Casteldebole Physiotherapy Room.Monday Morning. One Day Before the Second Leg.
The noise from the outside world leaked in, unwelcome and abrasive.
On the television mounted on the therapy room wall, Sky Sport Italia pundits were debating at high volume. The headline graphic flashed in bold red letters: EVOLUTION OR INJURY?
"Rio Valdes played like a thirty-five-year-old veteran against Juventus," a bald analyst argued, pointing aggressively to a heat map of Rio's movement. "He only ran four kilometers the entire match. His top speed dropped drastically compared to his season average. Is this a tactical evolution, or has the 'Ferrari' finally suffered an engine failure?"
Rio muted the TV with the remote, plunging the room back into silence.
He lay face down on the massage table while the team physiotherapist worked on his right thigh. The therapist's thumbs dug deep into the muscle fibers, stripping away the tension with hot oil. It felt less like therapy and more like an excavation.
The System interface floated in Rio's peripheral vision, counting down with agonizing precision.
The Muscle Atrophy status was still glowing, a persistent red shackle reducing his speed by 15%. But the timer was ticking away.
Remaining Time: 23 Hours 14 Minutes.
The match against Benfica would kick off tomorrow night at exactly 21:00. If the calculation was correct, the debuff would expire exactly two hours before kick-off. It was cutting it dangerously close. One delayed bus, one extended warm-up, and he would be vulnerable.
But it was also an opportunity.
The door clicked open. Coach Italiano entered, flanked by Adrian Vance. Italiano's face was drawn and tense. The pressure to qualify for the Champions League Quarter-Finals hung heavy in the air; this was uncharted territory for the club.
"Portuguese media is reporting that Benfica will play a high defensive line," Italiano said, skipping the pleasantries. "They watched the Juventus tape. They are convinced you are injured. They think you can't run in behind them anymore."
Adrian wheeled his chair closer to the table, his expression sharp. "Roger Schmidt is a slave to his metrics. The data from Saturday shows you lost your pace. They plan to press us all the way to our own penalty box because they no longer fear your counter-attack."
Rio pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the table. He straightened his legs, testing the resistance. They still felt stiff, like rubber bands left out in the cold, but the heaviness from Saturday was fading.
"Let them think that," Rio said, a thin, predatory smirk appearing on his face. "Let them raise their defensive line as high as they want."
"Are you sure your legs will be back?" Italiano asked, his voice laced with lingering doubt.
Rio pointed at the digital wall clock. "Tomorrow night, right during the warm-up, I will be a Ferrari again. And when they realize their data is wrong... it will be too late to adjust."
Adrian smiled widely, recognizing the strategy. "It's a classic trap. The False Lame. Pretending to be crippled to lure the wolves into the open."
Benfica Team Hotel, Bologna.Monday Night. Final Tactical Meeting.
The atmosphere in the Benfica meeting room was sterile, illuminated only by the cold blue light of the projector. Roger Schmidt stood before his squad like a professor lecturing a class.
Gonçalo Ramos sat in the front row, his eyes glued to the video clips of Rio Valdes against Juventus.
"Look at this sequence," Schmidt said, pausing the footage at the moment Bremer chased Rio. "Here. Valdes had space to run into the channel, but he chose to stop and turn. Why?"
"Because he couldn't run," António Silva answered confidently. "His muscles are shot after the first leg."
"Exactly," Schmidt nodded, tapping the screen. "Our medical team has analyzed his biomechanics. His stride length shortened by ten centimeters. His acceleration slowed by 0.4 seconds. Whatever illegal adrenaline he used in Lisbon, it damaged his body. He hasn't recovered."
Schmidt turned to the magnetic strategy board. He placed the red tokens deep in Bologna's territory, aggressively high up the pitch.
"Tomorrow, we choke them. We will execute total Gegenpressing. Don't be afraid of long balls over the top. Valdes won't be able to chase them. We lock them in their own penalty box, score an early goal, and kill their morale before halftime."
Ramos nodded along with his teammates, but a seed of doubt remained in his gut. He remembered Rio's eyes in the tunnel at Lisbon. Those weren't the eyes of a broken man; they were the eyes of someone holding a royal flush.
"What if he's faking it?" Ramos asked quietly.
Schmidt smiled, the confidence of a man who trusts numbers over instinct. "Biomechanics data cannot lie, Gonçalo. Muscles don't heal in a week. He is human, not a machine."
Stadio Renato Dall'Ara, Bologna.Tuesday Night. 19:30 (90 Minutes Before Kick-off).
The Renato Dall'Ara was packed to the rafters. The atmosphere was electric, a cauldron of noise and color. Rossoblu flags waved in every corner, creating a sea of red and blue. Thirty thousand people were chanting Rio Valdes' name, their voices vibrating through the concrete walls.
In the locker room, Rio sat alone in the corner, a white towel draped over his head, shielding him from the world.
Around him, the pre-match rituals were underway. Zirkzee was aggressively tying his laces. Ferguson was bobbing his head to music. But beneath the routine, they looked nervous. They knew how dangerous Benfica could be.
Rio closed his eyes, focusing entirely on the System interface glowing in the darkness behind his eyelids.
The red countdown timer was in its death throes. 00:00:05...00:00:04...00:00:03...
The final seconds didn't just pass; they agonizingly dripped away.
And then, the sensation arrived.
It wasn't an explosion. It was a release. It felt like a dam breaking within his own body. The phantom lead weights strapped to his quadriceps evaporated instantly. Fresh, oxygenated blood surged through his veins, waking up every fast-twitch muscle fiber that had been dormant for a week.
The steel cables that had been stiff were suddenly elastic, humming with potential energy.
A green notification flashed, crisp and beautiful: [Debuff Expired.][Physical Condition Restored: Speed B- (Normal State).][Warning: Side Effect Complete. Body ready for maximum load.]
Rio pulled the towel off his head. He stood up. He performed a quick, explosive vertical jump. He landed softly, springy and reactive. Light. So incredibly light.
"Captain?" Orsolini asked, noticing the sudden shift in Rio's aura. The heavy atmosphere in the room seemed to lighten around him.
Rio looked at his teammates. His eyes were sharp, hungry, and devoid of fear.
"You heard their plan?" Rio addressed the room, his voice steady. "They think I'm crippled. They will press us high. They will leave forty meters of empty green grass behind their defense."
Rio tightened the captain's armband on his left bicep, the velcro tearing loudly in the quiet room.
"Tonight, we don't play tactics. Tonight, we play a Drag Race. And I guarantee you..." Rio grinned, a wolfish expression. "They will be eating our dust."
The Tunnel.20:55.
The two teams lined up in the narrow concrete corridor. The majestic Champions League anthem began to echo from the pitch, shaking the walls. The Chaaampions...
Gonçalo Ramos stood beside Rio again. This time, Ramos didn't look at Rio's face; he stared at his legs. He was searching for signs of weakness—medical tape, a compression sleeve, a slight limp.
But Rio's legs were clean. No tape. No protection. Just muscle.
"I heard you're a midfielder now," Ramos said, leaning in to provoke him.
Rio stared straight ahead at the waiting green field, ignoring the mind games. "Don't believe everything you read in the papers, Gonçalo," Rio answered calmly.
The referee, Michael Oliver, signaled them to move. Floodlights bathed them in brilliance as they emerged into the roaring arena.
The System updated the objective in Rio's vision. Main Mission: The Knockout Stage.Objective: Qualify for the Quarter-Finals. Reward: +20 Days Lifespan.
Twenty days. A pittance compared to the Gacha, but precious currency for survival. Rio checked his internal counter. He had 218 Days left.
The referee blew the long whistle. The match began.
Benfica attacked immediately, executing Schmidt's game plan to perfection. Five players in red sprinted toward the Bologna defense like a tidal wave, aggressively pressing Beukema who received the kickoff. The Benfica defensive line pushed up, sitting almost at the halfway line to compress the space.
They left forty meters of empty space behind them. An invitation to death.
Beukema, who had been strictly instructed, didn't panic. He didn't look for a short pass to the midfield. He looked at Rio.
Rio gave a barely perceptible signal—a slight tensing of his shoulders. Now.
Beukema pulled his leg back and launched a long, high ball into the vast emptiness behind the Benfica defenders.
Otamendi and António Silva turned around, confident. Their data told them they had enough distance to close down the "slow Rio" before he could reach the ball.
But as Rio dug his right foot into the turf, they realized their fatal mistake. There was no heaviness. There was no hesitation. Only an explosion of speed.
WHOOSH.
Rio Valdes rocketed past Ramos, blew past the midfielders, and accelerated to a blistering 34 km/h in seconds.
On the sideline, Roger Schmidt dropped his water bottle. It hit the ground with a dull thud. His face went pale. The data was wrong.
The Ferrari wasn't broken. It had just been refueling.