Chapter 147: Chaos Unleashed—Atlético Charges In Swinging a Giant Blade
True warriors fear nothing—they march steadily toward their goal, steadfast in purpose.
But the truly brave? They don't just press forward; they burn their boats when facing stronger foes and fight to the bitter end.
Tonight, Borussia Dortmund showed they were that kind of team—a side worthy of every word of praise the German media showered them with after the final whistle.
Even after Li Ang's near-deathblow of a winner, Klopp stood tall on the touchline, accompanying his players to the final whistle like a general leading his troops until the end.
Reus was on empty.
When the whistle blew, his body, held up solely by his willpower, gave way. His legs staggered mid-sprint.
Li Ang was the one who caught him—cool, steady hands, supporting the exhausted winger.
He even gave him a friendly pat on the head, drenched in sweat.
"You played great today, Marco. You can relax now."
The words rolled off Li Ang's tongue in fluent German, nearly making Reus jump in surprise.
"You lived in Germany?"
"Nope," Li Ang grinned. "I tried to talk to Müller last time we played Bayern, but he ignored me. So, I taught myself after that."
A complete lie, of course—but one told with such charm that Reus could only chuckle.
Seeing Lewandowski approaching to check on his teammate, Li Ang handed Reus off and jogged away.
The Dortmund fans hadn't left.
Sure, the 1–2 result stung. But as they looked down at their players—drained, collapsed, spent—they felt something else, too:
Pride. Genuine, roaring pride.
Last season, their return to the Champions League after years away had ended in heartbreak—a last-place group finish, not even a Europa League spot.
Their immaturity had shown. Their lack of European experience had been exposed.
One win, one draw, four defeats.
It had been a cruel reminder of what it took to climb the European ladder.
But now? Now, they had pushed the defending champions to the brink. Nearly snatched a point at home.
This young Dortmund squad had grown.
Signal Iduna Park burst into thunderous applause, starting from the famous South Stand and rolling across the East and West, until the entire stadium joined in.
Captain Kehl, despite being subbed off, walked back onto the pitch to rally his teammates.
Each of Dortmund's young players—heads high, chests heaving—clapped back at their supporters in gratitude.
Klopp? He wasn't mourning.
He stood proudly at the edge of the technical area, pounding his chest and pointing to the badge—not like a loser, but a champion in waiting.
Karanka, watching from the sidelines, felt a deep, emotional swell.
"If they don't face us before the final," he murmured to Mourinho, "they might be our biggest threat to retaining the title."
Mourinho was about to agree—until his mind flashed back to Bayern Munich.
The Bayern who had added Javi Martínez, refining their defense.
The Bayern who had crushed Schalke 04, the same Schalke who had just beaten Dortmund.
"Are they really stronger than Bayern?" Mourinho wondered.
A huge question mark hung over his thoughts.
Even the euphoria of winning three straight in the group stage was muted by that lingering doubt.
He gave the Westfalenstadion one last look, shook Klopp's hand briefly, and returned to the tunnel.
Madrid's players saluted their away fans and quickly returned to the dressing room.
Li Ang had thought about saying a few words to Götze, but he let it go.
"See you at the Bernabéu," he muttered quietly as he walked off, boots crunching against the turf.
Time to enjoy the victory. No need to think too far ahead just yet.
※※※
The final match of the first leg of the group stage had been tougher than expected.
Dortmund, after two earlier tests, were finally hitting their stride. Their performance, despite the loss, was commendable.
Yet, come morning, neither Dortmund nor Madrid were the biggest story.
Because the real shock?
Ajax destroyed Manchester City 4–2.
That scoreline set the internet ablaze.
Three matches in, and Group D—already dubbed the "Group of Death"—had truly descended into chaos.
Madrid stood tall with three wins, nine points, top of the group.
Dortmund, with one win, one draw, one loss—four points, in second.
Ajax, fresh off the upset, now had three points.
And City? One draw, two losses. Just one point, dead last.
Ajax fans, having joked all along about "doing sit-ups after the upset," finally got their moment.
They were still alive. And now, unbelievably, had a real shot at qualifying.
Manchester City, meanwhile—Premier League champions, media darlings—were on the brink.
No quarterfinals. Maybe not even the round of sixteen.
To go from confident favorites to bottom-feeding flameouts in one night—it was devastating.
The British press were already in mourning.
Across the sea, however, Spain was celebrating.
La Liga had brought four teams to the Champions League this season.
And all four were leading their groups.
Madrid, Barcelona, Málaga—three wins apiece.
Valencia, after an opening loss to Bayern, had beaten Lille and BATE Borisov to take top spot in their group, ahead of the German giants.
It was an unprecedented feat.
The Spanish press basked in the glory.
And of course, they focused their brightest spotlight on Real Madrid.
Three wins in a row. The reigning champions. Beating Dortmund away.
They were the face of La Liga.
There was a whiff of collusion, of course—a gentle alignment of narratives between La Liga and UEFA.
A few years ago, Barcelona had enjoyed that treatment.
They hadn't capitalized, failing to defend their title.
But now, Madrid had risen again, and that momentum suited everyone.
From a business perspective, whoever won—Madrid or Barça—didn't matter.
As long as Spain kept the crown.
Madrid's players, however, had grown immune to the praise.
They'd seen what happened when the media turned.
So now, even as they grinned and basked in their win, they knew:
The hardest part of the journey was still ahead.
Every player at Real Madrid knew exactly how they won the Champions League last season.
Every ugly match. Every sacrifice. Every moment Mourinho said something brutally honest—it might have been harsh, but it was true.
He told them: ignore the media. Don't get distracted. Just focus on the next goal.
And they did.
They tasted glory. The ultimate triumph. And none of them wanted to stop.
They wanted to feel it again. That rush. That euphoria. That domination.
This season? They were just getting started.
It was far too early to relax. The only thing that mattered now was maintaining momentum, adjusting their form, and hitting every benchmark Mourinho had set.
And with guys like Li Ang and Ronaldo in the squad—two relentless workhorses—it wasn't even possible for the others to slack off.
The two had barely rested for half a day after returning to Madrid before chatting in the team group chat, scheduling a voluntary recovery session at Valdebebas.
The next morning, practically the entire squad showed up early.
Mourinho was stunned.
Luckily, none of the players were foolish enough to copy Li Ang and Ronaldo's full training load so soon after a Champions League match. Most were just there for medical checks and recovery therapy.
But the training fields were buzzing. The physio rooms? Packed.
Karanka and Mourinho were thrilled. The mood in the squad was right. No one wanted to be left behind.
Between now and their next Champions League fixture on November 6 against Dortmund, Madrid faced two La Liga matches and one Copa del Rey game.
Four games in two weeks—a brutal schedule.
One game a week? Ideal.
Two games a week? You rotate.
Mourinho had no choice: the upcoming Copa del Rey match would feature a fully rotated squad.
Against a Segunda B side, he was confident. Matuidi and Modrić could handle it.
Li Ang could stay home and rest. No need to anchor the midfield this time.
On October 27, Jesé Rodríguez was officially promoted from Castilla to the first team.
His older Castilla teammates celebrated the move with him.
At just nineteen, Jesé was already the standout attacker in Castilla, with seven goals and four assists in just ten Segunda matches.
A goal involvement per game.
No wonder Mourinho had refused to sign another forward in the summer.
Jesé was the hidden gem in his own backyard.
He wasn't ready to start over any member of Madrid's attacking trio yet, but as a rotation option? He was perfect.
The Copa del Rey and regular rotation in La Liga would give him plenty of minutes.
On October 28, Real Madrid traveled to Mallorca for Round 9 of La Liga.
Mourinho fielded a half-strength lineup and still won 3–0 comfortably.
Jesé came on at halftime and played the full second half.
Before being subbed off, Li Ang surged into the final third, using Benzema's off-ball movement to break into Mallorca's box, then laid the ball off to Jesé.
Jesé, with supreme confidence, danced past Conceição, then squared it to the far post.
Ronaldo tapped it in for his second.
A smooth, flowing move. The Spanish commentators on Movistar said it best:
"This young man isn't just showing us skill—he's displaying raw, unfiltered talent."
That's what nineteen-year-old Jesé brought: flair and potential.
At that moment, everyone watching felt it.
Real Madrid had found another gem from their own academy.
Just like Li Ang back in late 2010.
Same age. Same story. Promoted by Mourinho himself.
Only Jesé looked even flashier. More technically gifted. And he was getting better treatment than Li Ang had received in his early days.
He had every gift. Every tool. He should succeed.
And after providing his first assist in the white shirt, the media and fans took notice.
On October 31, Jesé started for Madrid for the first time in the Copa del Rey against Alcoyano.
He played 70 minutes. Scored. Assisted.
Morata scored a brace.
Callejón and Modrić added one each.
Madrid thrashed their lower-division opponent 5–0.
Not surprising, given the gulf in quality. But the performance of the rotated squad delighted the fans.
Madrid had now gone sixteen matches unbeaten across all competitions.
Compared to last season's insanity, this year felt more... stable.
Fewer blowouts. A couple of draws against Barça.
Not as flashy—but more mature.
Barça wasn't faltering either.
As long as both giants kept winning, the points table stayed locked.
A race in parallel. A marathon of patience.
The real victims? La Liga's mid- and lower-table teams.
On November 3, Málaga kicked off Round 10 against Rayo Vallecano.
They lost 1–2 at home.
Barça came next, cruising past Celta Vigo 3–0. Messi, with a goal and an assist, kept breathing down Ronaldo's neck in the scoring charts.
Then came Madrid's turn: a home match against Zaragoza, the current bottom dwellers.
No upset. Not even close.
Ronaldo scored a first-half hat trick.
Higuaín added a fourth.
4–0. Business as usual.
Even though Di María and subbed-on Benzema seemed a little lethargic, the job got done.
With the goal difference, Madrid leapfrogged Barça—back to the top of La Liga.
Both sides now had nine wins and one draw. Mirror records. Neck and neck.
It was becoming clear: this title race would go the distance.
But behind the dueling giants, a third force was rising.
Atlético Madrid.
Their record? Eight wins, one draw, one loss.
Simeone's rebuild was working.
Since promoting Diego Costa to the starting lineup to pair with Falcao, Atlético had taken off.
They didn't play like Madrid or Barça.
No high-scoring spectacles.
Instead, they brought hard-nosed, aggressive football to every match.
Only Madrid and Barça had scored more.
Only Madrid had conceded fewer.
Atlético were now defined by toughness and grit.
The era of La Liga's all-out war had officially begun.
Atlético was coming—swinging a giant blade—charging at the gates of Spain's two superpowers.
They weren't here to watch.
They were here to cut themselves a piece of the throne.
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