When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 63 Mbappe's Peak Talent (6000 words)
【Ding--】

The long-silent mechanical voice exploded in my mind, the cold electronic tone creating an eerie contrast with the surrounding cheers.

[Achievement Unlocked: Ligue 1 Champion]

[Initial talent upgrade complete]

[New module loading.]

Roy's pupils suddenly went out of focus for a few seconds, as if the noisy sounds of the celebration had been muted. A stream of azure data, visible only to him, flashed across his retina.

He has already felt the transformation surging within his body. This season's Ligue 1 title not only brought him his first professional trophy, but also activated the top striker talent that had been dormant within him.

The virtual panel reappears:
Host: Roy

Birthday: October 6, 1984.

Height/Weight: 182cm/75kg
Dominant foot: Right foot
Registered position: Left winger
【进攻意识：81（91）；球感：84（86）；盘带：85（89）；护球：83】

【地面传球：76（79）；空中传球：73（75）；射门：83（90）；头球：65】

【定位球：56（79）；弧线球：67（76）；速度：94（97）；爆发：93（96）】

【脚下力量：79；跳跃：78（80）；对抗：69（72）；平衡：88】

[Sports: 78; Defensive Awareness: 62; Steals: 52;]

Overall rating: 84 (90)

Finally, after winning his first championship, Roy's talent experienced a comprehensive upgrade.

Mbappe has unlocked the full potential of his talent at his peak age.

Although this is not a direct improvement in ability and must be realized through training, it is still possible to achieve the potential of a top striker in his twenties at the age of eighteen.

This was a bug-level leap forward.

Overall, Roy's improved ratings demonstrate a qualitative leap from an "excellent striker" to a "world-class attacker".

His off-the-ball movement has undergone another transformation, and he can now be said to possess the instincts of a top-tier killer.

His off-the-ball movement will become more unpredictable, allowing him to find the weakest link in the opponent's defense on the offside line.

His finishing ability has also entered the top tier, especially after improving his ability to curve the ball, which greatly increases the threat of long-range shots.

Roy will become even more lethal inside the penalty area. With his improved shooting accuracy, his success rate within 18 yards will jump significantly, especially his technique of curling shots with the inside of his right foot towards the far corner.

His already astonishing speed and explosiveness are further enhanced, and when combined with Balance 88, his starting explosiveness is already astonishing—it only takes 2.7 seconds to go from a standstill to full speed. This terrifying acceleration ability can leave most defensive players three body lengths behind when they turn around.

When breaking through on the wing, he can complete continuous changes of direction at a speed of 37 kilometers per hour, and he hardly loses speed when changing direction at high speed.

The ball control and ball protection under pressure have also improved slightly, while the short and long passing abilities have not increased much but are still sufficient.

Although physical confrontation is not his forte, by using his height of 182cm and his strength rating of 72, he can buy valuable time for his teammates to make runs by shielding the ball with his body for 2 to 3 seconds when receiving the ball with his back to the goal.

What surprised Roy the most this time was his subtle evolution: his set pieces have been upgraded from "not taking them" to "a threatening option," and direct free kicks are expected to become a new weapon in his arsenal.

In the 4-4-2 formation, his most suitable tactical roles are currently as an attacking center forward and a false 9 who plays on the flanks.

When Roy plays as an explosive, forward-leaning center, his 97 maximum speed and 96 explosiveness will be a nightmare for all guards.

His acceleration is among the best in professional players, reaching 0 to 37 km/h in 2.7 steps. This means that in a counter-attack, he can sprint from the offside line to the penalty area in just 1.8 seconds while the opposing center-back turns.

With an attacking awareness rating of 91 and a shooting accuracy of 90, he can focus on converting through balls into goals without getting involved in too much playmaking. However, his physical strength rating of 72 means he needs to avoid prolonged physical battles with top center-backs and should instead utilize sudden changes of direction to create shooting space.

In the role of a false 9 who plays on the wing, Roy's 89 dribbling and 87 ball protection abilities can be fully utilized.

He can break through one or two defenders in the half-space with a series of changes of direction, creating attacking space for his teammates. His 79 ground passing ability ensures he can complete basic one-two passes, while his 76 curling ability allows him to cut inside and choose to either curl a shot into the far corner or cross the ball.

This style of play is well-suited against teams with a tight defense, as Roy's off-the-ball movement allows him to pinpoint gaps in the defensive line. However, his coverage is still limited by his stamina, and he needs to avoid dropping back too much to conserve energy.

When Du Chen waved her slender fingers in front of his eyes for the third time, Roy suddenly snapped back to reality.

"What happened?"

Roy smiled: "I've become even fiercer."

"what?"

Looking at Du Chen's suddenly flushed cheeks and flickering eyes, Roy instantly understood her misunderstanding.

He grinned mischievously, stroking her burning skin with his fingertips: "I was referring to her performance on the field. However..."

Du Chen's earlobes instantly turned bright red, as she recalled those nights when she was tormented to the point of begging for mercy.

After winning the championship, 300 die-hard fans were allowed to enter the stadium with special tickets.

When 75-year-old fan Monardi walked onto the pitch with his cane, he was already in tears.

Roy folded the jersey into a square shape and solemnly placed it into the old man's trembling hands.

“Child,” the old man murmured, taking a Monaco team crest badge from the 1950s from his pocket and placing it in Roy’s hand—the bronze badge gleamed with a patina under the light.

Suddenly a dark figure rushed towards us like a truck!
The heavily tattooed muscular man, Gustav, tightly gripped Roy with his arm covered in tattoos of various team symbols, the "25=GOD" tattoo on his arm contorting as his muscles bulged.

I'll be there for every away game!

The leader of the South Stand, nicknamed "The Devil's Follower," roared, spitting as he splattered Roy's face, "When those bastards from Marseille poured beer over my head, I used your goal as a shield!"

When Gustave shouted out the Ligue 1 tradition of "newcomers offering their shoes" in his hoarse voice, Roy laughed and simply sat on the grass, slowly untying his shoelaces in front of dozens of camera lights.

Gustav suddenly knelt down, accepting the shoes with both hands like a medieval knight receiving a sacred object. But as he stood up, he abruptly pulled open his T-shirt, revealing the little remaining blank space on his neck, and said, "Give me your autograph here. I want to get a tattoo of your 8-second goal timer below it, and the Roman numerals '00:00:08' below that."

Gustav knelt on one knee, his thick neck bowed, like a submissive beast. He pointed to the small patch of bare skin below his Adam's apple—surrounded by tattoos bearing team symbols, like the last sanctuary of a fanatic.

“Sign here,” his voice suddenly deepened, taking on a ritualistic quality, “I want everyone to see that even breathing passes through your name.”

Roy took the marker and held the tip above Gustav's throbbing carotid artery.

He could feel that this beast-like man was trembling slightly.

After a long championship press conference, the whole team went to the Grand Paris Hotel for a championship party.

The Mercedes-Benz van convoy carrying the Monaco players slowly drove out of the Stade Louis II, with all the sunroofs open. Giuly stood in the back seat of the lead van, holding the trophy, which reflected the last golden light of the setting sun.

Roy and Max clung to the car window, splashing champagne at screaming fans along the way, the liquid drawing iridescent arcs in the air.

The sound of the convoy's engines was completely drowned out by the cheers—the entire coastal highway had turned into a red and white river.

Max sat back in his seat, one arm around his girlfriend's waist, the other hand reaching back to unconsciously stroking the engravings on the medal: "If we had won the Champions League, I can't imagine how crazy this city would have been."

Before he could finish speaking, Roy suddenly turned around.

The setting sun cast long shadows inside the car as it shone from behind him.

He wore that signature, almost provocative smile, and casually put his arm around Du Chen's shoulder: "Then let's take one and see!"

Du Chen mimicked the mannerisms of other girlfriends, pressing her red lips to the rim of her champagne glass and smiling demurely, the shadow cast by her eyelashes on her cheeks trembling slightly.

She didn't speak, but simply touched Roy's championship medal with her fingertip—it was still covered in grass clippings. She suddenly realized—just a few months ago, she was in the classroom, unable to concentrate on the teacher's lecture on functions, dreaming of becoming a supermodel, while now she was sitting in a luxury car filled with the smell of champagne, next to the rising football star that the whole city was going crazy for.

Outside the car, a fan who had climbed a lamppost was shouting Roy's name with all his might. His voice pierced through the car window with an almost religious fervor as he frantically shook a homemade Champions League trophy model in his hand. The tin foil glittered in the setting sun, like a cheap fantasy.

Du Chen's ears felt slightly hot, and she subconsciously moved closer to Luo Yi. Her knees under her skirt unconsciously came together, a subtle movement that betrayed her nervousness.

But when she looked up and saw Roy's relaxed smile and the astonished expressions of Max and the others, a certain instinct suddenly awakened.

"For the Champions League," her voice was more composed than expected, but her fingers subtly tightened their grip on the hem of her skirt, "we should at least prepare double the amount of champagne, right?"

After saying that, he even imitated Roy by flicking the medal with his hand.

This childishly provocative gesture, combined with her still-chubby cheeks, caused the car to erupt in laughter.

When Giuly raised his glass, he deliberately let the ice cubes hit the side of the glass, the crisp sound like some kind of probing signal.

“Double champagne?” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting between Roy and Max.

Giuly has received offers from several top clubs, but his contract is still long and he doesn't want to leave this year. He wants to stay and participate in European competitions, but he is unsure whether Roy will stay.

Giuly raised his glass and said meaningfully, "To our prophet lady!"

His voice carried a deliberate ease, but his eyes were firmly fixed on Roy's reaction, conveying the most crucial question with the most ordinary toast. Just like his seemingly casual passes on the field, they were often precisely calculated killer moves.

Roy raised his glass, smiling, and said, "For double the champagne!"

“Hey, Raphael.”

Roy suddenly turned to Max, his voice carrying a long-lost intimacy, "Would you like to sit in the same place with me next year and drink double the champagne?"

These words were like a key, instantly unlocking the lock in Juli's heart. He saw the familiar determination shining in Roy's eyes.

Max subconsciously touched his phone in his pocket; the text message his agent sent after the game felt like a red-hot branding iron.

Barcelona's invitation took his breath away—the Camp Nou pitch, the cheers of 90,000 people, the Champions League theme song exploding in his ears.

Max's girlfriend, oblivious to what was going on, laughed as she ran her bright red nail polish fingers over the raised letters "CHAMPION" on the medal.

Max suddenly grabbed her wrist with such force that she gasped softly, only then realizing that her palms were covered in cold sweat.

“Don’t tell me,” Roy’s voice suddenly lowered, “that you’re transferring to a city with beaches even better than Monaco—”

"For example, Barcelona." He deliberately elongated the last word.

"You still have more than a year left on your contract, no rush, they."

Roy paused deliberately, his gaze sweeping over Max's slightly white knuckles: "Whether he can even play in the UEFA Cup is a question."

No? This brat is like a prophet.

Roy's contract extension is contingent on maintaining the team's competitiveness, but there are only three players who are truly indispensable – Giuly, Rothen, and Max. Their tactical value in Deschamps' entire squad is irreplaceable, so Roy needs to test his attitude.

In the original timeline, the Mexican player transferred to Barcelona during the summer transfer window this season. Roy wanted to test whether his attitude would change after winning the league title, because Marquez's salary in the team was not low, and given Monaco's tax rate, his take-home pay wouldn't increase much after moving to Spain.

Don't let the hell happen that you all transfer away one by one while I stay in Monaco and become the dean.

When the time comes, the fans will say, "Roy did his best again!"
However, this is an inevitable rule.

Every championship team that rises from a non-mainstream league often faces the fate of being dismantled by European powerhouses.

This "champion's curse" acts like an invisible shackle, trapping weaker league teams in a perpetual predicament—their meticulously crafted championship lineups are always quickly dismantled by the financial offensives of European giants after they reach the top.

This structural imbalance means that the top teams in these leagues are always in a cycle of rebuilding and rising again, making it difficult to maintain a stable squad that can consistently compete in European competitions.

Like Sisyphus in Greek mythology, they pushed the boulder up the mountain year after year, only to watch it roll down to the bottom of the valley.

These clubs will certainly remember Bosman's major shortcomings and moral failings.

Max unconsciously rubbed the engravings on the championship medal with his left hand, his fingertips clearly feeling the raised and recessed "AS MONACO".

Juli suddenly bumped his shoulder, and Max jerked reflexively, his smile appearing a beat slower than usual.

"What are you thinking about?"

Roy handed over a new champagne glass, the condensation on the cool glass dampening Max's palm.

He opened his mouth, but in the end he just shook his head and drank the wine in his glass in one gulp.

As a Latino player, it was really hard for him to refuse Barcelona.

the same day.

As dusk settled over the Stadio delle Alpi, the Juventus flags fluttered in the evening breeze.

The news that Juventus drew 2-2 with Perugia, while Inter Milan were held to a draw by Parma, sent the stadium into a frenzy.

With an 8-point lead, Juventus secured their Serie A title two rounds early, marking their 27th Serie A championship. This also brought Lippi his fifth league title as a coach, including two consecutive championships.

Piero stood in the center of the field, his 16 league goals and crucial performances after recovering from injury making him the soul of this championship team. Facing the reporters' praise, he remained calm, but his gaze was as firm as iron.

"This championship is dedicated to Mr. Ranieri."

He said in a low but clear voice, "Last year we were still anxious until the very last moment, but this year, we left our pursuers in despair."

Then, his eyes sharpened slightly, and he turned his attention to their upcoming Champions League semi-final second-leg opponent – ​​Real Madrid.

"What I want to tell Real Madrid is not to think that we will relax because of winning the title, nor to think that we will be tired."

A cool smile played on Del Piero's lips: "On the contrary, this Serie A title will inject new energy into us. Every match is a new battle, and our goal is the Champions League."

The next championship will be the Champions League Cup.

Nedved was the last player to leave the field.

His knees were still a little sore, and he walked with a slight limp, but his eyes remained sharp as knives. His daughter, Ivana, rushed onto the field and hugged her father tightly, but was then frightened by the frenzied atmosphere of the stadium and burst into tears.

Nedved gently comforted her, wiping away her tears, and then, facing the reporters' microphones, his voice was calm and firm.

"I came to Turin for the championship."

He said, "Two titles in two years, it feels amazing. But my desires go beyond that – I want the Champions League."

When asked about his knee injury, he waved his hand and said, "I'll definitely be able to play in Wednesday's game. As for surgery? We'll talk about it after the season ends."

The second leg of the Champions League semi-final between Juventus and Real Madrid is also considered the final battle for the Ballon d'Or.

Nedved, Henry, Raul, Zidane – who will emerge victorious in this match?

However, Nedved didn't care. "The Ballon d'Or? I don't care." He shook his head, his tone indifferent. "For me, the happiest thing is playing alongside my teammates and making the coach and fans proud. That's enough."

The reporter suddenly changed the subject, mentioning Monaco, who won the championship on the same day, and the 18-year-old prodigy who scored 18 goals in 12 games – Roy.

"Roy? Scored in the 8th second?"

Nedved raised an eyebrow, whistled, and a surprised smile appeared on his face.

"That's certainly surprising."

He laughed, then added meaningfully, "Trezeguet was rotated today, and he was there in Monaco. He should be more surprised than I am."

"Trezeguet probably thought we would win the title in the next round, and Inter Milan probably thought so too."

"But thankfully he won't miss the championship parade."

When reporters pressed Nedved for his opinion on Juventus' interest in signing Roy, the Czech ironman wiped away his daughter's tears and suddenly revealed a rare sly smile: "You should ask Trezeguet; he just smelled the boy's victorious champagne in Monaco."

"However, if he can bring that speed to Turin, I'd be happy to teach him a few moves during training."

Before he could finish speaking, Nedved suddenly became serious: "But you have to pass my defensive test first—this place isn't as gentle as Ligue 1."

A glint of the fierce determination he displayed during his Serie A campaign flashed in his eyes, then quickly transformed into a smile: "Of course, if he really comes, I'll take him to taste authentic Turin beef first thing, after all..."

Nedved picked up his daughter and turned to leave, his last words drifting out amidst the whistle as the game ended: "A hungry cheetah can't outrun a goal in 8 seconds."

This metaphorical answer retains the dignity of a senior while subtly expressing expectations for a genius.

A typical "Nedved-style" response.

Colombiro Stadium, Spain.

Florentino pressed his knuckles to his temples, his gaze sweeping coldly across the field.

Casillas' save was a beat slower than usual, still haunted by the five goals conceded to Mallorca last week.

His gaze swept ahead—the makeshift center-back pairing of Hierro and Pavón was awkwardly adjusting their spacing.

Hierro's turn was like dragging a sandbag; the 34-year-old veteran's every chase was accompanied by heavy breathing.

When Recreativo de Huelva striker Molina easily dribbled past him, he didn't even have time to extend his leg and could only watch as the opponent kicked the ball.

Pavon's defensive positioning was full of holes, and he kept looking back as if a ghost was chasing him.

Roberto Carlos's crosses frequently went out of bounds. The Brazilian had unusually lost his usual sharpness, like a trapped beast, running back and forth alone near the sideline. His thigh muscles bulged with an astonishing arc under his shorts. In one instance, he even dribbled the ball out of bounds on the wing.

Salgado's running distance was significantly reduced, and the right flank became Huelva's attacking corridor, leaving Salgado struggling to cope and even abandoning basic overlapping runs for assists.

The midfield quartet presented an eerie sense of disjointedness.

Makelele's interceptions remained fierce, but his passing error rate increased sharply, with two through balls going directly to the opponent's feet.

McManaman's blond hair was soaked with sweat; the Englishmen were running sluggishly today, and in the 28th minute, they were even easily outmaneuvered by Perlina, leading to a dangerous shot.

Guti's passing accuracy has dropped, and in the 20th minute, his through ball to Morientes went directly out of bounds.

Minambres was like a headless fly, receiving the ball and immediately passing it back, posing no threat whatsoever.

Up front, Morientes' every sprint was draining his dwindling confidence. When a Huelva defender tactically mocked him with "Celta is waiting for you," he reflexively looked towards the sidelines—the bench was empty, without Raul's signature encouraging gesture.

His shots were weak and ineffective; in the 10th minute, his one-on-one opportunity didn't even put the goalkeeper to the test.

Tote's presence was minimal, like a puppet hovering around the offside line. When he was substituted in the 70th minute, even Flavio didn't bother to give him a high-five.

Portillo came on as a substitute, but his follow-up shot in the 78th minute was easily saved by the goalkeeper. The young man couldn't even make a basic shot adjustment.

Florentino's lips tightened, and his knuckles tapped on the armrest of his seat.

With last week's humiliating 1-5 defeat to Mallorca still fresh in everyone's mind, Pandiani and the "famous anti-real estate fanatic" Eto'o once again wreaked havoc at the Bernabéu.

Today, this tired, disorganized, and unmotivated Real Madrid team couldn't even beat a relegation-threatened team.

His gaze swept across the bench—Zidane, Figo, and Raul were all absent.

"Sir, your coffee."

The waiter was interrupted by a wave of his hand before he could finish speaking.

Florentino's gaze pierced the pitch, as if he could see the torrential rain at the Stadio delle Alpi in Turin next week—where Lippi's Juventus was eyeing them covetously.

In the reflection of the glass, a cold smile appeared on his lips.

After last week's crushing defeat, he personally locked the five draft termination agreements in a safe.

Now, when Portillo squandered a golden opportunity upon entering the game, the name of the young prodigy was once again etched into the president's mind.

In the distance, Casillas's diving save was strangely superimposed in his eyes into the image of another black-haired boy—he had already received news that the young striker who had scored 18 goals in 12 Ligue 1 matches for Monaco was currently celebrating his victory on another coast of the Mediterranean.

That lightning-fast goal, scored in just eight seconds, seemed to mock Real Madrid's lack of attacking prowess.

(End of this chapter)