So what if I'm just strolling around the field? My shots are guaranteed to go in.

In the Real Madrid locker room, Ancelotti closed the door.

The hissing and singing outside the door were mostly shut out, leaving only a faint buzzing sound, like muffled thunder coming from afar.

The Italians stood in front of the tactics board and remained silent for nearly half a minute.

He had taken off his suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt above his elbows, and loosened his tie by about two fingers' width.

A fine layer of sweat glistened on his forehead under the incandescent light of the locker room.

He wasn't looking at the tactics board. He was looking at his players.

Ramos sat in the front row, his hands on his knees, his head down, and his breathing heavy.

Varane leaned against his cabinet, covering his face with a towel.

Casemiro's jersey was torn from the collar to the hem – it was ripped during a challenge with Torres in the first half.

Modric was drinking water, and every movement of his throat seemed forceful, as if he were trying to swallow something along with the water.

Cristiano Ronaldo sat in the corner, arms crossed over his chest, lips pressed into a straight line, staring at the opposite wall with a suppressed rage in his eyes.

Lin Fan sat next to Ronaldo, wiping a small patch of dark red seepage from his right sock with a towel.

He moved very quietly, as if afraid of being seen.

But Ancelotti saw it. The Italian's gaze lingered on Lin Fan's feet for less than a second before shifting away.

He knew what that spot was—a blister, or more accurately, a ruptured blister.

But Lin Fan didn't call the team doctor, which meant he judged that he could still run. Ancelotti trusted his judgment.

"In the first half," Ancelotti began, his voice not loud, but everyone in the locker room stopped what they were doing. "We scored two goals. One was a world-class strike, and the other was a world-class assist. Any team, any defense, would have been breached by us with those two goals."

He paused, picked up a marker, and wrote two numbers on the tactical board: 2 and 2.

"But we also conceded two goals. Two corner kicks."

He drew two lines forcefully under the "2".

"Simone's team is best at set pieces."

They don't rely on ball possession or counter-attacks, but on set pieces and corner kicks.

This is their lifeline. We emphasized this before the match.

We watched the video, practiced the tactics, and assigned each person a defensive target.

But in the first half, we gave them five corner kicks, converting two of them into goals.

Ramos looked up. "The second corner kick, Savic's header, was from someone I missed."

Ancelotti looked at him and remained silent for two seconds. "Sergio, you're the captain. Your heading ability is the best in the world. But corner kick defense isn't about one person—it's about everyone. Everyone has their own marking target. If your target runs away, you have to chase after him. If you can't catch up, you have to call for your teammates to cover. If you call and no one answers, you have to figure it out yourself."

He glanced around the locker room. "In short—no one can be unmarked in the penalty area. At Calderon, any moment of distraction will be punished. We were punished twice in the first half. In the second half, there can't be a third time."

He put down his marker, walked to the center of the tactics board, and moved the two tiles representing Atletico Madrid to Real Madrid's half of the field.

"In the second half, Atletico Madrid will continue to press us with high intensity. Simeone won't be satisfied with a draw—he'll want to win at the Calderon. So the start of the second half will be very dangerous. In the first fifteen minutes, they'll be on fire. Gabi's pressing will be even more aggressive, Koke's long passes will be more frequent, and Carrasco will constantly attack Carvajal on the left flank."

He glanced at Carvajal. The Spanish right-back nodded vigorously, his forehead still bearing the red mark from the collision with Filipe in the first half.

"Our approach is simple." Ancelotti drew an arrow on the tactics board, pointing diagonally from the right flank into the center. "Lin, in the second half, you need to move more towards the center. In the first half, you did a great job drawing Gabi and Saul down the right flank. But in the second half, I need you to receive the ball in the center—between Gabi and Saul, in the gap between their four-man defensive line. That position is the weakest point in Atletico Madrid's entire defensive system."

Lin Fan put down the towel and nodded. He didn't speak, but his eyes told Ancelotti he understood.

That gap—the ten-meter area between the midfield line and the defensive line—is Atletico Madrid's defensive lifeline.

If anyone can receive the ball and turn in that position, Atletico Madrid's entire defense will be forced to make a choice: either push forward or retreat.

Whichever they choose, it will create a gap.

"Cristiano," Ancelotti turned to Ronaldo, "move forward ten meters in the second half. You dropped too far back in the first half, getting sandwiched between Godin and Savic, with too little space to get the ball. In the second half, you'll roam around the offside line, waiting for Lin's pass in the middle. Godin isn't fast, and Savic's turning speed is slow—as long as Lin's pass is accurate, your acceleration will be enough to shake them off."

Cristiano Ronaldo stood up from the corner and stretched his shoulders. "Understood."

"Karim," Ancelotti said, looking at Benzema, "in the second half, drift more to the right flank and draw Savic out of the penalty area. If Savic follows you out, Ronaldo will take on Godin one-on-one. If Savic doesn't come out, combine with Carvajal on the right flank to create openings."

Benzema wiped his face with a towel and nodded.

Ancelotti looked at the team one last time. His voice suddenly softened, but every word pierced everyone's ears like nails.

"We will score more goals in the second half. I have no doubt about that. Because our attack is strong enough, and Atletico's defense can't completely shut us down for ninety minutes. But what we need is not just more goals—we need focus. Focus on defending set pieces. Focus on every corner, every free kick, every throw-in. At the Calderon, Atletico doesn't need possession, they don't need shots; they just need one small mistake from us. And we gave them two mistakes in the first half."

He paused.

"You know the Calderón is going to be demolished next year. Simeone's team will treat today as their last match against Real Madrid in this stadium. They will fight with their lives. With their lives. Every one of you going out there will be facing not just eleven players—but fifty-four thousand people. Fifty-four thousand Atlético Madrid fans who are treating this match like a war."

He pushed open the locker room door. The buzzing in the corridor instantly amplified, and the singing from the south grandstand in the distance sounded like distant war drums.

"So, in the second half—" Ancelotti turned to his players, something in his eyes that made everyone involuntarily straighten up, "Don't just win this game. Make them remember you."

Meanwhile, at the other end of the corridor, in Atlético Madrid's locker room, Simeone was standing in the center of the room.

He had taken off his black suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt to his elbows, and his tie was still on, but askew.

His hair was wet—not from sweat, but from splashing water on his head to clear his head.

He didn't have a tactics board. Atletico Madrid's locker room has a tactics board, but Simeone didn't use it. He used something else.

A screen was hanging on the wall, playing a video.

This isn't a video of Real Madrid playing – it's footage of Atlético Madrid fans welcoming the team bus outside the Calderón stadium.

Starting at 3 p.m., thousands of fans formed two red human walls outside the stadium, and thick red and white smoke from smoke bombs filled the entire street.

Fans pounded on the bus windows, singing the team song in hoarse voices. An elderly man with gray hair held up a homemade sign with the words "Play one more game for me—I'm too old, but my heart is still here" written in crooked Spanish.

The video finished playing. Simone pressed the pause button, and the screen froze on the sign the old man was holding.

He turned around and looked at his players. The locker room was so quiet you could hear everyone breathing.

Gabby sat in the front row, his hands clasped on his knees, his eyes fixed on the card on the screen.

Godin leaned against the cabinet, arms crossed, his jaw muscles taut.

Torres lowered his head, covering the back of his neck with a towel, but his shoulders were trembling slightly—not from tension, but from some more primal emotion.

"In the first half," Simeone began, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping against sheet metal, "we came back from behind twice. This wasn't luck. It's DNA. It's Atlético Madrid's DNA. At any time, on any pitch, against any opponent, we will not fall. But equalizing isn't enough. At the Calderón, equalizing isn't enough."

He walked up to Gabi, grabbed the Atlético Madrid captain's shoulders with both hands, and pulled him up from his seat.

"Gabi, you received a yellow card in the first half. Will you continue with your tackles in the second half?"

"Yes," Gabi replied without hesitation. His voice was soft, but resolute.

Simone stared into his eyes for two seconds, then released his grip and walked over to Godin.

"Godin, you went toe-to-toe with Ramos seven times in the first half, winning four and losing three. How many more times can you win in the second half?"

"All," Godin said. He wasn't swearing; he was stating a fact.

Simone laughed. It was a beastly laugh, his teeth all showing, but there was no laughter in his eyes, only something burning, almost insane.

"That Chinese guy," he said, his voice suddenly becoming very soft, and everyone in the locker room held their breath to listen, "he scored a world-class goal and provided an assist in the first half. I don't want to deny it—he's very strong. He's the strongest 19-year-old I've ever seen. But he's human. He gets tired, he gets hurt, and he had that moment of frustration after conceding the second goal. In the second half—Gabi, Saul, you two keep marking him. Don't let him turn around. Don't let him get the ball comfortably. Don't give him time to think, don't give him space to observe. He's not a machine. He's human. We need to let him know that at the Calderón, ninety minutes feels like nine hours."

He walked to the tactics board and finally picked up a marker. He drew a circle on the left side of Real Madrid's half.

"In the second half, we focused our attack on the right flank—no, on Carvajal."

The players were momentarily stunned. Carrasco had given Carvajal a lot of trouble on the left flank in the first half, and everyone thought Atletico Madrid would continue to attack down the left.

"It's not the left flank. It's Carvajal. Carvajal got a yellow card in the first half – he fouled Filipe in the 29th minute, and the referee has his eye on him. In the second half, Koke, make more long passes behind Carvajal. Carrasco, just roam around him, and dribble past him as soon as you get the ball. He won't dare to foul – another foul would be a second yellow card, and he'd be sent off. And Ancelotti doesn't have a backup right-back. Nacho is already playing center-back. If Carvajal gets sent off, Real Madrid's right flank will become a huge hole."

Gabi's eyes lit up. This was a very precise tactical breakthrough point—using the opponent's yellow card disadvantage to apply continuous pressure, forcing the opponent to either be broken through or fouled and sent off.

"Saul," Simeone continued, "you'll move forward in the second half. You spent most of the first half assisting Gabi in defending Lin Fan; in the second half, I need you to be more involved in the attack. From corners and set pieces, you'll rush in from the far post to contest headers. Godin will draw Ramos's attention, Savic will block, and you'll go for the third ball at the far post. Real Madrid's set-piece defense is leaky—they rely too much on Ramos's direction, and the others aren't marking their men tightly enough in the box. We've already scored two goals from corners. The third in the second half."

Saul nodded vigorously.

Simeone put down his marker and looked at the whole team. The clock on the wall showed three minutes until the start of the second half. The air in the locker room felt thick, as if compressed by something unseen.

"One last thing." Simeone's voice suddenly softened, but every word was as clear as if etched in stone. "Many people say that after the Calderón is demolished next year, Atlético Madrid will be different. There will be a new stadium, new facilities, new commercial revenue. Maybe. But this stadium—this gladiatorial arena—is the soul of Atlético Madrid. For fifty years, everyone who has worn this red and white jersey has fought here. Aragonés played here, Futre ran here, and Torres became a legend here."

He looked at Torres. The Spanish striker's eyes were slightly red.

"Today may be the last time Calderón witnesses the Madrid derby. By this time next year, the derby will be in a new stadium. The pitch will be new, the stands will be new, everything will be new. But today—today is still old. There are still 54,000 people in the stands of this old stadium. They are not here to watch you play, they are here to watch you fight."

His voice suddenly rose, like a sword being suddenly drawn.

"So, go out there. Let Real Madrid know—at the Calderon, no one can take three points comfortably!"

The players stood up almost simultaneously. All eleven of them, plus the seven on the bench, stood ramrod straight.

Gabi took the lead and patted his chest forcefully, and the others followed suit.

The thumping sounds echoed in the locker room, like war drums. Then they left the locker room and entered the players' tunnel.