The two days leading up to the Real Madrid friendly were a strange, electric dream.

The world's media had descended upon Pasadena, California, transforming a pre-season kickabout into a full-blown Hollywood blockbuster.

The storylines were too juicy to ignore: The newly-crowned Premier League champions against the Galacticos of Madrid. The debut of Liverpool's world-record signing.

And, most tantalizingly of all, the master versus the apprentice:

Cristian Chivu against his star pupil, Leon.

At seven o'clock, the locker room at the Rose Bowl was a surprisingly calm oasis in a hurricane of hype.

The players were in their iconic red kits, the low hum of pre-match music a steadying rhythm in the air.

Leon stood in front of his locker, looking at the fresh, new jersey hanging there.

The number 30.

It felt like a lifetime ago that he was holding his Inter shirt, dreaming of winning the Scudetto.

Now, he was here, on a different continent, in a different color, with a different dream.

He felt a profound sense of gratitude, and a thrilling, terrifying surge of anticipation.

"Nervous, new boy?" a voice with a familiar Scouse accent called out.

Arnold was grinning at him from across the room.

"A little," Leon admitted with a smile. "It's not every day you play against the kings of Europe in a 'friendly'."

"Friendly?" Salah, who had just finished a series of ridiculously complicated stretches, scoffed from the floor. "There's nothing friendly about this. Chivu is on the other side.The man threatened to turn your legs into a 'training ground accident' just for being nice to his daughter. What do you think he's going to do to you for leaving his team?"

The room chuckled. The threat was a running joke now, a legend in the making.

Arne Slot walked into the center of the room, a tablet in his hand. The chatter died instantly. "Alright, lads," he said, his voice a calm, authoritative presence.

"Big test tonight. I want to see our principles. I want to see our energy. And I want to see our quality." He tapped the screen.

"Formation is a 4-2-3-1. Isak, you are the number nine. You will be our hammer."

The big Swede just gave a single, confident nod.

"Behind him," Slot continued, "a line of three. Mo, you are on the right. You will be our lightning."

Salah grinned, a flash of pure, competitive fire in his eyes.

"And our two new boys," Slot said, looking at Leon and another young, incredibly talented-looking player with an easy smile.

"Florian, you are in the middle. You will be our link. Leon, you are on the left. You will be our ghost. You four," he said, looking at the attacking quartet, "have the freedom to interchange, to create, to be a nightmare. Go and have some fun."

As the players were doing their final preparations, the pre-game broadcast was in full swing, the pundits barely able to contain their excitement.

"IT IS A CLASH OF THE TITANS IN THE CALIFORNIA SUN!" the hype-man, a famous ex-player named Gary Townsend, roared. "Arne Slot's perfectly-oiled Red Machine versus the new-look Galacticos of Real Madrid! You've got Mbappé, you've got Vinícius, you've got Arda Güler, the Turkish Messi! And on the other side, the debut of the €150 million man, Leon, alongside the German wonderkid, Florian Wirtz! This is not a friendly, folks! This is a statement!"

His co-pundit, a Liverpool legend, was more measured. "It's a fascinating tactical battle, Gary. The big question for me is how Liverpool's new attacking talents, Leon and Wirtz, will coexist with the established king, Mo Salah. They are all players who want the ball, who want to be the main creative force. Finding that balance will be the key to Liverpool's season."

They stood in the tunnel, the roar of the 90,000-strong crowd a physical, vibrating force.

Leon saw him at the front of the other line. Cristian Chivu. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second across the divide. Chivu gave him a single, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn't a threat. It was a challenge.

Let's see what you've learned.

The commentator was ready for war. "THE ANTHEMS ARE OVER! THE HANDSHAKES ARE DONE! THE STAGE IS SET FOR A BATTLE OF GIANTS! Leon, the apprentice, faces Chivu, the master! Salah versus Mbappé! Vini Jr. against Trent! Pick your superstar, pick your storyline! This is more than a friendly! This is a blockbuster! AND IT BEGINS... NOW!"

The whistle blew. The match kicked off at a blistering pace.

From the first second, it was clear that the word "friendly" was a suggestion, not a rule.

In the 3rd minute, Real Madrid showed their teeth.

Vinícius Jr., a blur of motion on the left wing, received the ball, dropped his shoulder, and exploded past Trent Alexander-Arnold.

He surged into the box and unleashed a furious shot that forced a brilliant, flying save from Alisson Becker.

Two minutes later, Liverpool responded. Leon drifted inside from his left-wing position, drawing a defender with him.

He played a quick, clever one-two with Florian Wirtz, whose first-time return pass was a thing of beauty.

Leon was in space. He looked up and saw Isak's powerful run. He slid a perfect through-ball into his path. The Swede took one touch and smashed a shot that the Madrid keeper, Thibaut Courtois, could only parry away for a corner.

The game was a breathless, end-to-end spectacle. In the 9th minute, a loose ball in the midfield saw Biyon go into a crunching, but fair, tackle on Kylian Mbappé, his new Champions League rival.

The two ended up in a heap on the floor.

"Hey!" Mbappé said, grinning as Salah helped him up. "I thought this was a friendly!"

"With you?" Salah shot back with a laugh. "Never."

The clock ticked over to 10:00.

The game was a perfect, beautiful, high-speed stalemate.

Leon, feeling the rhythm, began to drift deeper, looking for the ball, ready to implement the tactic that had worked so brilliantly for him at Inter: the False 9 drop.

He found a pocket of space between Madrid's defense and midfield, the exact space he had exploited all last season.

He called for the ball. But as he did, his 'Manager Mode', which had been silently analyzing the opposition, flashed a sudden, urgent, and deeply unsettling warning in his mind.

[Tactical Alert: Counter-Strategy Detected ('The Anchor'). Opponent has anticipated the False 9 drop. This space is not an opportunity. This space is a trap.]

He looked up, and his blood ran cold. He saw it. Cristian Chivu hadn't assigned a defender to follow him.

He had assigned his powerful midfielder, Eduardo Camavinga, to sit in that very pocket of space, not to mark him, but to wait, like a predator, for the inevitable pass to come into his zone and then launch a devastating counter-attack.

His greatest weapon, his secret signature move, had been perfectly, and completely, neutralized by the one man in the world who knew him best.

The master had just sent a very clear message to his apprentice.

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