Dawn light filtered through La Turbie's glass walls.
Demien stood at the whiteboard, marker in hand, sketching formations that resembled mathematical equations: triangles connected by arrows, numbers positioned with geometric precision.
When the coaching staff arrived, they found their familiar tactical room transformed.
"What is this?" Bernard asked, studying diagrams that defied traditional French football thinking.
A 4-3-3 formation, but not in any way anyone had ever played it before.
Three midfielders formed a perfect triangle, each player responsible for specific spaces. Constant movement created passing options that were nonexistent in conventional football.
Michel entered, carrying his morning coffee. Steam rose from the cup as he studied the whiteboard, confusion growing on his face.
"We're abandoning the 4-4-2?" he asked.
"We're evolving it," Demien replied.
The formation looked alien. Sometimes three center-backs, other times four defenders. Midfielders dropped deep or pushed high, depending on the ball's position.
"The players won't understand this," Bernard said. "It's too complex."
"Complexity becomes simple through repetition," Demien countered.
But the defensive coach shook his head. Thirty years of French football had not prepared him for Spanish concepts that wouldn't become mainstream for another five years.
Players began filtering into the tactical room. The morning briefing, which usually covered familiar territory, now presented a revolutionary change.
Giuly sat in the front row, captain's armband over his training kit, eyes sharp as he studied formations that challenged everything he had learned about positional play.
"We don't just keep the ball," Demien began. "We make the ball do the work."
Silence filled the room as professional athletes processed concepts that sounded more like philosophy than tactical instruction.
He drew passing triangles on the whiteboard, illustrating how three players could always be available for any teammate with possession. Mathematical relationships created options from seemingly impossible situations.
"Tiki-taka."
The name hung in the air like foreign currency, Spanish words rolling off French tongues.
"What does that mean?" Rothen asked.
"The rhythm of quick passing. The ball never stops moving. It's always between feet, never in the air unless absolutely necessary."
A cultural shock spread through the room, as Spanish concepts collided with the French football mentality. The technical demands required a different type of footballer.
Adebayor raised his hand. "Every player touches the ball?"
"Every player must be comfortable in tight spaces. Every pass has purpose. Every movement creates new options."
The young striker nodded, understanding that came from youth—an adaptability that veterans struggled to embrace.
Training began with basic passing exercises.
Five-meter squares, three players per square. The ball moved constantly between feet, with no touches allowed outside the confined space.
"Tiki-taka," Demien called. "Feel the rhythm."
Players struggled to meet the tempo requirements. Touches were too heavy, passes too slow, and spatial awareness demanded a different way of thinking.
Bernardi embraced the challenge immediately, the defensive midfielder finding solutions in tight spaces. His first touch was perfect, and his passes were crisp and accurate.
Others showed visible frustration.
Morientes lost the ball repeatedly during the first drill. The striker, accustomed to direct service, struggled with the constant circulation, reduced to making amateur mistakes.
"This is impossible," Rothen muttered during a water break. "We're overcomplicating a simple game."
"Football is simple," Demien replied, borrowing Cruyff's words. "But it's the hardest thing to do correctly."
Senior players defended traditional approaches that had brought Champions League qualification, their professional pride warring against revolutionary concepts.
Michel watched from the touchline, his notebook filled with concerns. The assistant coach wondered if the successful system should be abandoned for this experimental chaos.
The breakthrough came during an eleven-versus-eleven scrimmage.
The first team attempted tiki-taka against reserves playing traditional football, testing revolutionary concepts under match conditions.
Initial attempts produced familiar results: the ball was lost through poor touches, and passes were intercepted by organized pressing. Complex ideas broke down under pressure.
Yet glimpses of potential flickered through the systematic failure.
Giuly, Bernardi, and Plasil found a rhythm in central areas, forming a perfect triangle. The ball moved between them with hypnotic precision.
"There," Demien called. "Feel that rhythm."
The sequence lasted eight passes before breaking down, but those eight passes demonstrated a different way to play football—intelligence over athleticism, technique over power.
Players began to recognize moments of revolutionary beauty.
Training ended with mixed results. Some embraced the challenge, while others displayed obvious skepticism.
The staff gathered equipment, their professional concern evident as they contemplated abandoning successful methods.
Michel approached as players headed for showers.
"This system... it's completely different from everything we've built."
"Different doesn't mean wrong," Demien replied.
"But why change what's working?"
Demien watched his players disappear into the building, some discussing the new concept with curiosity, while others muttered about unnecessary complications.
"This is the future of football," he said quietly. "We're just five years early."