirlo—Zanetti—Cannavaro—Thuram—Capdevila—back to Ronaldo.

Twelve passes in quick succession, effortless and composed, and the ball was right where it had started—at the feet of their talisman.

Barcelona was pressing hard, and suddenly, the ball arrived at their most dangerous point—Ronaldo, striking fear into their defense, who rushed in to apply frantic pressure.

Ronaldo returned the ball to Zidane, who sent a through pass without taking a touch. Larsson made a run, but the ball didn't come his way.

A trap!

All of Barcelona's defenders thought Larsson would deliver the final blow, but unexpectedly, Zidane's pass found Pires on the opposite side.

Pires burst past Ferrer and broke into the penalty area.

Bogarde, realizing the danger, rushed across, but Pires was quicker by a fraction of a second. Still, Bogarde managed to body him, tugging at his arm to make life difficult.

With his hand being pulled, Pires fought to keep his balance. Out of options, he stretched with all his strength and stabbed the ball with the tip of his boot, slotting it toward the Barcelona goal.

Bogarde's heart sank as he turned to see the ball rolling—straight at the open net.

The goal was wide!

Hesp, seeing Pires being harried, reacted quickly. He charged forward to close the angle. But just as he lunged, Pires's poked effort slipped under him—nutmegged!

Hesp tried desperately to snap his legs shut, but too late. The ball trickled between them and into the net.

As the ball crossed the line, the stadium fell into a stunned silence.

Every spectator froze, dumbfounded.

What just happened?

Commentator (voice cracking with disbelief):

"Ronaldo laid it off to Zidane—Zidane, without even taking a touch, slipped a through ball to the right! Pires! He's past Bogarde, past Hesp—IT'S IN! It's in! Manchester City have retaken the lead almost instantly after conceding! Barcelona haven't even touched the ball since the restart! Let's count it—twelve passes from kick-off to finish, and Pires crowned it with the goal! From the first touch at midfield to the final strike—this is pure, team football at its absolute best!"

The spell broke—the City end of the stadium erupted into chaos. Pires tore off his jersey in a roar of triumph, sprinting toward the sideline with teammates swarming him.

With only minutes left on the clock, O'Neill wasted no time. He called for fresh legs.

William Gallas for Larsson. Hidetoshi Nakata for Pirlo.

Time to lock it down.

On the sideline, Mourinho gave final instructions, gesturing firmly as he outlined each man's role. Hold the line, control the tempo, no risks. City's shape tightened, reorganizing into a 4-2-3-1: Ronaldo alone up front, Okocha and Pires stretching wide, Nakata joining Makelele as the double pivot shielding the back four.

Across the pitch, Robson knew he had no choice but to gamble. The veteran coach threw on everything he had left: Miguel Ángel Nadal for Couto to steady the defense, Duggary for Anderson to inject firepower, and Pizzi for Iván de la Peña to chase a late goal.

The match had suddenly turned frantic—both managers rolling the dice at once.

What formation was Barcelona in now?

Who could say?