The man's name was Pep Guardiola.
A native of Catalonia, he was considered one of Barcelona's legendary former players.
Immediately after retirement, he was appointed as manager of Barcelona B. With 2 wins and 2 draws in the last 4 matches, he was steadily building a solid start to his managerial career.
However, the reason he had come to Estadio Anoeta today was none other than to prepare for the upcoming league match against Castilla in December.
There were still three months left, but Guardiola intended to attend every Castilla match in person whenever time permitted, preparing thoroughly.
That was how important the match was to him.
"We have to win this one."
His attention to the Castilla fixture wasn't about climbing the league table.
It was because of one man.
"President Laporta."
Barcelona's president, Joan Laporta, was on the verge of a breakdown.
Despite building the 'Fantastic Four' in the first team, they had yet to show any real dominance. Meanwhile, Castilla's Ho-young was shining, which led to harsh criticism from the media and fans.
On top of that, Real Madrid was aggressively pushing media narratives, driving Laporta to the brink of collapse.
It was no surprise he turned to alcohol every night.
This was a critical moment.
He needed to put out the most urgent fire first.
So the card he played was Barcelona B.
If the B team could beat Castilla and stop Ho-young, it could ease the unrest among Barcelona socios.
"This is an opportunity."
A string of misfortunes.
But if he could overcome this crisis, the reward might be enormous.
"If we can beat Castilla…"
And if Frank Rijkaard got sacked as first-team manager, there was a strong chance Guardiola would be the one to take over.
That was why he was focusing everything on the Castilla match.
Ten wins against other teams meant less than a single win against Castilla.
Guardiola's gaze was fixed on the center of the pitch.
Ho-young was constantly moving, throwing Real Sociedad into chaos.
With sharp eyes, Guardiola carefully analyzed him, searching for a way to counter the threat.
The first half developed into a dynamic battle.
Both teams, bestowed the title of "Real" by King Alfonso XIII, clashed as if fighting for a crown, putting on a fiercely contested match.
But as time passed, Castilla gradually started to fall behind.
No matter how prestigious Real Madrid was, there were limits to what a reserve team could do.
Beyond the lack of depth, there was also a significant gap in experience.
While Real Sociedad was now stuck in the Segunda División, they were still a proud Basque club.
They had even finished as La Liga runners-up in the 2002–03 season with Xabi Alonso leading the way.
Even if they were a toothless tiger now, they were still not a team to be taken lightly.
Kovacevic, who had been humiliated by Ho-young just 15 minutes earlier at kick-off, had regained his composure and was now showcasing his skills.
With the poise of a veteran, he tore apart Castilla's defense.
[Real Sociedad is lined up in a 3-4-3 formation. The midfield is slightly dropped back. It's practically a six-back setup.]
[So they're prioritizing defense?]
[Exactly. The 3-4-3 structure has notable weaknesses in midfield and on the flanks. But Manager Coleman placed physically strong players in midfield. Through aggressive pressing, he aims to offset those weaknesses and create numerical superiority across the pitch. Ultimately, he wants to exploit Castilla's backline with long passes. Because Kovacevic has exceptional aerial ability. This is definitely a British-style tactic.]
[So he's brought British tactics into this?]
[Yes, it's a bold gamble.]
In 2007, Spanish football leaned heavily toward short passing and suffocating space.
It emphasized compact lines and a tight field structure, often likened to herds of sheep moving together in dense formation.
That's why dribblers and players with outstanding individual skills were so highly regarded in Spain.
It was a football culture that often produced flashy individual technique and beautiful passing.
But Coleman had added a layer of British football onto that style.
That is, speed and power.
And Sociedad was reaping the benefits of that tactical mix.
Castilla's young players were gradually pushed back, and soon the control of both the first and third lines shifted in Sociedad's favor.
The only unresolved area was the second line.
"That's the real problem."
Coleman's eyes turned toward Sociedad's half.
Castilla's second line.
Ho-young was overcoming their numerical disadvantage with his excellent positioning and line control.
"Hm."
It was hard to believe.
Controlling an entire zone wasn't something that could be done by talent alone.
"Presence."
That was it.
Ho-young's presence was holding down the tight space in the second line.
His weight on the game was palpable, just from watching him.
"This is troublesome."
It wasn't just talent.
It was the real deal.
Not something that could be learned, but something innate.
An aura.
Only then did Coleman understand.
It felt like a massive boulder was planted right in the middle of the second line.
"I've felt this kind of presence before."
Now in his fifth year as a manager, Coleman had previously played as a defender in the Premier League. So he knew exactly what he was sensing.
That same solidity and weight, like Marcel Desailly at Chelsea.
He could imagine Desailly's youth looking something like that.
"With that kind of anchor, it's no wonder the zone is locked down."
It was as if he had been born for football.
His natural talent was simply astonishing.
"What kind of kid is this…"
It's not uncommon for coaches to admire an opponent mid-match.
But to be so taken that it distracts them? That almost never happens.
And yet, this was one of those rare moments.
"Damn it."
During that brief distraction, the game had shifted.
[The flow between the defenders and midfielders is falling apart. It's because Ho-young is constantly moving in between, disrupting the connection. Sociedad's offense, which should be powerful, is being scattered in all directions.]
[Looks like Manager Coleman's tactics are backfiring. At this point, their only option is to switch to direct passing. Or they need to abandon the British style altogether.]
Coleman had no choice but to pull his forwards back to support the midfield.
Neither team could be said to have the upper hand.
It was an unpredictable, neck-and-neck battle.
A back-and-forth tug-of-war unfolded throughout the first half.
That balance finally broke in the 41st minute, just before the end of the first half.
It was Castilla who broke through.
"Watch your spacing! Close it in!"
Sociedad's defensive midfielder Mikel Aranburu shouted.
Ho-young's play had started to change rapidly.
With sharp instincts and excellent reading of the game, Aranburu quickly sensed the danger.
"He's creating chances through footwork."
Ho-young was dragging the ball in tight spaces, toying with Sociedad's midfielders.
His movements were telegraphing his intentions.
"Suddenly changing style like that… it's obvious."
He was trying to create a chance right before halftime, catching the defense off guard.
Aranburu was certain.
"Stay sharp. His footwork is top-tier, even in the Segunda División."
He didn't underestimate Ho-young just because he was Asian.
Ho-young had already proven himself with results. Letting their guard down now would be a fatal mistake.
Aranburu focused.
"Don't fall for it. He likes to quickly shift into shooting position for long-range shots. Stay focused."
That was the mindset of a true tactician.
He didn't have much physical strength for a defensive midfielder, but his footballing sense was top-notch.
He stepped forward to close down Ho-young's shooting angle from both sides.
It was a good decision.
From a conventional perspective.
But.
Ho-young didn't stop moving, as if mocking that line of thinking.
He proved it with action.
That judgment was completely wrong.
"Ugh."
Dazzling footwork right in front of him.
Ho-young used his upper body and legs like a magician, luring Aranburu in.
It was an illusion no eyes could follow.
So mesmerizing that you couldn't help but fall for it.
In that brief moment, Aranburu instinctively stuck his foot out, like falling for a seduction trap.
It looked like the perfect timing for a tackle.
"He's definitely trying to break through!"
That was the illusion.
In reality, it was a fake.
A feint.
Tap, tap.
As Aranburu's foot reached in, Ho-young pulled the ball back and simultaneously opened up the angle on the opposite side.
It was pure artistry.
His movements flowed with rhythm, and his touch was exceptionally delicate.
Even the Neymar from two years ago would have asked to learn from this.
Aranburu spun around quickly, but it was already too late.
The sound of a shot rang out through the air.
Boom!
The ball flew from Ho-young's foot toward goal.
Aranburu's heart sank in an instant.
All he could do now was pray and hope the keeper would save it.
And perhaps those prayers worked. A brief smile appeared on his face.
The powerful shot had been punched away by the goalkeeper.
But only for a moment.
His face instantly froze and was overtaken by shock.
"Damn."
Just unlucky.
The punched ball had fallen right back in front of Ho-young.
The nearby defenders rushed in to stop him, but the chance had already passed.
Tap. Ho-young calmly trapped the ball, then unleashed a powerful strike.
Thwack!
The ball, struck cleanly with the instep, flew straight into the top right corner.
A shot so clean and precise it was a joy just to watch.
Imagine what it felt like for the players on the field.
They couldn't help but roar in celebration.
"Wooooooooh!"
A massive cheer erupted from the west end of the stadium, where the away fans were seated.
They had waited so long for that goal.
Scoring it just before the end of the first half made it all the more emotional.
As if part of a rebellion, the Castilla supporters jumped to their feet, chanting Ho-young's name in unison.
"Woo Woo!"
"Woo Woo Woo!!"
They celebrated the goal with chants, like a troop of wild monkeys possessed.
It was still the end of the first half, but the atmosphere was as if they had already won.
"¡Vamos, Castilla!"
Ho-young, having scored the opening goal, received a thunderous ovation as the first half came to an end.
Meanwhile, Aranburu's face was twisted in frustration.
"What went wrong? I thought I handled it well."
From any angle, his response had been solid.
His only mistake was underestimating Ho-young's unpredictable style.
In the end, the home team had to head into halftime trailing.
Boos poured from the stands.
"Bunch of idiots."
"You can't even beat a reserve team. Aren't you ashamed?!"
Real Sociedad's supporters.
A year ago, they might have offered words of encouragement, but after the team's relegation to the Segunda División, the mood had soured.
It was only natural that fans were furious.
Kovacevic and Aranburu, both of whom had failed to make an impact, had to walk back to the locker room under a hail of insults.
And before long, angry shouting exploded from within the home team's locker room.
(To be continued.)
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◇ One bonus chapter will be released for every 200 Power Stones.
◇ You can read the ahead chapter on Pat if you're interested: p-atreon.c-om/Blownleaves (Just remove the hyphen to access normally.)