Football Dynasty

Only Mourinho, after City's third goal, allowed himself a single clenched fist pump before calmly sitting back on the bench. With a two-goal cushion, everything looked secure—but his composure suggested he knew better.

On the pitch, City's players, though exhilarated, quickly returned to focus. They carried themselves like warriors, determined to fight until the very end. Lampard, the last to re-enter, drew Mourinho's silent gesture of pride—a pointed finger, followed by two raised thumbs toward the roaring crowd.

From the stands came a thunderous chant:"City! City! City! We beat them, we beat them!"

Some fans tore off their shirts, others clambered onto shoulders, fists pumping wildly into the night sky.

"Does anyone regret it now? Reporters, coaches—are you watching this?! Who still dares to say Barcelona would crush Manchester City?!"

Such is the nature of football fans—emotions raw and simple. As long as their heroes shine, they believe they are invincible.

But Barcelona, though shaken, refused to surrender. The third goal had struck a heavy blow, yet Sergi—stripped of the armband this season and replaced by Figo—still exuded the spirit of a leader. Alongside Enrique, Couto, and others, he rallied his teammates:

"There's still time! We can make a miracle!"

Driven by belief, Barcelona surged forward with renewed determination. Yet City held firm. Except for Ronaldo, who hovered near the center circle, every player dropped deep, reinforcing their lines.

On the sideline, O'Neill stayed tense. Despite the advantage, he knew danger still lingered.

A one-goal lead isn't safe. But a two-goal lead? Sometimes even worse.

Strange as it sounds, he understood the psychology: when ahead by one, players are razor sharp, knowing a single slip erases everything. But with two, that tiny sense of comfort creeps in—even if they score, we're still ahead. And that moment of ease is enough to undo a team.

For this reason, O'Neill didn't celebrate. Instead, he reminded his men to keep fighting. Mourinho, too, knew pressing them now was pointless—better to let them play freely, without suffocating instructions. The more you control, the more danger you invite.

After all, football goals come in an instant. If Barcelona struck once, they could ride the momentum and score twice before City could even breathe.

Lampard's goal had lit up the stadium, but O'Neill's words anchored his players. Barcelona's furious attacks kept coming, yet each wave crashed against a City defense too resolute to bend.

Desperation made their play predictable. Passes went straight into the box, their formation collapsing as defenders and midfielders alike charged forward, hunting for scraps.

Giovanni's header flew wide.

Then the board went up: Four minutes of added time!

Camp Nou roared with urgency. Barcelona kept pushing—Cannavaro cut out a dangerous pass meant for Esqué, who went down screaming for a penalty. The referee waved it away.

Thuram launched the ball long, and suddenly Barcelona were exposed—completely unprepared at the back.

Pires pounced, sprinting clear into space. Couto, too far forward, had misjudged the ball's flight, leaving the Frenchman unchecked.

He cut inside, the pitch opening before him. Poor Hesp—once more abandoned by his defense—rushed forward helplessly.

Pires chose finesse. He rolled the ball low toward the bottom-left corner, already preparing to celebrate. Hesp was beaten. The crowd gasped.

Clang!

The ball smacked against the post and rebounded cruelly!

Pires stood frozen, disbelief etched on his face. Hesp scrambled for the rebound, but Hesp was quicker. Calm under pressure, he reached it first and booted the ball away.

Relief for City. Frustration for Barcelona. And the clock ticked ever closer to the end.

PHWEEEEEEE~

Finally.

Camp Nou Stadium.

Barcelona 1-3 Manchester City

Match Time: 93:48

The Barcelona fans at Camp Nou sat in stunned silence, their sorrow hidden behind blank, weary eyes. Apart from the occasional camera pan, no one paid them any attention.

On the other side, the Cityzens were already in full celebration mode, counting down the final seconds with unshakable joy. Even the neutral supporters had been won over, rising to their feet in anticipation of witnessing Manchester City crowned winners of the first leg.

On the Barcelona bench, the players sat motionless, their faces drained of emotion. Across the pitch, however, Manchester City's coaches and substitutes had already gathered eagerly at the touchline, unable to contain their excitement.

Then came the sound they had been waiting for—the referee's final whistle.

The stadium erupted like a storm, swallowed by deafening roars of:

"City! City! City!"

The players on the bench charged onto the field, joined by jubilant coaches who celebrated with reckless abandon.

Up in the VIP box, Stuart, Bezos, and Marina stepped onto the pitch entrance, caught up in the fever of the moment. But as Marina turned back, she noticed Richard standing apart, his eyes closed, head tilted skyward as though deep in a private prayer.

With a curious look, she asked softly, "Aren't you coming to celebrate?"

Richard shook his head. "Confidence and arrogance are separated by the thinnest of lines. Yes, we won today, but this is not the end of the story. If these players start to believe they're invincible, then today's victory could end up planting the seeds of disaster. I'll let them celebrate for now—but once the noise fades, I'll remind them: this was not the strongest Barcelona. Even Rivaldo wasn't at his peak tonight."

To be precise, it should have been Ronaldo leading the Barcelona frontline.

And yet, that wasn't the only thought weighing on Richard. The reason he remained silent amid the celebrations was because, in the midst of defeat, he noticed a familiar figure—one who, in time, would grow into the heartbeat of Barcelona.

Xavi Hernández.

Richard drew in a long breath.

Barcelona had been stretched thin after pouring their energy into the Spanish derby against Real Madrid. Coupled with inconsistent performances and tired legs, they simply weren't at their sharpest tonight.

Especially considering that Guardiola was injured and Xavi had yet to truly emerge into his defining role.

After the match, the Barcelona players stood on the field with vacant expressions. Some held their heads in despair, while the coaching staff and a few substitutes walked onto the pitch to console them.

O'Neill and Mourinho approached Robson. Despite the defeat, the veteran coach—having weathered countless storms—maintained a calm and composed demeanor.

The two embraced, and Mourinho, setting aside his smile, spoke seriously. "It's a pity we didn't face Barcelona at their very best today."

Robson gave a faint smile and replied, "Why be so honest? You should say that today's Barcelona was the strongest! That way, your victory would sound even greater."

Mourinho, however, was sincere. He wasn't flattering his opponents or ex manager—he was speaking his mind.

Robson patted him on the arm. "Don't sell yourself short. Your team played better today, and your tactics made the difference. I think it's time you go and get your coaching certificate, so you can lead a team directly."

He could already see it—the way City's counterattacks mirrored Mourinho's training drills, which so often focused on counter-attacking situations.

From the moment the final whistle blew, the live broadcast kept its focus on the three men—O'Neill, Robson, and Mourinho—capturing every gesture, every subtle exchange of words between them.

Around them, the scene was pure chaos and ecstasy: players sprinted across the pitch in wild celebration, coaches and staff grinned with unrestrained pride, and the fans roared, saluting their heroes from the stands.

Defeating Barcelona at the Camp Nou—what greater honor could there be?

Just two years ago, Manchester City had been battling in the First Division, a club haunted by its past struggles and doubts about its future. Now, they stood as English Premier League champions, and tonight, they had toppled the mighty Barcelona in their own fortress.

With Manchester City's triumph over Barcelona secured, Richard finally felt his adrenaline taper off. The noise of Camp Nou still thundered in the background, yet his attention was already shifting to what mattered next—the very reason Jeff Bezos had flown in from America to witness this night.

"How was the match, Jeff?" he asked with a half-smile.

Bezos adjusted his glasses, visibly exhilarated, his usual calm businessman's aura overwhelmed by genuine astonishment. "It was… fantastic," he admitted. "Honestly, I never imagined football could be this intense. The atmosphere, the strategy, the raw emotion—it's unlike anything I've ever seen."

"Hahaha! Welcome to the world's greatest game, Jeff. Books and stock prices don't roar like this!" Richard laughed heartily, clapping him on the shoulder.

Bezos chuckled, his eyes still fixed on the field where fans and players were celebrating wildly."No, they don't. But… this—this is something else."

"Hahaa," Richard laughed before waving his hand dismissively. "That's enough about football, Jeff. By the way, regarding the fund to develop Amazon—I agree. But I have one condition."

Bezos turned to him, nodding seriously. "What is it?"

Richard picked up a folder of documents Marina had prepared from Amazon's earlier investment rounds. Flipping through the pages, he pointed at a section with a faint smile.

"I checked this. It looks like one of the technologies you acquired isn't even fully developed yet."

Bezos narrowed his eyes. "Which one?"

"This one—the digital audio compression technology," Richard replied.

A patent.

Bezos hesitated for a moment. "Are you sure? You mean the digital audio compression technology?" He asked again, as if to confirm Richard really understood what he was pointing at.

Richard leaned back. "That's right."

The idea was bold for Bezos. To expand Amazon's online bookstore, he envisioned that instead of waiting for a CD or cassette to arrive in the mail, readers could download spoken books directly onto their computers.

Amazon had even begun talks with a handful of publishers, planning to digitize recordings and compress them into smaller file sizes using early audio compression techniques—precursors to MP3 standardization.

But Bezos had overlooked a major problem. Unless you were in a large office or university, internet speeds in 1997 were painfully slow. Most customers were still stuck with 28.8 or 56k dial-up connections. Downloading a single audiobook could take hours, sometimes days—and often failed midway.

Moreover, people still preferred physical cassettes or CDs, which were portable and easy to use in cars and Walkmans. Listening on a desktop PC simply wasn't appealing.

The price set for acquiring the patent—specifically for digital audio compression technology, soon to be known as MP3—was one million dollars when Amazon purchased it. A million dollars was practically a steal, but in just a few years, Bezos would come to deeply regret the deal.

'It may not seem like much now, but soon, it's going to be a golden goose that lays eggs year after year.'

"Why are you so interested in it?" Bezos finally asked