When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 82 'Madness' has never been written in only one way.

June 29, 2003, Confederations Cup final.

At the Stade de France, white rose petals from the pre-match moment of silence still lie scattered in the center circle.

Facing 11 Cameroonians wearing Fóttir jerseys and the media hype, the French almost simply wanted to hand the trophy to their opponents in a friendly manner.

After all, in the eyes of the fourth-ranked player, this is a blessed Confederations Cup, a Confederations Cup for Cameroon, and Cameroon has already won the support of audiences all over the world on an emotional level.

If the French were to actually win the Confederations Cup, which is not of much value, they would only give themselves unnecessary ammunition for criticism. Leaving the title to Cameroon would be a much more pleasant surprise.

In the first 30 minutes of the first half, the French team fell into a strange state of restraint.

The French team controlled the ball, but it felt like they were handling a fragile item.

Henry twice pulled back his foot at the edge of the penalty area, allowing Rigbert Song to clear the ball; Pires deliberately kicked his cross high, as if afraid of actually creating a dangerous chance.

The broadcast camera panned across the substitutes' bench, where Eto'o rubbed his wrist under the bandage, his gaze drifting to the portrait of Fu on the big screen.

Cameroon's top scorer scored twice in the Copa del Rey final two days ago, helping Mallorca win their first-ever Copa del Rey title. After returning to the team urgently, he could only sit on the bench.

Roy was very anxious; he really wanted to win the championship, but his teammates were all playing casually.

Whether the referees were informed beforehand or acted out of sympathy, the bias in today's referees was far too severe.

Roy believes the former is more likely.

Before the match, the media collectively pointed the finger at FIFA President Blatter, accusing him of creating an overly dense Confederations Cup schedule that was the culprit behind "the death" of the Confederations Cup. Blatter also rejected two proposals: canceling the Confederations Cup and naming it after the Confederations Cup.

In the 17th minute of the match, Roy was tripped by Atuba but no penalty was awarded.

In the 35th minute, when Dakur passed the ball back again, Roy suddenly kicked the turf hard.

This action drew the attention of Cameroonian midfielder Geremi, and the moment their eyes met, Geremi subconsciously took a half step back.

Two minutes later, Roy charged down the left flank into the penalty area, where Atuba's sweeping leg at the edge of the box clearly brought him down.

The referee had a clear view, but signaled for the game to continue. Roy just silently got up, noticing the huge TIFO banner on the sidelines fluttering in the wind.

Roy decided to do it himself.

In the 39th minute, when Pedretti's pass found Pires and Pires slowly controlled the ball, a few scattered boos rang out for the first time in the stadium.

However, most French people dare not publicly accuse their players of tanking in this match.

While most of the French players were still immersed in the slow pace of a "friendly match," Roy suddenly started running after receiving a pass from Pires!
He feigned a breakthrough to the right with the outside of his right foot, but at the moment when Cameroonian midfielder Mbami shifted his weight, he used the inside of his foot to cut the ball to the left, which was the first truly explosive breakthrough of the game.

He then feigned a pass to the wing with the outside of his right foot, but as Yemba Yemba lunged for the ball, he used the inside of his left foot to flick it towards the center.

Facing the tight defense of Gremi and Mbami, he slipped through the gap between them.

Facing Song's cover, Roy flicked the ball to the right with the outside of his foot, followed by a stepover, and then flicked the ball with the back of his left heel, causing the veteran to fall awkwardly.

This action caused Eto'o in the stands to sit up abruptly.

Before Metomo blocked him, he gave up a more likely opportunity to create a point, because there was a 95% chance he wouldn't get a point.

He raised his leg as if to curl a shot into the far corner, but instead unleashed a powerful low shot with the instep of his foot. The ball pierced the near corner like a scalpel, and goalkeeper Kameni, whose view was completely obscured by the defender, made an emergency save, but it was too late.

When the ball pierced Kameni's armpit, someone on the Cameroonian bench covered their eyes.

Claude Bell's sighing commentary:
"Roy proved in the cruelest way that competitive sports show no mercy to the weak. Look at his breakthrough route; it's precisely the right flank area that Fu was most adept at defending."

After scoring, Roy pressed his hands down to signal that he should not celebrate.

He then pointed to the sky with his right hand again.

When he pointed to the sky for the second time, he deliberately turned towards the Cameroonian fans' stands.

On the Cameroonian bench, Eto'o slowly relaxed his clenched fist, and his eyes briefly met Roy's.

Before halftime, the broadcaster deliberately did not replay the goal, but instead cut to the scene in the stands where Fu's widow and mother were weeping.

This goal ultimately became the only goal in the final.

When the final whistle blew, Roy embraced every Cameroonian player and refused to touch the trophy during the awards ceremony. He went straight to the Cameroonian bench, exchanged jerseys with Eto'o, and the two embraced for a long time in front of a huge picture of Eto'o, while FIFA officials applauded awkwardly behind them.

He won the Golden Boot with an overwhelming lead in goals, but in the subsequent Best Player award selection, it was naturally suggested that the award should be given to the deceased Feuerbach, which FIFA officials readily accepted.

This is not about profiting from tragedy; showmanship and crisis management are also part of the football field.

L'Équipe interpreted it as: "The coldest killer, the gentlest rebel."

The French national team disbanded on June 30.

He had originally planned to go to Mallorca for a week-long vacation.

Roy's choice of the Finca luxury villa in the Tramontana Mountains of Mallorca as his vacation spot was no accident.

The seclusion, luxurious amenities, and natural scenery here make it a popular choice for many star players during the off-season.

Due to the Confederations Cup tragedy, Roy needs to stay away from the media spotlight. His villa is located on a cliff in the Tramontana Mountains, accessible only by private mountain roads or helicopters, making it difficult for paparazzi to follow him.

The two-kilometer private coastline ensures that Roy and his girlfriend can sunbathe and even go nude, completely avoiding being photographed.

Meanwhile, during his vacation, Milaccio needs to engage in intensive negotiations, listening to offers from multiple clubs and sitting down at the negotiating table with Monaco's management to secure a suitable contract extension.

But Roy can't go into vacation mode right now, as he never expected the Confederations Cup to leave him so exhausted.

Therefore, when he attended the Luis Figo Foundation charity gala not long ago, he agreed to participate in the "All-Star Benefit Match" organized by Figo in his hometown.

It will be held on July 2 at the Bessa Stadium in Porto, Portugal.

Looking back now, it was truly terrifying.

In front of a reporter from Portuguese national television, Figo, wearing sunglasses, spoke eloquently with a strong sense of justice, while holding a disabled little girl in his arms.

Of course, Figo wouldn't be foolish enough to pay for it all out of his own pocket. The foundation was established with 120 million euros from the National Bank of Portugal, Coca-Cola, and GALP, but it can leverage Figo's image rights.

One of the participating teams will be named the "Figo Foundation All-Stars" and the other the "UNICEF All-Stars".

The former's head coach is Real Madrid's new coach Queiroz, along with Scolari.

The latter's head coaches are Vicente del Bosque, who was recently dismissed, and Sir Alex Ferguson.

Roy was assigned to the UNICEF All-Star team.

The list of invitees was exceptionally impressive, so impressive that Roy could back out for whatever reason he gave.

It will immediately be reported by the media as diva behavior.

While Wenger still needed to enter the French team's dressing room for a preliminary meeting, Ferguson had already taken over as manager!
Although it's just a single-game trial card.

The list is as follows:

[Goalkeepers] Buffon, Toldo, Ricardo Pereira.

[Defenders] Panucci, Salgado, Gremi, Roberto Carlos, Serginho, Francesco Coco, Chivu, Hierro, George Costa, Campbell, Blanco.

[Midfielders] Zidane, Rui Costa, Figo, Makelele, Davids, Guardiola, Flavio Conceição, Sergio Conceição, Rivaldo, Pires, Milan's new star Kaká, Deco.

[Forwards] Ronaldo, Shevchenko, Van Nistelrooy, Raul, João Pinto, Andy Cole, Pauleta, Kezman, Morientes, Roy.

Before leaving Paris, Roy met with his female manager again.

A secluded café in the Marais district.

The afternoon sun at three o'clock shines through the stained glass windows, casting dappled light and shadow on the teak floor.

Claire Bertrand curled up in the corner of the leather sofa, a Pikachu Pokémon keychain swaying gently on the zipper of her LV travel bag.

Roy pushed open the door, causing a tinkling sound from the wind chimes.

He saw Claire resting her chin on her hand, her eyelashes casting a bluish-gray shadow on her pale cheeks. She was still holding half a piece of unfinished madeleine cake in her fingertips, and there was a blurry lipstick mark on the rim of her coffee cup.

Roy sat down opposite her, and Claire sat up abruptly like a startled cat, quickly wiping away non-existent crumbs from the corner of her mouth and unconsciously smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt with her fingers.

She had just flown back to Paris from Tokyo and hadn't had time to adjust to the time difference.

"Congratulations, our 'God of War'."

Without looking up, Claire's voice was hoarse from staying up all night, "The Asahi Shimbun compared you to Bishamonten, do you know what that means?"

"Does that mean the next time I go to Tokyo, I might be besieged at my hotel by hundreds of fanatical Japanese people demanding a sword duel with them?"

“No, it means you’ve just unlocked the Japanese market.” She pushed a stack of documents over. “Suntory is willing to pay double the endorsement fee, as long as you’re willing to make that gesture again in the advertisement.”

Roy facepalmed. What masochistic tendencies?

"The Asahi Shimbun's analogy is brilliant."

She pulled her laptop out of her bag, the screen reflecting the dark circles under her eyes. "Vaisravana—the war god in Buddhism, just like you."

She made a piercing motion, "the air of a fatal blow."

Roy picked up the lemonade on the table and took a sip.

"So now I'm the Japanese's new toy?"

Claire finally showed her first smile of the day.

“Toys? No. They are ‘feared enemies’.”

She took out a printed mathematical model, but Roy didn't want to see the specific data.

"Love and hate both represent attention, and attention represents commercial value. As hate increases, more people will like you. If you go to a bigger club, your jersey sales in Asia will soar. It's a beautiful mathematical model, right?"

“I think if you go to Japan to organize an event,” she suddenly leaned closer, revealing a tired but sly smile, “someone will rush in and throw Molotov cocktails.”

Roy swished the glass, the ice cubes clinking.

"Japanese people who have the guts to throw Molotov cocktails"

He looked up and said, "They were burned to death long ago by Li Mei's even bigger Molotov cocktail."

Claire froze. Two seconds later, she suddenly burst into a hoarse laugh, which drew a frown and a sidelong glance from the elderly woman sitting next to her.

"Oh my God."

She wiped away the tears of laughter, took out a contract from her bag and pushed it over, "There's another one, about your sports sponsors. This is the most generous offer you've received so far. Mizuno has also agreed to customize 'Bishamonten' themed boots for you."

Roy raised an eyebrow and tapped lightly on the contract with his fingertips.

Claire immediately understood, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Of course I knew you wouldn't consider it." She gracefully retracted the document, "but didn't outright reject it. While you're enjoying the Mallorca sun, Miliacho will be negotiating with the big clubs to negotiate a higher salary for you, while I..."

She suddenly switched to a efficient negotiation mode, pulling three folders from her bag: "Representatives from Nike, Adidas, and Puma are all in line, but their initial offers were too low. Especially Adidas—"

She rolled her eyes. "The Germans think they're the emperors of football, arrogant and stingy, offering prices 30% lower than Nike's."

Roy chuckled, "Thank you for your hard work."

Claire suddenly straightened up and said in broken but clear Chinese, "To devote oneself to the cause until death."

Seeing Roy's surprised expression, she explained proudly, "I've been playing Koei's Romance of the Three Kingdoms lately, and I especially like that clever prime minister. I specifically learned this line."

She frowned as she recalled, "But I don't understand why he didn't usurp the throne? If Charles Matt had been as loyal as him, the Carolingian dynasty would never have existed."

“Honestly,” she suddenly lowered her voice, “I prefer Nike to Adidas. They’re willing to create a separate product line for you, just like they did for Ronaldo back then.”

She paused, then added, "Their contracts include a large performance-related bonus, which is activated if you join Manchester United this season."

Roy prefers Nike's partnership model.

Unless Adidas offers a sponsorship fee that is much higher than that offered to Americans.

Otherwise, Roy's real thought would only be how to get Nike to sign him for a higher sponsorship fee.

Although Adidas remains and will continue to be the traditional dominant force in football, it understands that the value of sports sponsorship goes far beyond the immediate sponsorship amount.

The specialized nature of soccer cleats limits their commercial potential, preventing them from achieving the same breakthroughs in everyday wear scenarios as basketball cleats.

Therefore, choosing a brand that can provide long-term strategic cooperation and maximize personal business value is crucial.

Nike's strengths in brand narrative and marketing innovation enable it to demonstrate greater growth potential in future market competition.

Representing the future direction of "athlete IP development," it can provide a continuous channel for content monetization and even shape football stars into cross-cultural symbols.

Adidas's sponsorship focuses more on short-term competitive performance incentives, adhering to the traditional narrative that "athletes are just a vehicle for products."

(Zidane's lifetime contract only guarantees basic rights)

This is precisely why Nike's global market share in the football world has gradually approached or even surpassed Adidas's in some areas over the next two decades, from a weak position in the 2000s.

By the 2018 World Cup, Nike had 132 players on the list of the 200 most expensive players, while Adidas had fewer than 70.

By the 2022 World Cup, only Argentina among the eight quarter-finalists was sponsored by Adidas, while the other six teams were sponsored by Nike, and Morocco was sponsored by Puma.

This data reflects Nike's strong position in the sponsorship of top national teams, while Adidas' performance in that World Cup mainly relied on Argentina's victory to salvage the situation.

This is a matter of competition, so I won't comment on it.

Establishing a deep partnership with Nike and securing a lifetime contract is the optimal choice to maximize commercial value.

July 1, Alvadaga Palace Hotel, Porto, charity gala dinner.

Crystal chandeliers illuminated the banquet hall, and waiters served champagne among the well-dressed guests.

When Roy walked in, Zidane was leaning against the champagne tower, chatting with several star players. Upon seeing this, he narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Listen,” he whispered to Raul beside him, “our savior is here.”

Upon hearing this, Carlos raised an eyebrow and winked at Raul, who was three meters away.

Seven or eight steps away, Morientes suddenly stiffened.

The phrase he used to say, "Hey kid," stuck in his throat, and he made an excuse to avoid it.

"You played well in the Confederations Cup," Zidane said casually, putting his arm around Roy's shoulder and introducing him to the two Real Madrid stars. "Your performance in the Confederations Cup was reminiscent of..."

"Remember that breakthrough you made against Mallorca?" Raul chimed in, his eyes gleaming with the admiration typical of a professional player. "Back then, I thought only Ronaldo could be that fast, but now..."

He paused meaningfully, then blinked. "Bosque has always regretted letting you go."

Roy calmly took a sip of the champagne offered by the waiter, and said in a composed tone, "Then he doesn't need to regret it now."

His gaze swept over Queiroz, who was talking to someone not far away. "After all, Coach Queiroz doesn't know me."

This answer made Carlos burst into laughter. His signature laugh drew the attention of several nearby guests, and Buffon, who was passing by, almost spilled his champagne.

The legendary Brazilian left-back flashed his signature white teeth: "My God, this kid's got guts!"

Zidane stroked his chin thoughtfully, and suddenly turned to the side while the waiter was changing drinks: "I heard you and Thierry didn't have a good time?"

Roy raised an eyebrow, feigning exaggerated surprise: "You heard this from Paris Match?"

"That's what L'Équipe said."

Zidane leaned back slightly, his eyes, capable of piercing through the defense, fixed on Roy's subtle expressions.

“Thiery and I are doing great,” Roy said calmly, taking a sip of champagne. “He even invited me to his wedding.”

Seeing Zidane still raise an eyebrow in a noncommittal manner, Roy suddenly lowered his voice and added with a hint of sarcasm, "If it weren't for Wiltord's constant provocations, we would be as close as brothers."

Zidane suddenly laughed, a laugh that seemed to say, "You better be."

He then led Roy to the side of the high-spirited new Real Madrid coach, Queiroz.

Roy raised an eyebrow, only then noticing the shrewd-looking man beside him.

When Zidane approached with Roy, Mendes almost instinctively adjusted his expression, his hawk-like eyes instantly transforming from sharp to gentle.

Zidane naturally interjected, "Let me introduce myself."

Mendes had already extended his hand: "Mr. Roy, it's an honor to meet you."

His English had a deliberately softened Portuguese accent, and his handshake was so firm it seemed to have been professionally measured.

Just as Roy was about to extend his hand in greeting, Queiroz suddenly lowered his voice and said, "The lord is at ten o'clock."

He deliberately covered his mouth with his champagne glass, saying, "I bet he's plotting how to kidnap you back to Manchester right now."

"He has exactly four and a half million euros in his pocket right now, no more, no less."

The joke made everyone laugh, but Roy keenly noticed that as Queiroz said this, he was glancing at Ferguson, who was talking to Bosque not far away.

The old lord's whiskey ice cubes had melted more than halfway, but he hadn't touched them once.

His gaze was fixed on Roy like a searchlight, completely ignoring the somewhat reserved 18-year-old curly-haired Portuguese boy sitting nearby.

Cristiano Ronaldo was fiddling with his napkin, occasionally glancing at Mendes, seemingly waiting for an opportunity to be introduced.

“That will probably disappoint him,” Roy replied calmly. “My penalty clause doesn’t include ‘allowing Scottish elders to kidnap people at night.’”

Mendes' eyes flashed with barely concealed envy upon hearing this. He had heard about Manchester United's plan to sign Roy to replace Beckham—which meant immeasurable commercial value.

At this moment, Ferguson's eyes remained fixed on Roy, as if he had already seen the new number 7 at Old Trafford.

Roy casually glanced at Ronaldo, then bowed his head politely to Ferguson.

The spirited "Brother Luo" from his past life is now just a fledgling eagle that hasn't fully grown up.

Haha, I'm Brother Luo.

At that moment, the gaze from the corner almost burned a hole in his suit.

Cristiano Ronaldo's eyes blazed with an indomitable spirit, mixed with the resentment of being slighted.

In that L'Équipe interview, when the reporter pressed Roy for his opinion on "Ronaldo," he deliberately asked in a confused tone, "I've only heard of two Ronaldos, Ronaldo the Elder and Ronaldinho the Younger? What... Cristiano from Sporting Lisbon? Never heard of him."

“Jorge,” his voice held just the right amount of interest, enough for Ronaldo a few meters away to hear clearly, “I’ve heard that Sporting Lisbon has a rising star, dubbed the ‘new Figo’? Won’t you introduce us?”

Cristiano Ronaldo's eyes lit up instantly, and his body unconsciously leaned forward.

But the next second—

Roy spun his glass gently, the rim pointing towards Quaresma, who was talking to Figo in the distance.

Mendes' expression stiffened slightly as he glanced at his cash cow.

Cristiano Ronaldo's expression froze instantly.

His fingers unconsciously dug into his palms, his knuckles turning white from the force.

Those eyes, which were always full of confidence, were now churning with anger at being humiliated and an even stronger desire to win—just like the expression on his face when he was mocked as a "Madeira country bumpkin" by older kids on the streets of Lisbon.

He suddenly got up and walked to the dessert table, making the silver tongs clink.

"Did you say that to him on purpose?"

Zidane looked in the direction of the commotion, a knowing smile playing on his lips, and pulled Roy aside to whisper:

"The only nominees for the Golden Boy award are you and Van der Vaart; the others are just kids playing along with you."

Zidane spoke earnestly.

"But be careful, hunters who provoke lion cubs are often the first to die."

"is it?"

Roy swirled his glass, the clinking of ice cubes like the clashing of swords. "I'm looking forward to seeing him transform into the Lion King."

With a professional smile, Mendes gently put his arm around Roy's shoulder and led him toward Quaresma, who was talking with several Portuguese internationals.

“Ricardo,” Mendes’ voice was gentle but not intimidating, “this is Roy, I think you two should have a lot in common.”

Quaresma turned around, his eyes filled with arrogance.

He looked Roy up and down, a half-smile playing on his lips—the kind of expression unique to talented players, a mixture of admiration and rivalry.

“That low shot in the Confederations Cup,” Quaresma said in Lisbon-accented English, “was interesting.”

Roy calmly clinked glasses with him: "Not as good as your outside of the foot."

The two looked at each other and smiled.

Not far away, Figo was talking quietly with Zidane, but he kept an eye on them out of the corner of his eye.

When Roy's eyes met his, the Portuguese legend raised his glass slightly in greeting. They had already met through Zidane's introduction, and Roy had even donated money to support him. There was less formality and more tacit understanding between them.

Mendes watched this scene with satisfaction, a shrewd calculation flashing in his eyes.

He knew he was weaving a completely new network of relationships.

And Roy is gradually becoming one of the nodes in this network.

At that moment, a man in a well-tailored suit strode over, his steps carrying an undeniable sharpness – José Mourinho.

In 2003, he had not yet been crowned "Madman," but the sharpness between his brows was already evident.

His black hair was meticulously combed back, his chin slightly raised, and his eyes locked onto their prey with the precision of a hawk. Deco stood quietly beside him, but the composed aura of Porto's core player could not overshadow the even stronger presence of the manager.

Roy's pupils contracted slightly.

He recognized the tactical mastermind who was about to shake up Europe.

Mourinho's gaze lingered on him for a moment, a barely perceptible smile curving his lips.

“Roy,” Mendes introduced at the opportune moment, “this is José Mourinho, the head coach of Porto.”

"I've admired you for a long time."

Roy extended his hand, his smile perfectly timed, "The tactics of the Porto legion are admirable."

Mourinho's handshake was crisp and firm, with distinct knuckles, carrying an undeniable force.

His gaze swept over Roy, as if he had already dissected him into a chess piece on a tactical board—speed, explosiveness, and the ability to calmly finish.

A perfect, swift counter-attack arrow.

“Your sense of positioning,” Mourinho said, his voice deep and confident, “reminds me of a certain Portuguese striker in his youth.”

He glanced meaningfully at Figo, then changed the subject, "However, your off-the-ball movement is even more deadly."

"You're more like the Black Panther at Wembley Stadium in 1966."

This metaphor made Deco look up sharply; in the pantheon of Portuguese football, the name Eusebio carries special weight.

Mendes chuckled and interjected, "José rarely compliments people like that."

Roy raised an eyebrow, deliberately glancing at Mourinho: "Should I feel honored, or wary?"

A hint of admiration flashed in Mourinho's eyes. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice so only they could hear: "Warning? No. But if you're in the Champions League next season..."

He paused, a meaningful smile playing on his lips, "Our defenders will be honored to give you special 'attention'."

The lights in the banquet hall came back on, illuminating Mourinho's sharply defined profile, a profile etched with ambition and calculation.

Roy knew that the young manager's ambitions extended far beyond the Portuguese league.

At this moment, Mourinho's admiration was no longer concealed. In his tactical blueprint, a player like Roy was the perfect weapon to break down the defense.

Mourinho's tactical system has always been known for its efficient counter-attacks and tight defense, and Roy's technical characteristics are almost a perfect piece of the puzzle tailored for this system.

In Mourinho's signature "defense-transition-decisive strike" tactic, Roy's explosiveness was nothing short of perfect. His 0-30 meter sprint speed was even faster than that of peak Cristiano Ronaldo, perfectly meeting Mourinho's demanding requirement that "a three-pass must lead to a shot" in his counter-attacks.

Mourinho requires his strikers to be proficient in the offside trap.

This ability, within his designed "defensive depth - sudden forward run" system, can maximize the tearing apart of the opponent's defense.

Just like Milito's classic goal for Inter Milan in the 2009/10 season, Roy can completely replicate this textbook tactical execution.

Roy's success rate in dribbling past tall center-backs is far higher than that of Porto's attacker, Derley.

This perfect tactical fit is perhaps the real reason why Mourinho couldn't hide his admiration at this moment.

Perhaps in the quantum entanglement of football tactics, they are destined to join forces in some parallel universe to create an even more amazing tactical masterpiece.

pity.

Roy's eyes flickered slightly as he considered the possibilities of the future.

If they do meet at the top as they wish, his Monaco team may face this Porto team, led by "The Special One," in the Champions League.

Mourinho's admiration, Mendes's scheming, and Ferguson's covetous gaze—these eyes were intertwined around him, like an invisible net.

But Roy's thoughts had already pierced through the clinking of glasses and soared to the distant battlefield.

"You're a 'madman'?" he sneered inwardly. "And who isn't?"

If fate truly pushes them to opposite sides.

So what if his Monaco is playing against Mourinho's Porto?
He will use even more frantic running to tear apart the opponent's carefully laid offside trap, and use even more deadly composure to dismantle that impenetrable defense.

Mourinho's tactics board may have already marked his threat, but Roy will render those analyses worthless.

"Mr. Jose, you said your defender would feel honored?"

His voice carried just the right amount of elegance, "Then I think it is indeed an honor to have your goal breached by the victor."

A hint of surprise flashed in Mourinho's eyes, followed by a playful smile: "The winner? That title requires real skill to prove."

“Of course,” Roy nodded slightly, his gaze growing sharper, “just as your tactics need to be tested by a real opponent.”

This corner of the banquet hall suddenly became eerily quiet.

Deco's wine glass froze in mid-air, Mendes' pupils contracted slightly, and even Ferguson, who was talking in the distance, turned his head as if he had noticed something.

Mourinho's eyes narrowed dangerously, but a smile that could only be described as delight slowly spread across his lips.

He suddenly burst into laughter, reached out and patted Roy on the shoulder: "What a 'winner'! I admire that confidence."

Mourinho reached out and straightened Roy's tie—a gesture that resembled both the concern of an elder and the provocation of an opponent.

"I look forward to seeing your performance, young man."

His voice was deep and rumbling like thunder, “Hopefully, your footwork will match your confidence by then.”

Roy returned the same sharp smile: "Just as I look forward to experiencing your tactical wisdom, Coach."

"Just as great tactics need championships to prove themselves."

Roy responded calmly, raising his glass for a light clink, "To our possible future encounters."

A sharp glint flashed in Mourinho's eyes. He slowly raised his glass and clinked it against Roy's in the air, producing a crisp sound.

“A salute to the encounter,” his voice was deep and magnetic, “and a salute to those records that were destined to be broken.”

A meaningful smile curled at the corners of his mouth, and a spark of challenge gleamed in his eyes.

This answer was both graceful and subtly sharp—acknowledging Roy's potential while hinting at his own championship ambitions.

Deco chuckled and shook his head, while Mendes stroked his chin thoughtfully.

Champagne bubbles rose slowly from the crystal-clear glass as Mendes stood in a corner of the banquet hall, his gaze sweeping across the entire venue like radar.

This was a gathering that would shake the entire European football world.

32-year-old Toldo was talking quietly with 25-year-old Buffon. Although the two Italian goalkeepers were seven years apart, their sharp eyes both shone with a desire for glory.

Carlos and Salgado, arm in arm, laughing heartily, form a formidable flank for Real Madrid that is unstoppable in La Liga.

Zidane and Figo stood side by side, one as elegant as a chess player, the other as sharp as a swordsman. At their peak, they represented the highest level of this era.

Further away, Ronaldo was gesturing to Shevchenko, his signature rabbit teeth gleaming under the lights, while the Ukrainian nuclear warhead listened intently, his eyes gleaming with ambition for the future.

Van Nistelrooy quietly sipped his red wine, the newly crowned Premier League Golden Boot winner occasionally glancing at Raul—the two top strikers' eyes seemed to spark with an invisible flame.

At just 21 years old, Kaká stood beside Rivaldo, his youthful face unable to conceal the brilliance of his talent, while Deco stood like a shadow within three steps of Mourinho, the Porto midfield maestro's silence concealing his sharp edge.

The big names on the coaching bench were equally breathtaking – Ferguson's face was partially visible behind a whiskey glass, having just led Manchester United to their fourth Premier League title.

Scolari's booming voice echoed in the small Portuguese-speaking community. The World Cup-winning coach had just taken over the reins of Portugal and was preparing to make his mark on European football.

Bosque's gentle smile belies the prestige of two Champions League titles. Although he has just left Real Madrid, no one doubts that he is about to make a comeback.

Mendes gently swirled his wine glass, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips.

At that moment, the clinking of glasses between Mourinho and Roy was barely noticeable in the noisy banquet hall.

"The 'madness' on the football field has never been described in just one way."

Figo, accompanied by his wife Helen, slowly entered the stadium, holding the hand of a disabled child, as flashes from ten Portuguese media outlets filled the air.

Roy sat in the audience.

To his left, 21-year-old Kaká sat upright, the collar of his white shirt stiffened, his fingers tapping unconsciously to a rhythm on his knees. This Brazilian, who would later be known as the "Son of God," was as reserved as a seminary student defending his thesis.

On his right, Ferguson sat next to him, the old sage appearing relaxed.

His left arm was casually draped over the back of the velvet chair, while his right index finger rhythmically tapped the side of the cup.

Roy was just about to turn to Kaka and start a conversation.

“Child,” Ferguson suddenly leaned in, “do you have time to talk?”

Turning his head, Roy met Ferguson's gaze, which seemed to pierce through his soul, through the lenses of his glasses.

He maintained a polite smile, but subtly tilted his body fifteen degrees toward Kaká—an angle perfectly positioned for photographers in the distance to capture his friendly conversation with the Brazilian star.

But Kaka couldn't understand the French he was speaking, while Ferguson could.

“Sir,” he said softly, “your words are more unexpected than Van Nistelrooy turning around in the penalty area.”

Ferguson never dreamed that so much would happen in just over a month.

He forced Beckham out, but didn't get a good price in return.

Queiroz inexplicably went to Real Madrid to become their head coach.

Veron, whose performance is gradually improving, is still being tempted by Italy.

As for signings, they only brought in American goalkeeper Howard, whose price tag is £150 million, which could rise to £350 million if he performs well.

The transfer of Cameroonian midfielder Dejba is also nearing completion, with a transfer fee of 350 million euros.

French youngster Belion, who plays for Sunderland, will be released on a free transfer as his contract expires, but Manchester United will have to pay around £150 million in compensation.

On Ferguson's desk, Roy's scouting report was repeatedly flipped until the edges were curled.

This document records a rare phenomenon in football:

At 18, he played only half a season in Ligue 1, yet he was the top scorer and player of the season.

The transfer market valuation curve has shown an almost vertical rise, soaring from €30 at the beginning of the quarter to €2800 million, and this is after the German transfer market suppressed the figure due to caution.

A valuation of 2800 million. The Germans are ridiculously cautious.

The analyst's notes, marked in red, state: "If he maintains his current goal-scoring efficiency, his conservative estimate for next season will exceed 4000 million."

Key data was repeatedly highlighted with a highlighter:

Based on current goal-scoring efficiency, a conservative estimate for the Premier League conversion rate is 20-22 goals (based on shot quality analysis).

20+ Premier League goals = at least 15 points, enough to turn the runner-up in the 2001/02 season into the champion.

The penalty clause is 450 million euros.

This number may seem insignificant on the budget sheet, but it could be the fulcrum that drives the entire season.

An 18-year shelf life is sufficient to cover three contract cycles.

Who would set such a high penalty for breach of contract for such a genius?

He had a folded tactical diagram lying in his pocket. When unfolded, it showed a 4-4-2 formation with a prominent asterisk drawn diagonally behind Van Nistelrooy, next to which was a note: "No need for a second arc - what I need is lightning that can tear through the defense."

"Eight thousand euros a week, his value rose from three hundred thousand to twenty-eight million in half a season. And the release clause is only four and a half million."

The old sir leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrests, producing a dull sound.

“Do you know what this means?” he said slowly, his voice deep and magnetic. “All the big families in Europe are watching you like hungry wolves eyeing a piece of tender meat.”

"Four and a half million, and you can buy a striker who scores thirty goals in a single season." Ferguson chuckled. "It's like a gift from Santa Claus delivered early."

“But I have to tell you something, kid.” His tone suddenly turned serious. “At Manchester United, we never treat players as ‘good deals.’”

"This reminds me of the time in 1992 when we signed Cantona from Leeds United for £120 million. I still remember the regretful look on the Leeds United chairman's face. All great plundering begins with a stupid number. When I found out the number, I thought Campora had gone mad."

"When we signed Eric, people said we got a bargain. But what made this deal great was not the low transfer fee, but the championships he brought."

The old lord raised his glass, the amber liquid shimmering under the light.

“So now, let’s talk about something more important.” His eyes hardened. “Have you considered playing in Manchester as one of your options?”

He ultimately did not say those words:
"David's number 7 jersey used to hang on the center hook in the Carrington dressing room."

"Now that hook is empty, what I'm looking for isn't a replacement, but a disruptor."

Manchester United has its own dignity.

Of course, once Mount wears number 7, he can say whatever he wants.

Basically, I'll update around this time, giving me a whole day to polish it. This storyline will then accelerate the end of the off-season storyline, and then begin the Champions League season.

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(End of this chapter)