A broken nose, or something custom-made?

The fifteen-minute break passed quickly.

For the fans, those fifteen minutes were a chance to rest.

But for the two teams, this was a period of adjustment more important than any attack in the first half.

When the Real Madrid players emerged from the dressing room and stepped back onto the pitch, the anxiety from the latter stages of the first half had vanished from their faces.

In its place were composure and restraint.

No one knew what Zinedine Zidane had said in that dressing room.

But everyone could sense it. This was Real Madrid's pedigree.

They had seen too many finals and mounted too many comebacks.

Being a goal down was merely the first act of their script.

Liverpool, meanwhile, had been tempered by the first half. Their early nerves were gone, but their lead had not made them arrogant.

The moment both sets of players stepped back onto the Millennium Stadium turf, they were fully prepared for a battle to the death.

"Liverpool are nowhere near as strong as they look."

"Apart from Annuo, their players are weaker than ours in every position."

"Find a way to lock Annuo down and cut off his connections with his teammates."

"We will pull the score back."

"Victory will belong to us alone."

Zinedine Zidane's words from the dressing room still echoed in Adrián Ramos's ears, and he believed them without a shred of doubt.

He turned to glance at the red number ten across from him, who was loosening up his ankles. A flicker of resolve crossed his eyes.

That willingness to put life and death aside before a great battle seemed to infect the fans in the stands as well.

Cheers, songs, and shouts once again shook the enclosed Cardiff Millennium Stadium.

Even Chen Xiaolong could no longer sit