Chapter 141: Wait, What? You Both Chickened Out? Just Fight Already!
"Wait a second... I didn't time-travel back, did I? Is Messi actually dropping into midfield instead of playing up front?"
Li Ang stared in disbelief at the Argentine number 10, who had already drifted far from his line of sight. A question flashed through his mind, instinctively and incredulously.
He never expected Barça to deploy this version of Messi's deep-lying role so early.
Sure, after his peak, Messi had adapted his game—dropping deeper to compensate for declining stamina while capitalizing on improved vision and passing range.
But this Messi? This was peak Messi. Wasn't pulling him back a waste of his terrifying ability to blow through defenses?
Li Ang wasn't the only one caught off guard. Mourinho, and most of Madrid's players, were also visibly surprised.
And after the initial shock, everyone—including the fans and commentators—couldn't help but shift their gaze to Li Ang.
He wasn't thrilled with the attention. During the live broadcast, he even shrugged at the camera.
Come on.
Even if part of Guardiola's tactical shift was to avoid Li Ang's notorious marking, everyone who had watched past Clásicos knew how sticky his coverage was.
And under his tight marking, Messi still scored. Still assisted. Plenty.
In the commentary booth, He Wei and Xu Yang clearly understood that too—but it didn't stop them from piling on the praise for Li Ang after talking about Messi's surprise role.
But after the compliments, He Wei found himself at a loss. The rhythm of this Clásico was... different. Not worse, just strange.
Barça were playing extremely cautiously.
After taking kickoff, they didn't press like usual, didn't rely on technical superiority to pin Madrid back.
With Messi dropping deep, their midfield and defensive transitions were smoother.
Iniesta, operating wider today, was perfectly at ease. He had played on the flank before, and now with Messi sharing the playmaking load, he had more freedom to carry the ball forward.
But neither he nor Fàbregas tried to break through.
They just... held the ball.
Their control seemed confined to the central third. They weren't even probing Madrid's box unless they were absolutely sure.
And Madrid? They couldn't figure out what Barça were up to.
No pressing. No overloads. No sudden breakaways.
So Mourinho wasn't about to take the bait either.
Madrid wouldn't overcommit forward and open up gaps for Barça to exploit.
The two managers—Mourinho and Guardiola—both glanced at each other from the sidelines.
Then, in a moment of mutual understanding, looked away again like nothing happened.
Yes, Guardiola had made the first tactical move.
But Mourinho? He wasn't rattled.
This was Camp Nou. He wasn't worried about boos from his own fans.
Three points were great. But one point away at Barcelona? That was perfectly acceptable.
Let them duke it out later in the season—Round 26 at the Bernabéu, maybe.
Mourinho could afford to take a breath. But Guardiola?
Could he?
The Barça board wasn't exactly known for patience, especially after a poor summer transfer window.
Mourinho, calm as ever, gestured to his players: keep it steady. Don't rush.
Then he casually sat back down on the bench.
Guardiola noticed this. And yes—it irked him.
But he wasn't surprised. He'd predicted Mourinho would be unbothered by the early stalemate.
This wasn't the old Mourinho who attacked the juggernaut Barça head-on. This was a Real Madrid capable of going toe-to-toe across an entire season.
A six-point swing match? Mourinho wasn't interested.
And Madrid's players? They understood their boss completely.
"The boss still wants a safe win. Barça want us to make the first mistake—too bad for them,"
Li Ang whispered to Alonso during a brief pause.
Xabi agreed. No reason to go full force into a Barça trap.
But then came Li Ang's next sentence, which left Alonso speechless:
"Shame though. I was gonna invite Messi to dinner after we beat them again."
Smack. Alonso swatted the back of his head.
"Quit dreaming. Focus on defending. If Messi scores a late winner, he'll be the one inviting you out to celebrate!"
Li Ang just rubbed the back of his head with a grin and zoned in on Barça's new flow.
Despite their conservative shape, Barça weren't completely toothless.
With Messi dropping passes between the lines, Pedro and Iniesta got more touches in the half-spaces.
Sometimes Messi wouldn't press forward. When the probe failed, his teammates simply recycled the ball back to him.
Other times, he'd lurk just behind Fàbregas or Pedro—then pounce with a sudden burst.
Li Ang tracked every one of these patterns.
When Messi moved too close to the box, he tightened up, forcing the Argentine to lay it off to Iniesta on the left.
When Li Ang didn't close the gap fast enough, Messi would take a pop from distance.
Eventually, it all clicked.
The previous attempts to have Messi spearhead attacks, draw defenders, and feed the wings?
They didn't work.
Guardiola saw it. So he pivoted.
No more "tactics built around the core." Now it was protect the core.
Fàbregas and Pedro? Tactical decoys.
Iniesta wide? Ball progression.
Messi? A pure free role, no limitations. No positional anchoring. He was the system.
From orchestrator to off-ball runner to long-shot taker—Messi did whatever he wanted.
And he didn't even have to tangle with Li Ang that much.
It was smart. Clever. But flawed.
Keeping Messi out of the box helped preserve his stamina. Letting him shoot from outside helped conserve energy.
But it also took away his most lethal trait—his presence near goal.
Then again, what choice did Pep have?
Barça's only elite scorer was Messi.
If he got swallowed by Madrid's backline—and by Li Ang's relentless coverage—Barça had no one else to shoulder the load.
At least from distance, Messi could find rhythm and fire off two or three good shots per match.
Because if Pedro or Fàbregas took those shots?
Even the Camp Nou crowd might boo their own players.
Messi had just enough stamina to do one of two things per match:
Constantly attack the boxOr build the play and shoot from range.
Not both.
When he tried to do both? Barça lost 1–3. Or 2–4.
Madrid had Li Ang, a man built for high-pressure duels and tactical counterplay.
Barça didn't have anyone who could stop Ronaldo.
And Ronaldo? He had Benzema, Di María, and even a backup Higuaín all more clinical than Pedro or Sánchez.
Guardiola's shift to protect Messi made sense.
But the summer transfer window had let him down.
He wanted Agüero, but City wouldn't even answer the phone.
The only other target was Benzema.
He had no intention of going back to Ibrahimović—burned once, never again.
Barça had over 20 million euros to spend. But they did nothing.
Guardiola's stubbornness left the board paralyzed.
And now, stuck with a half-finished squad and a stubborn coach, Barça were playing conservative just to get by.
For Pep, compromising his ideal tactics like this was already a huge emotional struggle.
But the fans? They didn't get it.
They didn't want to get it.
The murmurs in the stands grew louder.
Not quite boos—but close.
They stung.
Mourinho didn't care. He was used to being hated.
But Guardiola? He heard every murmur. Every groan. He swallowed the discomfort and told himself:
"Stick with the plan. Finish what you started."
And yet, as East Asian fans yawned their way through another pass-around-midfield sequence, one question echoed online:
**"We came here for fireworks. For goals. For chaos.
You two—five Champions League titles between you—and this is what you give us?
Just fight already!"**
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