The Pizjuán processed the goal in stages. The away section detonated instantly, a pocket of red and blue noise in a sea of white. The home stands took a moment longer, the particular quiet of a crowd that has watched the thing it most feared arrive precisely on schedule, at the fortress it had trusted to hold.
Lorenzo jogged back from the corner flag, Messi still grinning beside him. Behind them the Pizjuán gave its first full-throated response, not yet despair, but the controlled anger of a stadium that knows the match is now genuinely open.
In the commentary box, Santiago had barely recovered from calling the goal.
"His eleventh league goal in five appearances!" Santiago's voice was still hoarse. "Let me put that in context — the fastest any player in the history of La Liga has reached double figures. Messi's best rate took eight games to reach ten. Lorenzo did it in five. He isn't just a player this season; he is a human record-shattering machine."
Inés Valdes had the historical data on her screen. "Youngest goalscorer in El Clásico history. Youngest hat-trick in Champions League history. And now the fastest to double figures in La Liga. These are not separate records, they are a pattern. Every time a ceiling is identified, he goes through it."
In the stands near the front rail, Navarro's sister sat with her hands over her face. Her companion put a hand on her shoulder.
"There was no deal to be made," the companion said gently. "He doesn't negotiate with defenders."
On the pitch, Sevilla reorganised quickly. Emery didn't panic, his team had been here before, a goal down at home, needing to show the character that had taken them to the top three. Parejo was calm. Rakitic was already directing the shape.
Martino stepped back from the technical area line. One goal up, sixty-five minutes remaining. This was where the match actually began.
M'Bia and Iborra tightened their marking on Lorenzo to near-suffocating levels. Reyes and Perotti stayed high on the flanks, trying to pin back Bartra and Alba. The crowd, recalibrated, was driving Sevilla forward.
"Sevilla are responding," Inés noted. "Emery has pushed Rakitic into a higher position, the Croatian is now operating as a free eight rather than a deep pivot. He wants the ball in dangerous areas."
Rakitic was the difference in the next fifteen minutes. He took control of the rhythm, finding pockets between Busquets and Sergi Roberto, turning quickly, playing simple passes that became complex when connected. The Barcelona midfield, missing Xavi's experience was finding the Croatian's movement difficult to track without overcommitting.
In the 38th minute, the moment arrived. Iniesta, pressing high, misjudged a touch trying to intercept a Rakitic lay-off. The ball broke free at the edge of the area. Busquets slid in immediately, the instinctive tackle of a player who knows the danger and his boot caught Rakitic's trailing ankle cleanly enough that the contact was undeniable.
Fweet-!
Yellow card. Free kick. Twenty-two yards out. Central position. The Pizjuán rose.
"A free kick from a dangerous position," Inés said. "Central, direct sightline, barely outside the D. Rakitic is one of the most technically gifted set-piece takers in Spain. Valdés will know the threat."
Lorenzo moved into the wall, watching. He had seen Emery's teams score over forty percent of their goals from dead balls. This wasn't going to be a simple shot into the wall.
Valdés organised the line, Piqué at the end, Busquets jumping to head, every man instructed to get as high as possible.
Reyes and Perotti flanked Rakitic, acting as visual screens. The atmosphere inside the Pizjuán compressed into a single, held breath.
Fweet-!
Rakitic's run-up was short and rhythmic. He leaned his body slightly, and with the inside of his right foot, scraped the lower part of the ball with a sharp, precise contact.
The wall leaped. Busquets strained to reach it.
The ball arced high, clearing the wall with inches to spare, then dipped with a violent late spin toward the top corner. Valdés sprang, his fingers stretching toward the trajectory.
SWISH--!
The net rippled as the ball spun into the upper stanchion.
1-1.
The Pizjuán erupted. Forty-five thousand people releasing forty minutes of tension in a single moment.
"IVAN RAKITIC!!" Santiago roared. "The Croatian Rhapsody! A magnificent curling free-kick over the wall, exactly the response you expect from a player of this quality! The game is level, and the Pizjuán is alive again!"
Rakitic stood with his arms spread, taking in the noise of the ground. He had answered a record-breaker with a piece of technical mastery of his own. On the touchline, Emery raised a controlled fist — not celebration, acknowledgement. His set-piece preparation had worked exactly as designed.
Martino watched Rakitic jog back to the centre circle. He said nothing aloud, but his eyes tracked the Croatian for a long moment.
In the corridor behind the Barcelona bench, Iniesta caught Busquets's eye.
"He's good," Iniesta said simply.
"Very good," Busquets agreed.
Both men jogged back to their positions. Three minutes remained before halftime. The match had found its level, and the second half was still to come.
[Status: Level (1-1). 42nd Minute. La Liga Matchday 5 - Pizjuán.]
[Target: Break the deadlock in the second half.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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