CHAPTER 172: THE DERBY D’ITALIA (1)

The tunnel was a pressure cooker, a narrow corridor filled with the ghosts of a hundred years of rivalry and the deafening roar of 80,000 screaming fans.

The air was thick enough to taste.

Opposite the stoic blue and black of Inter stood the imposing black and white of Juventus.

Leon’s heart hammered against his ribs, a steady drumbeat of adrenaline and focus.

The revelation of Juventus’s double-synergy was a chilling secret locked behind his eyes.

Their attack was a linked pair of assassins; their defense, an impenetrable fortress.

The teams stepped out onto the pitch, and the world exploded into a wall of sound and color.

The commentator’s voice, already at a fever pitch, climbed to an even higher level of hysteria.

"BENVENUTI AL DERBY D’ITALIA!" he screamed, his voice cracking with pure passion. "The most storied rivalry in Italian football is here! Inter, the league leaders, haunted by the mystery of ’Leongate’! Juventus, the challengers, armed with the miraculous, impossible return of the divine Federico Chiesa! This is more than a match! This is a battle for the soul of Serie A! THIS IS INTER VERSUS JUVENTUS!"

The whistle blew, and the intensity was immediate.

Juventus, playing with the confidence of a team holding a royal flush, surged forward. In the 2nd minute, the ’Predator & Jackal’ synergy flared to life.

Chiesa received the ball on the wing, a blur of motion. Instead of taking on his man, he played an instant, curling pass into the box. It was a pass that seemed to have no target.

But Vlahović, the Predator, was already moving, drawn to the space like a shark to blood.

He met the ball with a powerful volley that forced a desperate, scrambling save from Yann Sommer.

Inter tried to respond.

In the 7th minute, a clever pass from Lautaro sent Cole Palmer gliding towards the Juventus box.

He entered the penalty area, the goal in his sights.

But as he prepared to shoot, the silver ’Twin Towers’ link between Bremer and Danilo pulsed with a powerful light.

A wave of invisible pressure seemed to emanate from them.

For a split second, Palmer hesitated, a flicker of doubt in his mind.

It was the ’Intimidation’ debuff. That was all Bremer needed.

The Brazilian defender stepped in with a tackle of such perfect timing and force that it was like watching a surgeon with a sledgehammer.

The ball was gone. The chance was gone. The fortress was real.

On the sideline, the two coaches were a study in contrasts.

Juventus’s manager was a whirlwind of motion, screaming instructions, his arms flailing. Coach Chivu was a statue of cold fury, his eyes narrowed, missing nothing. "Don’t force it!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the din. "Patience! Make them move!"

The game descended into a brutal, beautiful war in the midfield.

Every inch of grass was contested. In the 15th minute, Nicolò Barella, embodying Inter’s frustration, flew into a tackle on Adrien Rabiot, catching the Frenchman late.

The referee’s whistle was shrill. Yellow card. The first of the match. Barella yelled at the sky, at the injustice of it all, before being calmed down by his captain.

Juventus, sensing a weakness, targeted Barella. Five minutes later, Manuel Locatelli came through the back of him with a cynical, professional foul.

Players from both sides converged, a swirl of pushing and angry words.

The referee, his patience wearing thin, brandished a yellow card for Locatelli for the foul, and another for Hakan Çalhanoğlu who had gotten a little too friendly with his opinion on the matter. Three yellow cards in twenty minutes.

This was the Derby d’Italia.

The game needed a moment of magic to break the cycle of aggression.

And in the 28th minute, Cole Palmer provided it.

He received a pass on the left touchline, with Danilo marking him tightly. Palmer faced him up.

He feinted to go right, then dragged the ball back with his studs. He dipped his shoulder, feinted again, and then with a single, explosive burst of speed, he pushed the ball past the defender and was gone.

The Juventus man, completely bamboozled, had no choice.

He stuck out a desperate leg and tripped Palmer, sending him tumbling to the ground right on the very edge of the penalty area.

The whistle blew. Free-kick to Inter in a perfect position.

As the Juventus players protested, Danilo, for his cynical foul, was shown the fourth yellow card of the half.

The stadium held its breath. This was Hakan Çalhanoğlu’s territory. He placed the ball with meticulous care, his face a mask of pure concentration.

The Juventus wall assembled, a formidable barrier of tall, imposing players.

Leon watched from the edge of the box.

His Vision was clear. He saw the goalkeeper, Wojciech Szczęsny, inching ever so slightly to his left, anticipating a shot over the wall.

He saw the tiny gap on the right side.

Çalhanoğlu looked at the goal. He began his run-up.

Everyone in the stadium expected the trademark curl, the whip of his right foot.

But at the last second, he checked his run, taking a shorter, stabbing step.

He didn’t curl it. He drilled it. Low, hard, and aimed directly at the side of the wall where Bremer was standing.

Bremer, expecting to have to jump, instinctively lifted his leg to block the shot.

But the shot was too powerful, too precise.

It deflected off the inside of Bremer’s shin, a wicked, cruel deflection that sent the ball spinning in the complete opposite direction of the diving goalkeeper.

Szczęsny was a statue, frozen in mid-air, as the ball rolled agonizingly into the empty side of the net.

GOOOOAL! 1-0 - 30:15

The sound was a physical shockwave.

Çalhanoğlu sprinted to the corner, a primal roar on his lips, his teammates mobbing him.

They had not broken down the fortress. They had not out-smarted the assassins.

They had gotten a lucky break, a cruel twist of fate, and they did not care one bit.

The clock showed 30:15. 1-0 to Inter.

On the sideline, Chivu didn’t celebrate.

He simply took a sip of water and turned to his assistant, a cold, satisfied glint in his eye.

The hunters had drawn first blood.