When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 136 Now, let's conquer the world!

Halftime locker room.

Casillas wiped his sweat with a towel, his voice low: "That Roy was too fast, I didn't even have time to judge his shooting angle."

Salgado shook his head, panting: "Maicon and Evra have been overlapping on the flanks, and we've been completely shut down on the wings."

Guti: "All three of their midfielders were running, and Pedretti and Bernardi were pressing like mad dogs, so we couldn't get the ball out at all."

Beckham silently tied his shoelaces, his fingers trembling slightly.

Roy's several breakthroughs left him scrambling, and his subsequent inside cuts after a sprint made it impossible for him to catch up.

He sat in the corner, his face grim: "Does Morientes know you too well? Every time he crosses the ball, he gets stuck in front of Helguera."

Raul sighed: "Moro is alright, but their counterattacks on both flanks were too fast. Once we pushed forward, we couldn't get back at all."

Zidane leaned against the locker room wall, his tone tinged with helplessness: "Roy and I experienced his prowess firsthand when we were training with the national team. That kid's technique is so unique. He always likes to use his right foot to flick the ball out when he starts, but as soon as you shift your weight, he can immediately switch to his left foot to cut the ball and change direction. The most deadly thing is his sense of balance. Did you see that breakthrough in the first half? He had clearly lost his balance, but he managed to save the ball using his core strength."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over his teammates in the locker room: "And have you noticed? Although he always keeps his head down when he dribbles, his sense of open spaces on the field is practically innate. Every time he breaks to the edge of the penalty area, he deliberately slows down, waiting for the defender to make a rash move."

Guti couldn't help but interrupt, "Then how should we restrain him?"

Zidane said with some helplessness: "To be honest, when facing a player like this, you either have to foul him decisively before he starts moving, or you can only hope that he's not in good form today. After all, even Makelele was often tricked by him during training with the French national team."

What no one says aloud is...

Monaco's tactics were not complicated, but their running, physical duels and counter-attacking efficiency made Real Madrid's proud star lineup appear cumbersome and slow.

Queiroz tapped the tactics board, his voice hoarse: "In the second half, Guti will drop back to the defensive midfield position and stay there. Beckham shouldn't push too far forward either. We must limit Roy's cuts inside."

The air in the locker room was so heavy it was almost solid.

Queiroz's tactical explanation was cut short halfway through when his voice caught in his throat.

He looked down at the arrows he had drawn on the tactics board and suddenly realized that the locker room was eerily quiet.

No one was taking notes, no one was asking questions, and there wasn't even the usual coughing.

What bothered Queiroz the most was Zidane's gaze.

The Frenchman simply looked at him calmly, but his eyes clearly said, "What do you Portuguese know about the Champions League knockout stage?"

Deschamps stood at the locker room door, his voice booming like thunder:

"Listen up! Go all out in the second half! Treat them like Châteauroux from Ligue 2! Forget about Real Madrid! They'll be desperate to score – so we'll score even more! Trying to steal a win at the Bernabéu by defending? No way! Either we blast their goal open, or they blast us to smithereens! There's no third way!"

He flung open the door, and the light from the hallway pierced through like a sword:

"Now, all of you, get to the battlefield!"

The player tunnel lights were blinding, and when the two teams stepped onto the pitch again, the roar of the Bernabéu was like a tsunami.

The roar of 80,000 people shook the grass, and white scarves fluttered in the stands.

The Spanish commentator's voice was hoarse from shouting, but he was still roaring: "Look at these white warriors! In 1956 we came back from behind against Reims! In 1998 we crushed Juventus! Now it's only 1-2! Remember Raul's backheel against Manchester United! Remember Carlos's thunderous free kick! The night at the Bernabéu has always belonged to comebacks!"

In the stands at the Bernabéu, Real Madrid fans whispered among themselves, their eyes all focused on Roy.

Manolo, an old fan from the south stand, spat: "This kid came up through Castilla's youth academy, and now he's acting all high and mighty towards us!"

He pointed at Roy, who was warming up on the field, and said, "Look at his arrogant celebration after scoring a goal, he's such an ingrate!"

The middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap next to him sneered: "Young man, you don't know your place. Raul was so humble when he made his debut, pointing both fingers to the sky after scoring. This arrogant kid deserves a good kick from Carlos!"

But a few young fans in the south stand started arguing: "Didn't you see his speed and change of direction? He's even faster than Ronaldo!"

"Exactly! That's what you call having guts!"

Young fan Alvaro excitedly pounded on the railing, "Look at his fierceness, that's the kind of spirit Real Madrid should have! If we hadn't let him go back then, he could have learned from Raul for two years now, and when the captain retires, the number 7 jersey should be his!"

The college student next to him, José, who was wearing glasses, pushed up his glasses: "That's right, Raul is 27 years old, someone has to take over. This kid was a bit arrogant today, but look at his breakthrough, this isn't just playing football, it's like Juanito's soul was stuffed into Ronaldo's body! That kind of reckless charging spirit, he's like a wild horse that grew out of the Bernabéu grass!"

Upon hearing this, an elderly fan in the front row turned around abruptly, cigar ash falling onto his trouser leg: "Bullshit! The spirit of Juanito is about fighting tooth and nail in a white shirt! This kid is wearing Monaco's red and white stripes, charging around like a bull, clearly provoking Madrid's dignity!"

Several middle-aged fans shook their heads upon hearing this: "What nonsense! Number 7 belongs to Raul, and it will belong to Espanyol in the future!"

"Exactly, does this reckless kid deserve to be number 7 at the Bernabéu?"

"But don't you think so?"

Jose's eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "It's this fearless spirit that's true Madridism! Didn't Juanito fight his way back from other teams back then? Look at Roy's unstoppable change of direction!"

He pointed to Roy, who was being tackled by Carlos on the field, and said, "This is clearly the spirit of the 'Juanito Night' in the new century! It's just that tonight he's wearing the opponent's jersey!"

Carlos, like a white lightning bolt, burst out from the side, delivering a vicious sliding tackle straight at Roy, who was charging in from the middle!

Roy's supporting leg was scraped hard, and he fell forward.

Just as he was about to fall, his left arm suddenly braced against the ground, and his abdominal muscles tensed like a bow, allowing him to spring back to his feet despite being out of balance!
Guti had already arrived, but Roy stumbled and poked the ball through the gap between the two with his right toe!

"Roy! Roy! Incredible balance!!"

The commentator's voice was hoarse, "He's still advancing! Rothen gets the ball—a brilliant lob pass!!"

The ball seemed to have eyes, bypassing Real Madrid's entire defense and precisely landing in the penalty area.

Roy arrived like a ghost, and facing Helguera's blockade, he suddenly twisted his left foot, pretending to shoot but instead deflecting the ball to the right.

Next!

Just as Casillas made his save, he strangely flicked the ball backwards with his left heel!
"boom!!"

The ball shot like a cannonball towards the far corner, slamming into the inside of the goalpost and bouncing into the net!
The commotion at the Bernabéu abruptly ceased, leaving only the commentators' frenzy: "GOLGOLGOL!!! Roy! This kid abandoned by Real Madrid has humiliated the Galácticos in the most Madrid way!!"

One minute ago, in the Bernabéu stands.

The surrounding fans had already stood up, ready to cheer.

Carlos's sliding tackles are always a sure thing.

But when they saw Roy stagger to his feet and get back up to continue dribbling, the noise from the stands suddenly halved.

"What's going on? It hasn't broken yet?" The fat guy in the front row muttered, gripping the railing.

As Guti rushed to cover, people in the north stands started stomping their feet: "Stop him!"

But the ball had already been passed to Rothen's feet.

When that lobbed pass went over Helguera's head, the entire Bernabéu felt like it had been choked.

A gentleman in a suit in the VIP section suddenly loosened his tie.

As Roy dribbled left and right in the penalty area, the middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap started biting his nails.

Until that powerful shot hit the inside of the post and bounced into the net, Diego, the old fan who had been cursing just moments before, plopped back down in his seat, his beer mug now crushed in his hand.

The south stand was deathly silent for five seconds, until the cheers of the Monaco players pierced the night sky.

The score on the big screen changed to 1-3, and a child suddenly asked in a tearful voice, "Dad, are we going to lose?"

Various media outlets captured this moment with their cameras:
In Marca's footage, Raul is rubbing his reddened nose with his right hand. Beckham stands beside him, hands on his hips, his right foot stomping on the turf. Zidane turns his head, a wry smile or self-deprecating expression playing on his lips. Behind them, the Monaco players' celebrating figures are blurred into a hazy red mass, with only Roy's silhouette vaguely visible as he leaps. The stadium lights shine obliquely, casting long shadows of the three men.

A bird's-eye view from AS captured Casillas kneeling in front of the goal, his gloves hanging limply at his sides, the net still trembling slightly. Real Madrid players stood frozen, while Monaco players rushed towards Roy from all sides, their red jerseys tracing paths across the green pitch.

AFP's camera focused on the stands: an elderly fan's scarf slowly slipped from his hand, his mouth slightly open, the wrinkles on his face particularly noticeable under the stadium lights.

In L'Équipe's photos, Deschamps stands triumphantly with his arms raised, his suit jacket billowing in the wind; while a few meters away, Queiroz hangs his head, his face pale, the wrinkles on his face starkly visible under the stadium lights. Though only a few steps apart, the distance between them seems to hold the weight of the entire Champions League season's success or failure.

In the 50th minute, Real Madrid launched a quick counter-attack.

Ronaldo received the ball near the center circle, accelerated past Bernardi, and dribbled straight into the penalty area.

Facing Abidal's blockade, he suddenly changed direction, flicked his heel past Squillaci, and unleashed a powerful shot from the edge of the penalty area.

The ball flew like a cannonball straight to the top right corner of the goal, and Roma made a diving save, tipping the ball over the crossbar with one hand.

Beckham strode towards the corner flag area, raising his hand to wipe the sweat mixed with grass clippings from his forehead.

As he bent down and placed the ball steadily on the corner flag, the female fans in the stands waved their scarves excitedly, shouting "David!" one after another.

In the stands, Victoria stood up and held onto the railing with both hands.

The Spanish ladies behind her whispered among themselves, occasionally pointing to the corner flag area.

As soon as the referee blew his long whistle, the entire Bernabéu stadium held its breath.

Beckham's signature run-up – two steps, three steps!
The ball sliced ​​through the Madrid night sky, flying towards the penalty area with its familiar arc!
At this moment, from Manchester to Madrid, from Tokyo to Los Angeles, countless fans watching on television held their breath.

The moment the ball cleared the wall of players, cheers erupted simultaneously in the living rooms of millions of homes.

In a bar near Old Trafford, several elderly fans wearing Manchester United jerseys raised their glasses; in front of a large screen in Madrid's central square, crowds surged like waves; in an electronics store in Shibuya, Tokyo, office workers gathered in front of a television display in the early hours of the morning, exclaiming in unison.

The ball was still flying through the air, but Beckham's fans around the world had already clenched their fists.

"GOOOOOOOl!!!"

The commentary booth erupted in cheers: "The Bernabéu is trembling! Real Madrid is back! Helguera! Once again, our iron-willed defender has stepped up at the most crucial moment!"

The moment the ball slammed into the net, a deafening roar erupted from the south stand.

Roma knelt on the goal line, his gloves still in the position of making a save, but no one cared anymore.

The 2-3 score on the big screen sent the entire stadium into a frenzy, with the substitutes rushing onto the field.

"Listen to the cheers!"

The commentator's voice was hoarse. "This is Champions League night! This is Real Madrid's never-give-up spirit! There are still forty minutes left in the game, anything is possible!"

The score became 2-3, and Helguera sprinted towards the corner flag to celebrate, where Real Madrid players rushed over to embrace him.

Monaco players surrounded the referee to complain of pushing and shoving, but the referee waved play on.

Queiroz clenched his fists on the sidelines, while Deschamps shouted at his players to stay calm.

Roy walked slowly back to the center circle, reached out and brushed his wet black hair back, sweat sliding down his sharply defined jawline.

He smiled slightly, revealing his signature confident smile, his white teeth standing out under the stadium lights.

Giuly jogged over and patted Roy on the back: "That was a nice kick, but it looks like they're getting into the game."

Roy leaned closer and whispered something amidst the deafening hisses, which made Juli burst out laughing.

"No, it's that they actually dared to fight back."

Suddenly, Roy turned to face his teammates and clapped three times, the crisp applause piercing through the noisy stadium.

"guys!"

His voice was clear and bright, and his dark eyes gleamed under the light. "Let them see the real Monaco!"

Roy raised his chin and gave Real Madrid's half a provocative look.

This action silenced the celebrating Real Madrid players for a moment.

Raul's hand, which was wiping sweat, froze in mid-air. He noticed that the Monaco players' eyes were all following the young man.

Zidane frowned. He was all too familiar with this aura. Back in his Juventus days, a young Del Piero had led the team in the same way.

Carlos slowed down his chewing of gum.

He saw the Monaco players, like soldiers awaiting orders, all looking toward that tall figure in the center circle.

Even Captain Giulie instinctively moved closer to Roy, as if waiting for instructions.

Deschamps stood on the sidelines with his arms crossed, looking serious.

He knew very well who the real commander was on the field at that moment.

In the presidential box, Florentino tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair and looked up at the broadcast screen in the box—the camera was focused on Roy.

Florentino's gaze returned to the pitch.

After the kickoff, the players in red and white immediately engaged in fierce competition on the green field.

Monaco's red jerseys and Real Madrid's white kits moved quickly under the spotlight, kicking up clouds of grass clippings from the turf.

In the midst of this chaotic battle, Roy's figure stood out conspicuously.

He was like a leaping flame, constantly weaving and running through Real Madrid's defense.

In the 53rd minute, he received a pass from his teammate and made a sudden stop and change of direction, easily getting past Mejia; two minutes later, he cleverly backheeled the ball on the wing, creating space for Giuly to break through.

In the stands at the Bernabéu, the fans' eyes were involuntarily drawn to the lively red number 10.

Ferguson put down his teacup, leaned forward slightly, and the light from the television screen reflected off his glasses.

In the video, Roy is directing his teammates' positioning, his young face displaying a composure beyond his years.

The old general's gaze followed the red figure intently.

He recalled the scene of Van Nistelrooy being isolated and helpless against Porto, and the points gap in the league when Arsenal were close behind but eventually overtook him.

Ronaldinho's magical performances for Manchester United were nothing compared to his off-field antics and casual style, which always made people feel that something was missing – that's not how a Manchester United core player should be.

On TV, Roy once again skillfully evaded the defense and delivered a precise pass to his teammate.

Roy patted Evra on the shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear. Evra immediately nodded in understanding.

This tacit understanding reminded Ferguson of the days when Cantona coached Class 92.

The old general picked up the phone, put it down again, and then took out a notebook from the drawer.

He hastily wrote down: "Leadership qualities, tactical understanding, charisma."

He paused on the paper with his pen, then added, "Perhaps I could mentor the children?"

He remembered the face of a young Portuguese boy.

Outside the window, the Manchester night was deepening, and only the light from the television screen flickered on his face.

Inside the VIP box at Stamford Bridge, Abramovich loosened his tie, his gaze shifting between the game outside the floor-to-ceiling windows and the television screen in the corner.

The assistant coach had been standing in front of the television showing Real Madrid playing against Monaco for twenty minutes.

“Look at that number 10,” the Russian suddenly said in Russian, tapping his champagne glass lightly with his fingers, “the way he directed the defense just now.”

On television, Roy was gesturing to Bernardi, the defensive midfielder, who immediately adjusted his position.

The next second, Zidane's through ball attempt was thwarted.

The assistant handed over a document: "The latest scouting report specifically highlights his tactical understanding."

Abramovich took the document but didn't open it; his gaze remained fixed on the screen.

Roy suddenly slowed down during the counter-attack, waiting for his teammates to make runs before sending a cross.

This simple choice made the Russians nod slightly.

A deafening cheer suddenly erupted outside the private room.

Lampard delivered a precise through ball, and Gudjohnsen calmly slotted it into the net, giving Chelsea a 1-0 lead over Arsenal.

Abramovich clapped twice as a reflex, but the applause was quickly drowned out by the noise from Stamford Bridge.

His gaze remained fixed on the red figure who could both break down defenses and organize the defense.

Duruk quickly jotted down the details of the match from the sidelines.

He noticed that Monaco players were moving in increasingly coordinated fashion, and every pass seemed to be precisely calculated.

Roy's constant movement in the attacking third made the entire attacking system run smoothly.

Real Madrid players began glancing frequently at the coaching bench, their eyes filled with confusion.

Their passes were repeatedly intercepted, and their defense was torn apart time and time again.

Duluk glanced at his watch.

Only twenty minutes into the second half, the initiative on the field had already completely changed hands.

This doesn't seem like a random upset.

Drucker wrote heavily in his notebook: "Tactical revolution."

Every player at Monaco seems like a completely different person, with a fresh start in both technique and tactical awareness.

He recalled what he had said during his interview on the banks of the Seine.

That arrogant metaphor of comparing himself to Attila.

At this moment, this metaphor is so vividly presented before my eyes.

Like the Hunnic king, Roy led his red cavalry to roam freely in the Bernabéu, the holy temple of football.

Every breakthrough he made was like a sharp battle axe cleaving through Real Madrid's defense, and every pass he made was like a precise arrow aimed at the enemy's weakest point.

The Monaco players, like Attila's nomadic cavalry, charged tirelessly, flanking and encircling the enemy.

Real Madrid's defense was like the walls of Rome, teetering on the brink of collapse under such a fierce attack.

Looking at Roy's defiant expression on the field, Drucker felt as if he were truly seeing the conqueror who had made all of Europe tremble a thousand years ago.

As the entire Monaco team swept through the Bernabéu like a red torrent, he seemed to see Attila leading his iron cavalry, galloping through the most magnificent hall of the Eternal City. In the Bernabéu stands, the expressions of Real Madrid fans gradually froze.

They watched those multi-million dollar superstars—Raul's captain's armband swaying as he ran, Figo's black hair soaked with sweat.

At this moment, however, he resembled the pampered nobles of ancient Rome, appearing clumsy and slow in the face of his young opponent.

Boos were the first to erupt from the south stand.

These usually proud Madrid residents finally understand: there are no born aristocrats on the football field.

When the ball rolls across the goal line, it won't make an exception just because you're Real Madrid; when you're behind, those glorious historical honors won't help either.

"Monaco's attack is on again!"

The commentator's voice suddenly rose, instantly drowning out the clamor at the Bernabéu.

"Roy receives the ball on the left wing, Salgado moves forward to block him!"

Roy gently flicked the ball with his right foot, and it obediently rolled to the right.

Just as Salgado shifted his center of gravity, he struck the ball with the outside of his left foot, sending it flying through the Spanish international's legs like lightning!

A gasp of surprise erupted from the south stand of the Bernabéu.

"A nutmeg dribble! Salgado has been completely outmaneuvered!"

The commentator's voice trembled.

As Roy dribbled inside, Helguera rushed forward as if facing a formidable enemy, his arms outstretched like a moving city wall.

But Roy merely glanced up at the penalty area, then gently pushed the ball with the instep of his right foot, finding Rothen lurking in the middle with pinpoint accuracy.

"Rothen! Unmarked! Kick him directly—!"

The commentator jumped up from his seat.

Casillas leaped into the air like a cheetah, his fingertips barely brushing the ball, causing more than 20,000 Real Madrid fans in the Bernabéu's north stand to gasp in shock.

"They've made their move! But danger still lingers!"

The ball landed on the edge of the six-yard box, and Morientes appeared like a ghost.

The former Real Madrid player raised his right foot, and before the boos from the stands could even form, Helguera had already leaped to block the shot, using his shoulder to deflect it out of bounds.

The Spanish center-back staggered and knelt on the grass, his face deathly pale.

"The ball is still in the penalty area! Giuly follows up with a shot!"

Giuly's shot headed straight for the near post, and Casillas almost instinctively stretched out his left leg, the ball slamming against his shin and bouncing towards the edge of the penalty area.

In the VIP box, Florentino gripped the armrests tightly, his fingers sinking deeply into the leather sofa.

"Pedretti! Unleash a powerful shot!"

This powerful long-range shot prompted Casillas to once again demonstrate his world-class save, leaping out like a spring and punching the ball away with both fists.

At this moment, the boos at the Bernabéu had turned into a terrified silence, and a young fan in the south stand covered his eyes tightly, unable to watch any longer.

"The Bernabéu is trembling!"

The commentator roared, his voice already hoarse.

"Real Madrid's defense is like a small boat in a storm! Monaco's fifth wave of attack is coming!"

The ball, still spinning outside the penalty area, was struck by Roy's ghost-like burst from the crowd.

His figure flashed like a red lightning bolt under the dazzling lights of the Bernabéu, and before the ball hit the ground, his right leg lashed out like a whip.

"Roy—volley shot!!!"

Time seemed to freeze at this moment.

Casillas's hair fluttered in the air, and his body, stretched to its limit, resembled an open cross.

But this shot carried the force of a thunderbolt; the ball barely spun in its flight, blasting into the top left corner of the goal like a cannonball!

The net was whipped into high spray, and the goal frame vibrated with a teeth-grinding thud.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!"

A deafening roar erupted from the commentary booth.

"2-4! What a perfect finish! What a crazy offensive onslaught!"

The Bernabéu fell into an eerie silence.

An elderly fan in the north stand trembled, and his binoculars fell heavily to the ground. The ladies in the front row stood frozen in shock, their carefully applied Real Madrid crest paint smudged by tears, the blue and white paint slowly sliding down their stiff faces.

Helguera stood with his hands on his hips, his chest heaving violently; Casillas knelt in front of the goal line, pounding the turf, his gloves covered in grass clippings.

Monaco players surged toward Roy like a red wave.

On the sidelines, Deschamps turned and opened his arms to the substitutes' bench, the usually composed young coach unable to hide his elation.

"This is absolutely a red storm!"

The commentator roared hoarsely, "Monaco's attacks are like a tsunami, wave after wave. Real Madrid players are like sailors in a storm, clinging desperately to the deck! Look at these white warriors, they are the Galacticos! Yet they've been pinned down in their own half for almost ten minutes!"

The camera panned across the Real Madrid penalty area, where Helguera's jersey was soaked with sweat, and Carlos was holding his knee and panting heavily.

Casillas' gloves were covered in grass clippings, and the goalkeeper looked like a weary boxer who had just endured round after round of heavy punches.

"This is insane! This is unbelievable!"

The commentator's voice trembled with excitement: "Every shot from Monaco is like a sledgehammer, crashing down on Real Madrid's goal! The Bernabéu fans have forgotten to breathe; it's as if an invisible hand is choking them!"

When Roy finally delivered the decisive blow, the commentators went absolutely wild: "This isn't a football match! This is a massacre! A red hurricane relentlessly ravaging the white defense! Look at the expressions on these Real Madrid stars' faces, they look like they've just experienced a nightmare!"

The broadcast cameras panned across the stands, capturing Raul's dazed gaze and Zidane's furrowed brow.

The moment the ball hit the net, the entire Bernabéu fell into a deathly silence.

Roy turned and sprinted toward the corner flag, his jersey fluttering in the night wind like a victory flag.

Under the gaze of 80,000 eyes, and before Zidane's astonished look and Raul's incredulous expression, the 19-year-old suddenly stopped in his tracks.

He slowly raised his right hand and made a gesture that shocked the entire audience.

Just as Napoleon crowned himself at Notre Dame Cathedral in 1804, he solemnly placed a non-existent crown on his own head.

Monaco's teammates were all stunned.

Evra's mouth was wide open enough to fit a tennis ball, and Morientes's half-raised celebration gesture froze in mid-air, like a comical sculpture.

Deschamps unconsciously straightened his posture on the sidelines.

The Bernabéu's dazzling lights poured down like holy light, making Roy's figure appear tall and slender.

Every brick in this football temple has witnessed countless legends, and tonight, it is witnessing the birth of a new story.

Roy stood in the center circle, slowly surveying the magnificent stadium.

The eyes of 80,000 people surged toward him like a tide, yet he remained as steadfast as a rock.

His gaze swept over the resounding names on the field—Zidane, Figo, Raul—before finally settling on the glass wall of the VIP box.

“This place,” he whispered to himself, “is the best stage.”

In the chest of a nineteen-year-old, the heartbeat was steady and strong.

He knew he was not yet a king, but just now, in that coronation ceremony, he had already crowned his own soul.

This is not the end, but a beginning.

A path to kingship that must be measured with one's own feet and paved with sweat.

On the sidelines, Deschamps suddenly recalled the feeling of lifting the Champions League trophy for the first time during his playing career.

He was all too familiar with the light in this young man's eyes.

That wasn't youthful arrogance, but a kind of almost terrifying certainty.

This is not youthful arrogance, but a declaration of a king's return.

When he lowered his arm, the determination in his eyes made Raul, who was closest to him, involuntarily take a half step back, as if he were intimidated by some invisible force.

Roy turned and walked toward the center circle, each step firm and powerful.

As he passed the Real Madrid bench, he gently patted his left chest.

A champion's heart beats there.

The Bernabéu grass rustled beneath his feet, as if heralding the arrival of a new era.

In the stands, Florentino's expression shifted between light and shadow.

Meanwhile, in the away stands, the chants of hundreds of Monaco fans drowned out the silence of 90,000: "Allez Monaco!" echoed for a long time under the Bernabéu dome.

Duluk wrote his final words on the sidelines: "This is not an upset, it is a tactical victory."

Real Madrid's proud, star-studded defense completely collapsed in the face of Monaco's red storm.

On the sidelines, Monaco's substitutes were eager to try.

Ribery kept doing high knees, Marcelo Gallardo was loosening his ankles, and Adebayor was keeping a close eye on the situation on the field.

Excitement gleamed in their eyes.

Making a name for oneself on a stage like the Bernabéu is an opportunity every player dreams of.

The disappointed expressions of the Real Madrid fans in the stands only fueled their fighting spirit.

Defeating a powerhouse like Real Madrid would be one of the proudest achievements of their careers.

No one wants to miss such an opportunity; everyone is eager to go on stage and prove themselves.

Drucker kept his head down, his pen scratching across the notebook.

He was so engrossed in the words that he didn't even notice the sudden gasps from the stands.

"Giuly! Goal!"

The shouts of the fans came from afar, but Duruk only frowned, his pen still gliding smoothly across the paper.

He was describing Roy's coronation gesture that shocked the entire audience, carefully considering every adjective.

Four minutes later, another wave of sound, like a roaring tsunami, erupted.

This time it was Real Madrid fans cheering.

Ronaldo suddenly burst forth, dribbling past two players like lightning before unleashing a powerful shot that found the back of the net.

The Bernabéu erupted in cheers, but the "Alien" who scored simply bent over, panting heavily, his face etched with exhaustion.

Throughout the match, Monaco used a tight, coordinated defense to completely surround him.

Although no one can defend him one-on-one, he always gets double-teamed by two or three people every time he gets the ball.

This goal felt more like his last desperate attempt.

The substitutes on the sidelines jumped up to celebrate, but Duruk didn't even look up.

The coffee in his paper cup had gone cold, but he was completely unaware.

The competition has entered a heated phase.

Both coaches began making frequent substitutions, and the players battled fiercely on the field.

Sweat, grass clippings, and roars mingled together, creating a chaotic scene.

Drucker, however, was like a calm spot in the eye of the storm, completely absorbed in his own world.

He was jolted awake when a soccer ball slammed into the advertising board at his feet.

He looked up at the scoreboard and realized that the score had become 3-5.

He pushed up his slipping glasses and lowered his head to continue writing.

He had already captured the essence of the game in his words.

L'Équipe Special Report: Roy – From Bernabéu Outcast to the Pinnacle of Europe
On January 29, 2003, the sea breeze in Mallorca carried the salty taste unique to the Mediterranean.

Under the lights of the Iberia Star stadium, an Asian youth wearing a white jersey with the number 44 stood on the sidelines, his substitute vest fluttering in the night wind.

Three days ago, he was a youth player on Real Madrid's clearance list; now, his cleats are crunching through the grass on the sidelines, preparing to step onto the first battlefield of his professional career.

"Number 44 Roy replaces number 18 Portillo."

When the fourth official's electronic sign lit up, a few boos came from the stands.

No one could have imagined that this night would become the starting point of a legend.

It was not a glorious coronation, but a satisfying revenge.

On December 2, 1804, Napoleon was crowned at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.

When Pope Pius VII prepared to place the crown on his head, the French emperor suddenly reached out and took the crown, putting it on his own head.

This unexpected move shocked the entire audience and symbolized Napoleon's determination not to bow to any authority.

With this action, he declared to the world that his power did not come from the church or tradition, but from his own will and the support of the people.

Roy seemed to be using this celebratory gesture to declare a triple meaning to the world:
His imitation of Napoleon's self-coronation gesture symbolizes his determination to take control of his own destiny without waiting for others' approval. Just as he was forced to leave Real Madrid but was reborn at this moment, this action shows that "my value is defined by myself."

Performing this act at the Bernabéu, the holy temple of football, is like announcing the arrival of a new era at the center of power. He has yet to win any major trophies, but he has already proclaimed to the world: this stadium will eventually witness his coronation.

Facing the superstars of Real Madrid, this young man from the youth academy tore apart the so-called "elite hierarchy" in the most provocative way. Just as Napoleon broke the tradition of the divine right of kings, he was also subverting the rigid class structure of the football world.

Just as the final whistle blew, Durok had finished writing the last word.

“Every frame of this action says: the throne is not inherited, but to be seized by one’s own hands.”

He put down his pen and looked up at the stadium.

At that moment, the silence of the Bernabéu was broken.

First, the south grandstand.

There sat the most fervent Real Madrid die-hards, who had protested with white handkerchiefs and drowned out their opponents with boos.

But now, one of them stood up and began to applaud.

Then came the second and third rounds of applause, which spread like ripples from the south stand to the north stand, and from the lower stands to the upper stands.

The applause of 80,000 people thundered and echoed under the dome of the Bernabéu.

This is not an admission of defeat, but a tribute to greatness.

Roy stopped and looked up at the stands.

Under the lamplight, his face still retained the sharp features of a young man, but his eyes were as calm as a king's.

The applause grew louder and louder, washing over every inch of the pitch like a tidal wave.

Raul stood in the center circle, hands on his hips, his chest still heaving violently.

He pursed his lips and nodded slightly, his eyes showing both resentment and a hint of admiration.

This young man really played a great game.

Zidane scratched his nose, his bald head gleaming under the light.

His lips curled up slightly, revealing a complex smile.

As a midfield maestro, he knew better than anyone how incredible the 19-year-old had played tonight.

The Monaco players stood behind him, and no one spoke.

They knew that the applause did not belong to the victory, but to the young man who dared to crown himself in the temple of football.

Roy took a deep breath and suddenly stopped.

He slowly raised his right hand and, under the watchful eyes of 80,000 people, clapped three times unhurriedly.

*Slap.* *Slap.* *Slap.*

Each sound echoed crisply in the Bernabéu night sky.

This is neither gratitude nor provocation, but an agreement.

The first blow was to himself, the youth academy outcast abandoned by Real Madrid.

The second point is about tonight's performance, a solo act worthy of being recorded in history.

The third is about the future, the throne that will eventually belong to him.

The applause still echoed above his head, as if saying—

"We have witnessed your progress; now, go and conquer the world."

(End of this chapter)