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To be fair, in previous matches where Barcelona had beaten Atlético by large margins, the main reason was that Lance often used his freakish individual ability to create goals, disrupting Barcelona's tactical setup. When Atlético had thrashed Barcelona 3-0, their mentality had already collapsed, and a broken mentality never produces good football.
Today's Copa del Rey Final was different.
Barcelona struck first with a high press and scored two consecutive goals, taking a 2-0 lead. They controlled the game completely for a full ten minutes. Lance hadn't touched the ball once.
Their smooth, flowing passing combinations made Atlético's running and pressing increasingly frantic, nearly leading to disaster. It forced Atlético to retreat into a low block, surrendering the midfield entirely, which only made it harder to win the ball back.
Watching this from the commentary box, Martin Tyler could only shake his head.
"Do you two have any suggestions? How can Atlético solve this situation?"
The match was approaching the 40-minute mark, and the first half was almost over. Atlético had zero shots on target for the entire game. Literally zero.
"Even though Lance has gotten stronger, why is Atlético looking even more passive than before?"
Tyler already knew the answer. He was prompting his guests, drawing out the analysis for viewers who might not be reading the game so easily.
Beside him, Carragher and Gary Neville exchanged a glance.
Carragher took the lead.
"Lance is indeed stronger, but football is a game of eleven. Any personnel change ripples through the whole setup."
"Godín and Gabi are the backbone of this backline. With them back there, Lance can attack with far more freedom."
"But Gabi is injured, Godín is out for the season, and the replacements aren't close to the same level of defensive intensity."
"An unstable backline means the whole team has to commit more energy to defending. Naturally, there's nobody left to support Lance's destructive play in the frontcourt."
"And Lance's position today is too deep," Gary Neville added. "Sometimes he's almost level with the center-backs. His defensive workload is enormous."
Today, Atlético were using Lance almost as a box-to-box midfielder, from one penalty area to the other, combining offense and defense. Like the future Bellingham, or the current Manchester City engine Yaya Touré, or Pogba at his peak.
Lance had the [Cannavaro] muscle memory. His defensive positioning and tackling in one-on-one situations were not far behind a proper defensive midfielder. His physical confrontation was slightly weaker, but he could lean on the danger sense from [Space Perception] and the defensive experience and anticipation of [Cannavaro] to time his challenges and get a leg across.
Iniesta and Messi both found Lance extremely uncomfortable to play against. The Barcelona players were taken aback. Was Lance really this strong defensively too?
But the trade-off was brutal. Burning so much in the backfield left Lance nothing in the tank to push forward. Barcelona's possession rate was miles ahead, and since Atlético couldn't get on the ball, the shot count stayed at zero.
"Atlético don't have a great solution right now. Unless a proper defender shows up to cover at the back, there's no way to set Lance free."
"Or there's one other way." Gary Neville laughed.
"Lance produces an even more dominant performance."
Martin Tyler and Carragher both stared at him.
Lance was already being used as three players, burning himself out, and his level was already among the very best in the world. How was he supposed to improve further? Could he fly?
Carragher couldn't help himself.
"Unless Lance can fly into the sky like an angel, Atlético are going to suffer today."
In his view, the absences of Godín and Gabi were devastating. To put it in esports terms: in a five-man team, even if four players are at a god-tier level, one weak link can make the whole game almost impossible to win. A small gap in strength gets magnified into a massive disadvantage for the whole side. The higher the level of the contest, the bigger that deficit becomes.
Barcelona might genuinely lift the Copa del Rey trophy.
"If nothing unexpected happens, Atlético take the league this season, Barcelona get the Copa del Rey, and Real Madrid win the Champions League."
Three La Liga clubs, three different titles. Some might call that fair.
It was fortunate this was the English-language feed. Lance couldn't hear a word of it from the pitch. If he had, he would not have been able to stand it.
Where is the fairness? There is still time. Why can't he win?
[Rage Value: 85%]
[Rage Value: 92%]
[Rage Value: 95%]
[Rage Value: 98%]
The first half was almost gone. If Barcelona went into the break leading 2-0, today was as good as over. Atlético's morale would keep dropping, doubt would set in, and the second half would collapse.
He had to score one.
Watching the clock tick past 40 minutes, Lance threw himself into every physical duel he could find. Tangling with Messi, Iniesta, Rakitić, Suárez, absorbing every collision, grinding the meter upward.
"The match has entered stoppage time — one minute of added time in the first half. Barcelona look set to head back to the locker room with a two-goal lead. Under their absolute possession and control, they finally have a genuine chance at revenge!"
The Catalan commentator was barely keeping it together, already tasting victory. Suppressed by Atlético all season, losing four times in a row — today, at last, the Barcelona fans could hold their heads high.
The Barcelona players felt it too. Atlético had no way of mounting an attack in the time remaining. Inevitably, the concentration slipped a fraction. When Rakitić played his pass, there was just a touch of casualness about it.
That was it.
[Rage Value: 100%]
[Isagi Yoichi] — perfect state activated.
[Space Perception], fully open.
In that instant, space stopped being a blurred puzzle and became a complete, detailed map. Every player's position, every passing lane, the ball's trajectory — every single detail, perfectly predicted.
Experiencing true omniscience for the first time, Lance almost felt ecstatic. At the same time, a pressure swelled inside his skull. Massive amounts of information surged in all at once. If anyone had been watching his eyes closely in that moment, they would have seen them turn strange — like black holes, a blue-black vortex swallowing light.
Countless calculations beyond normal human limits were being completed in milliseconds, like a CPU running well past its clock limit. Lance's brain began to ache. He couldn't think in the ordinary sense anymore. It was pure instinct, pure calculation, pure physical drive.
The moment Rakitić's pass left his boot — less than a centimeter of clearance — Lance was already moving.
Everyone on the field, including the commentators and the fans, hadn't even registered what was happening. A red-and-white afterimage had already vanished.
"Leo, it's yours!"
Rakitić was still feeling good about himself, sure he had threaded a beautiful pass to Messi and was about to earn an assist. Messi wasn't worried either, his brain already computing how to control the ball.
Then a flash in front of his eyes.
A gust of wind.
The red-and-white afterimage was gone.
"Damn it!!"
Messi didn't catch the face clearly, but his instincts knew who it was. Lance. This guy is fast.
"Stop him—"
Messi spun to give chase and called out to his teammates, but before he could finish the sentence, Lance was already dribbling at the full sprint of a 100-meter runner, his body shifting as he used a stepover to slice through Busquets and Iniesta.
From a bird's-eye view, a red streak threaded between the two of them. The whole stadium finally grasped what had happened.
"Wait!! Lance!! Beautiful interception — solo ball-winning run, dribbled past two in a row!"
"Alves flanking from the right, Rakitić tracking back at pace, sliding tackle from behind!"
"Lance..."
The commentator held his breath.
He watched Lance dribble at a strange angle, using a precise touch to push the ball just beyond Alves's reach, while Rakitić's sliding tackle missed by millimetres. Time and space were perfectly measured.
One driving stride with the ball, then a sudden burst of acceleration.
[Bukayo Saka] was only a C-rank template, but it provided a modest boost to physical explosiveness and the ability to combine carry and body at high speed.
Lance cut through level after level.
Winning the ball in his own half, dribbling past four Barcelona players in a row, and breaking into the penalty area.
Mascherano and Piqué could take no more. Both closed in urgently, blocking the two diagonal routes forward, retreating sideways and staying on their feet. This is the textbook approach — move with the attacker, don't commit, keep your balance, stay between him and the goal. Force a mistake. If he tries to force it and the ball gets too far from his foot, you go in.
World-class defenders. Both of them knew exactly what they were doing.
At the same time, Mascherano cut the passing lane to Torres, manufacturing an offside trap to prevent a layoff.
Barcelona's response was already perfect. Against any ordinary young player charging forward under pressure, this defensive shape would have provoked a panicked mistake in seconds.
But this was Lance.
His thinking had stopped being his own. [Isagi Yoichi] at 100% rage had turned him into something even more unhinged than [Bachira Meguru] at his wildest. His brain kept generating calculations — tracking the movement trajectories of Piqué, Mascherano, the goalkeeper, the ball, his teammates, everything on the pitch.
He dropped his left shoulder — a feint, threatening to cut inside. Piqué read it and held his ground. Good.
Immediately, an elastico. The outside of his right foot pushed the ball to the right, shoulder dipping hard, committing to the break.
Piqué couldn't hold back any longer. Weight shifted, leg extended to cut it out.
Too naive.
Lance's pupils had gone completely blue-black, like vortexes absorbing all light. His tongue even slipped out for a fraction of a second as his body burned through everything it had.
In a flash — another elastico. Pull-back, heel flick, ball under his sole, pivot.
Barely absorbing the contact from Piqué's challenge pressing in from behind, he executed a Marseille turn to slip out from the left.
One driving stride into the penalty area — explosive, committed, unstoppable.
Done in one movement.
Past the 41-minute mark, the referee was frozen. The stadium was frozen.
Facing the full force of Barcelona in a Copa del Rey Final.
1 vs. 6.
Dribbling into the box, left foot shaping to shoot, drawing Mascherano's sliding block and the goalkeeper's dive — and then pulling back again, changing direction once more. He even had the composure to chip the ball over Piqué's second recovery attempt, completing a lateral carry that left both defenders behind.
From the moment he stole the ball with [Rage Value: 100%], the ending had already been written.
After chipping it past Piqué a second time with his left foot, Lance finally opened a clear angle.
An empty goal.
Tiger —
Bang.
A thunderous volley.
Piercing through the stadium, blasting into the net.
1 vs. 7.
Ultimate individual heroism. Ultimate individual strength.
"Goooooooal!!!"
"My God — that ball..."
"Atlético Madrid's first shot of the entire game — and it's a goal!!"
"Lance. He is a god."