When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 84 From this day forward, forever

That same evening, after Roy participated in Figo's charity match.

2003 7 Month 2 Day.

Roy stood in front of the hotel's floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of the cruise ships on the Durro River reflected in the icy water in his hand.

Ferguson's words from a day ago still echoed in my ears:

"Money is trophies."

Sir Alex Ferguson's tone was confident: "Arsenal's new stadium loan is due in 2030, while the naming rights fee for our training ground has already covered three generations of youth training investment."

His cold smile was reflected in the glass window.

The truth about the Premier League has never been on the pitch, but in Deloitte's financial reports.

This thought was interrupted by the sudden warmth of a body pressed against his back.

The scent of Chanel No. 5 mingled with the post-bath steam on Douchen-Klos, and his rose-gold nails slid down his abs—

hum.

The blue light from the phone shone brightly on the bedside table.

The agent's number, Miriam Jo.

"I'm in London, and I was supposed to meet with Wenger." The voice on the other end of the line sounded like a tightly wound spring.

Roy let Du Chen's teeth gnaw at his shoulder blade, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window with one hand and holding his phone in the other.

"Miko, why is your voice trembling?"

On the other end of the phone, the agent swallowed hard, as if there was a piece of undigested gold stuck in his throat.

"In one half hour today!" His voice seemed to be gripped by some invisible force, "a Russian bought Chelsea."

“Through Zahavi’s mediation.”

Du Chen's fingertips gently pinched Luo Yi's lower back, the touch of her nails like a silent "warning".

Roy knows Pini Zahavi, the Israeli who just brought Ferdinand to Manchester United last year, setting a world record for the £2910 million transfer fee for a defender.

"Now Zahavi tells me."

Miliacho's voice suddenly became ethereal, as if it came from another dimension, "His boss wants the best striker."

Soft lips pressed against Roy's earlobe, his tongue tracing its contours almost imperceptibly, his breath hot.

"The salary is negotiable; there's no fixed price," the agent continued. "No one but Russians has offered such a high price."

Roy's knuckles tightened on the glass window.

Outside the window, the lights of Porto's old town flickered on the Douro River, while on the other end of the phone, a brand new era was being written in London—an era in which the "upper limit" could be redefined with the ruble.

Du Chen's hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, her fingertips applying a provocative pressure.

“So,” Roy chuckled, “how much is Zahavi’s boss prepared to spend on a Golden Boot?”

Chelsea manager Claudio Ranieri is driving his Alfa Romeo on the French A6 motorway.

This is the time of day he dislikes the most throughout the summer.

The 52-year-old Italian coach rolled down the car window, letting the scent of lavender from Provence ease the fatigue of the journey.

Since taking over from his compatriot Vialli in 2000.

Every year at this time, he completes this arduous 18-hour journey from Rome to London—crossing the Apennine Peninsula, traversing the Alps, and finally queuing for the ferry in Calais.

The radio was broadcasting news of Beckham's official debut at Real Madrid, and Ranieri subconsciously touched the tactical notes on the passenger seat.

There are records of his grueling preseason training plan: 300 sets of high-intensity sprints and 180 hours of tactical drills within six weeks—using this method, he managed to lead Chelsea, a team with a limited budget, into the Champions League last year.

But at this moment, a bitter smile appeared on his lips. Last season, Chelsea qualified for the Champions League, which would bring the club more revenue, but not as much.

That money was enough to keep Stamford Bridge running normally, but not enough to get them to join the buying spree of players from continental Europe.

In other words, Ranieri will be leading the same team he had that summer to the preseason.

When the car reached the vicinity of Dijon, my phone suddenly vibrated.

The caller ID reads "Trevor Birch: Chief Financial Officer".

Ranieri pulled over into the emergency lane, and heard the other person's excited, trembling voice: "Claudio! The club has been acquired! It's a Russian oil oligarch!"

The Italian's fingers tightened suddenly on the steering wheel.

In the distance, a champagne truck is climbing a hill, puffing out black smoke.

"Is this good news?"

He heard his own dry voice.

"My God! He has Siberian oil fields in his pocket!"

Birch was almost screaming.

But what came to Ranieri's mind was the words Vialli had said to him years ago: "In our line of work, the new boss's first act is always directed at the coaching bench."

“Trevor,” he slowly rolled down the car window, letting in the sweltering July air, “get your resumes ready. You and I will be among the first to receive our layoff letters.”

There was a sudden silence on the other end of the phone, with only the static of the electricity echoing the cicadas chirping in the mountains.

Ranieri was still speeding along the highway, wondering if his problem had been solved so easily.

He immediately changed his mind.

The season hasn't even started yet, but he knows things won't go according to his original plan.

Two days later, Ranieri met the legendary Roman Abramovich in the chairman's office at Stamford Bridge.

The Russian gently stirred his black tea in a bone china teacup, then suddenly spoke up: "Coach, I need you to buy the best player in the world."

"I will do my best, but who would sell us their best players?"

Ranieri pointed to the empty training ground outside the window. "Who would sell their prize to a Champions League newcomer?"

Abramovich's lips curled into a smile that sent chills down the bankers' spines: "In London, even Big Ben has a price tag."

“I don’t care about that issue. Every club sets a price for each of its players. Times have changed, and no matter what that number is, I’m willing to pay.”

“We have all the world’s money in our hands,” Birch said softly, standing behind Abramovich, his voice carrying the cautiousness typical of an accountant. “But there are doubts everywhere in the football world, after all.”

"After all, no one has ever seen this kind of gameplay before."

Abu took over the conversation, his long, slender fingers tapping lightly on the mahogany desk, the Patek Philippe on his wrist gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

The Russian suddenly turned to Ranieri, his grey-blue eyes like frozen lakes of Siberia: "Claudio, how much do you think we need?"

The Italian swallowed hard, his tactical notes slipping from his lap and scattering across the carpet—a 4-4-2 formation analysis based on the existing squad that he had spent the entire month preparing.

He recalled the ominous feeling he had on the French highway.

“Mr. Chairman,” he tried to keep his voice steady, “based on the reinforcement needs at the Champions League level, we need at least…”

He quickly calculated in his mind the transfer offers that had been rejected over the years, "About forty million pounds?"

Abu suddenly laughed.

"1.4."

He said in a voice so soft it sounded like he was announcing a room number, “It’s just summer pocket money.”

Ranieri felt a wave of dizziness.

This figure is almost equal to Chelsea's total transfer spending over the past decade, a third of Arsenal's budget for building the Emirates Stadium, and enough to buy an entire mid-table Serie A team.

His vision suddenly blurred, and before he knew it, his glasses were covered with a layer of condensation.

The antique clock in the corner of the office suddenly struck the hour, its heavy chimes startling the pigeons in the trees outside the window.

Ranieri vaguely saw those fluttering white doves transform into checks, each bearing the names of Crespo, Veron, and Makelele.
"gentlemen?"

Birch's worried voice came from afar, "Do you need a glass of water?"

But Ranieri could no longer hear.

At 52, he understood for the first time what the "weight of money" meant—a sweet dizziness that could make even the most stubborn tacticians on the Apennine Peninsula's knees buckle.

Nowadays.

What should have been a historic moment for the football world, focusing on Beckham's official signing with Real Madrid, was completely overturned by a capital storm from Russia.

On the same day Beckham appeared at the Bernabéu, the news of Roman Abramovich's £1.4 million acquisition of Chelsea exploded like a thunderbolt, shaking the entire English football world.

This shook the entire football world.

The Times ran a front-page photo of Abramovich wearing a Chelsea scarf, with the headline "Red Tsar descends upon Stamford Bridge"; The Daily Mirror played on the double entendre with "Blues Variations: Russian Red Meets London Blue"; The most creative of all was The Guardian, which designed a gradient masthead in its sports section using Chelsea blue and Soviet red, with the headline proclaiming: "When the Kremlin meets King's Road".

This media frenzy completely overshadowed the Beckham transfer news.

In the Fleet Street editorial office, veteran football journalists unanimously placed the Abramovich takeover case on the front page, while Beckham's unveiling ceremony was relegated to the inside pages.

One commentator quipped, "Today, even the charm of a heartthrob can't compete with the magic of the ruble."

Chelsea's massive debt of nearly £100 million has long been an open secret in the Premier League, but the club's chairman, Ken Bates, known for his iron-fisted approach, has kept the sale plan a closely guarded secret.

When news of Russian oligarch Roman Abramovich's lightning takeover suddenly broke, even the most seasoned football financial journalists were caught off guard—just 48 hours before the deal was finalized, Bates was still vehemently denying any rumors of a sale in front of the media.

"It's like selling a ticket at the last minute before the Titanic hits an iceberg."

Bates admitted in his later recollection that...

According to internal documents, Chelsea was just seven days away from financial collapse: an emergency debt of £23 million was due on Friday, and the contingency plan to cash in on players had completely fallen through – the transfer market downturn left manager Ranieri unable to even sign a single substitute player.

The club's financial director even had a contingency plan for entering bankruptcy administration proceedings prepared on his computer.

After watching Manchester United's Champions League quarter-final match against Real Madrid at Old Trafford in the spring of 2003, Abramovich had the idea of ​​owning an English football club.

In the process of selecting a target, Abramovich first spoke with the Tottenham chairman, but the club is located in northeast London, a location he had little interest in.

After the negotiations concluded that day, his Mercedes drove along Tottenham Street.

He looked out the window and said to his assistant in Russian, "It's even worse here than in Omsk."

Omsk is located in Siberia, where Siberian Oil Company has a refinery.

Abramovich did not immediately express interest in acquiring Chelsea.

If he has any conditions for spending nine figures on his hobby, it is that the club he acquires must be a team that can participate in the Champions League.

If the Blues can do that, he might be interested.

On that May afternoon in 2003, the players who were about to face Liverpool at Stamford Bridge knew the game was crucial, as Birch had told them so, but they had no idea that the importance of the matter would escalate so dramatically.

This match will decide Chelsea and Liverpool's Champions League qualification, a record-breaking £2000 million.

The match was described as worth £20 million because the winner would finish fourth in the league, securing England's final spot in the 2003-2004 Champions League and a substantial sum of money. No English league match had ever been described in this way before.

Faced with an unprecedented situation, Chelsea also took unprecedented measures.

The night before the match, the club did not let the players sleep at their own homes, but instead arranged for them to stay at the Royal Lancaster Hotel next to Hyde Park.

This practice only became standard practice for Premier League clubs many years later.

After dinner, it was financial director Birch, not head coach Claudio Ranieri, who gave the team a pre-match pep talk.

Birch made it very clear to the players that this was absolutely one of the most important matches of their lives. For this match, he brought in an American veteran to motivate the international team, which consisted of continental Europeans, Africans, and more than 20 Britons.

This veteran is General Charles Krullack, a naval officer who distinguished himself in modern American warfare. He was awarded the highest military honors in the United States and became the commander of the United States Marine Corps after 36 years of service.

This type of resume is ideal for winning the support of the American public and running for President of the United States.

But at that moment, General Kruglach was standing in a banquet hall of a London hotel, mobilizing a team to attack Liverpool's midfield.

The general spoke of honor, courage, and how to rise to challenges.

He told everyone a story in an American accent about how he deployed his troops. After the story, the Chelsea players were already itching to beat Liverpool in the hotel banquet hall.

Unfortunately, they had to go back to sleep. "I felt like I'd downed 32 cups of espresso," Lessocks said. "I wanted to get a rope, slide down from my room, and go fight in Hyde Park."

Chelsea held a final pep talk before kickoff the following afternoon.

The players sat in the locker room, fiddling with their shoelaces.

Stamford Bridge stadium was packed with people.

Birch walked in and reminded them that this match was crucial for everyone's development in football. On this one day, Chelsea's pre-match pep talk was conducted by an accountant.

While Birch was working hard to ensure Chelsea's smooth operation, someone else was quietly planning the club's future, far from the Stamford Bridge dressing room.

Behind the scenes, that £2000 million match has quietly become a matter of whether Chelsea can win the favor of a £70 billion owner.

Of course, from the moment Liverpool took a 1-0 lead, the game became a matter of whether Chelsea would go bankrupt.

The Blues ultimately turned the tide and won 2-1.

This result is enough for Abramovich.

On the first day of July, he met with Birch and agreed to buy Chelsea.

Birch and Chelsea were unable to conduct sufficient due diligence on Abramovich because he was essentially invisible in the West.

Birch searched on Google, but found little information, except for a mention of the oligarch in Forbes magazine.

Abramovich appeared dressed in jeans and looked rather shabby, but fortunately he was accompanied by what Birch called "senior advisors, top-notch banks," and a lawyer from the New York law firm Slate, which reassured Birch.

Abramovich hoped there would be a Russian translator present, even though he himself clearly understood English.

Soviet foreign ministers used this tactic for decades to buy themselves time at high-level meetings.

However, since the negotiations were being held in a suite overlooking Stamford Bridge, there was little need to resort to sophisticated tactics.

Abramovich's meeting with Betts lasted only 45 minutes.

Russian oligarchs have snapped up £1.4 million:
£8000 million to pay off all of the club's debts in one lump sum.

£6000 million to acquire a controlling stake (over 50%) in Chelsea Village, the parent company of Chelsea FC, for 35 pence per share.

But this is only the beginning.

Abramovich immediately issued an ultimatum to the remaining shareholders:

The demands are for the widow of former chairman Matthew Harding (who owns 22% of the shares) and Sky Sports (who owns 9.9% of the shares) to accept an equivalent offer within three weeks, thus gaining full control of Chelsea.

Rumors are circulating in financial circles that after the acquisition is completed, Chelsea is highly likely to be delisted from the London Stock Exchange and become Abramovich's private property.

After the acquisition was completed, Abramovich gave a rare interview to the BBC. In the interview, he said, "No, it wasn't about making money. I have many other ways to make money that are less risky. However, I didn't want my money to go down the drain; I bought the team because I was happy."

"For success and trophies."

Chelsea Football Club then officially announced the completion of two important contract extensions: defensive linchpin John Terry and rising star Carlton Cole both signed long-term contracts.

7 month 3 day.

Wenger stood by the office window, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the now-cold coffee cup.

The front page of The Daily Telegraph prominently featured the news of Abramovich's acquisition of Chelsea, accompanied by a photo of the Russian oligarch smiling at Stamford Bridge, with the eye-catching headline: "Ruble Storm Lands in the Premier League."

His calculator screen still showed the unfinished transfer budget: £1000 million for two players.

In today's transfer market, this number is practically a cruel joke.

The report of the Kewell deal falling through is on the table – Leeds United had agreed to a £400 million swap plus Pennant, but Pennant himself refused to take a pay cut. Even more problematic is the goalkeeper position: Rustu went to Barcelona, ​​leaving a replacement for Seaman vacant; in the battle for Mexes, Arsenal's offer was less than half of Marseille's asking price; and Gallas's value has soared to over £1000 million, while Keown's aging leaves him with no replacement.

The phone rang suddenly; it was Vice President Dane: "Arsena, Inter Milan has increased their offer for Dalma, but Ljungberg himself..."

Arsenal are also facing the threat of having their players poached.

The chances of Vieira (Manchester United) and Henry (Barcelona) leaving are slim, but it's hard to say about Ljungberg.

Fortunately, Inter Milan's offer of Dalmatian cash was quite good.

Meanwhile, things aren't going smoothly within the team either. Last weekend, substitute striker Jeffers strongly demanded to return to Everton to partner with Rooney, rather than sitting on the bench at Arsenal.

Frenchman Wiltord demanded to play as a striker, even threatening to transfer if he continued to play as a midfielder.

"Wait a little longer," Wenger interrupted. Just a few minutes earlier, Jeffers' agent had sent a formal transfer request.

He suddenly grabbed the red secure phone: "Contact Miliacho, now."

Three hours later, Roy's French agent sat in the Colney conference room, his fingertips tapping lightly on Arsenal's offer sheet:
His base weekly wage is £3.8, which is equivalent to €5.5 (only two-thirds of Henry's).

The signing fee of £200 million will be paid in installments.

The Premier League champion receives a prize of £50.

“Professor,” Migliorio smiled and pushed the documents back, “Chelsea just sent my client a blank check.”

Wenger looked out the window at the Kearney training ground.

His glasses reflected the setting sun, and he suddenly remembered his conversation with Ferguson yesterday.

The Scotsman laughed and said, "Alsena, we're all playing for the bank, but the Russian... he bought the whole bank."

7 month 4 day.

Campora dialed Migliaccio's number from the Monaco club office, the Mediterranean breeze ruffling the offer documents on the table through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Miko, we’re prepared to offer Roy a historic contract.”

Campora's voice carried a feigned ease, "A weekly salary of 3.5 euros after tax, plus a 15% increase in market value as a signing bonus—2800 million euros based on a valuation of 420 million, paid according to the contract period. Of course, we can discuss bonus terms and loyalty fees in more detail."

On the other end of the phone, Migliacio's response was accompanied by a distinct echo from the hotel lobby: "Merci, Mr. Chairman. However, I'm currently handling some matters." He paused deliberately, "How about we discuss this further in three days?"

He wrote a note with his pen and pushed it in front of the receptionist.

Then, Campora clearly heard the receptionist speaking in Catalan-accented English in the background of the phone: "Mr. Rosell has reserved a meeting room for you, Mr. Migliacio."

"Of course. See you in Zhou Tian."

Campora hung up the phone.

At the Hotel Clarisse in Barcelona, ​​Milia Jo smiled as she put her phone back in her pocket.

He made this call while standing right next to the front desk, and even deliberately asked the receptionist to say Russell's name.

Now, all he has to do is wait—wait for Monaco to send a new, more lucrative offer within 72 hours.

“Mr. Migliorio?” The receptionist handed over the room key. “Vice President Rosell’s meeting is tomorrow at 11 a.m. Do you want to change the time?”

"Perfect."
Miliacho blinked, knowing that this game had only just begun.

On the cliffs of the Tramontana Mountains, the olive grove of Villa Finca rustled in the twilight.

The beach resembles a crescent moon, with a two-kilometer stretch of white sand coastline naturally shielded by rugged reefs—a perspective that Marca's paparazzi can never capture.

The setting sun dyed the Mediterranean Sea a molten gold, and Roy walked barefoot on the fine sand, his back muscles undulating with each juggle of the ball.

With the Nokia phone tucked under my shoulder, Miliacho's voice came through the receiver:

"Barcelona has made an offer – €6 per week, an €800 million signing bonus, to be amortized over 5 years, with an additional €50 for every 10 goals scored."

The ball at his feet arced through the air and landed right next to the fruit plate by the pavilion.

Chilled melon and blood orange juice condensed into droplets on the glass, and the Iberian ham that the waiter had just brought still smelled of acorns.

“They guarantee you at least 30 starts,” the agent added.

Roy chuckled softly, his gaze following the waves.

Du Chen walked out from the shimmering water, her white Versace lace swimsuit clinging to her wet skin, water droplets sliding down her abs.

She was biting into a strawberry dipped in champagne, her red lips even more vibrant than the fruit.

Roy moved away from the gazebo.

What guarantees they'll start at least 30 games?

His voice, carried by the sea breeze, hit the phone: "Rijkaard brought his Dutch contingent to Camp Nou."

Miliacho's laughter seeped through the receiver: "The Black Swan hates Kluivert. Back when there was infighting in the Dutch national team's locker room, he called Kluivert a 'spoiled Ajax baby'."

"When Milan wanted to sign him, Rijkaard strongly opposed it!"

"As for Saviola? Gaspart's signing of him was just a political stunt. Either of them can leave, and Laporta needs a new Golden Boot winner to sell season tickets."

“Oh, right,” Miliacho suddenly lowered his voice, “I arranged to meet with Real Madrid’s representatives in Barcelona for negotiations on the top floor of the Art Hotel.”

It overlooks the Camp Nou stadium.

The ball bounced up with a "thud," and Roy caught it, sand slipping through his fingers.
"Miko, you're a fucking genius!"

Barcelona Art Hotel rooftop
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the silhouette of Camp Nou lies dormant in the night, like a trapped beast with its fangs pulled out.

Real Madrid's deputy general manager, Emilio Butragueño—the "Vulture" who once gave Barcelona's defense nightmares—loosened his tie and laughed at Migliorgio: "Mico, why did you have to choose this disgusting place? Even the air smells of Catalan bad breath."

Milia Joel leisurely swirled the whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid drawing an elegant arc in the glass.

"My dear Emilio, if we can reach an agreement tonight..."

He suddenly stood up, walked to the window, raised his glass towards Camp Nou, and said, "In the second half of the year, we can raise a glass here to celebrate—watching Roy, this young leopard, tear through those red and blue defenses with his claws!"

Butragueño suddenly burst into laughter.

"well said!"

He raised his glass and clinked it against Miliacho's, the crisp sound of the crystal glasses hitting each other jarringly in the quiet conference room. "Let those bastards in their red and blue stripes cry in the stands! I want to see their tears turn the Camp Nou pitch into a swamp!"

He tapped lightly on the contract's title page with his fingertips, the gold-plated Real Madrid crest gleaming coldly under the overhead light.

“8 euros per week salary, 1000 million euros signing bonus, to be paid in three installments.”

His voice carried the characteristic pride of a Madridista, "But the real gift is here—"

Long, slender fingers traced the 17th clause: 20% autonomy over portrait rights.

Butragueño looked up from the contract, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Isn’t it ironic?” he said in a low voice. “We nurtured him in our youth academy, and then let him slip through our fingers. Now we have to buy him back with real money.”

Milia Joel's pupils contracted slightly.

This figure shatters Real Madrid's tradition—in the first Galácticos era, Real Madrid owned 90% of the image rights of superstars such as Ronaldo, Zidane, Figo, and Carlos, while the individuals themselves only had 10% of the image rights.

Raul was the only one who later obtained 100% of the image rights.

Beckham's 50% privilege was approved separately by Florentino Pérez using a gold pen.

Do you know why we chose number 11?

Butragueño suddenly pushed a blank jersey towards the crowd. "From Gento to Valdano, Ronaldo just wore this to win La Liga! This is a legendary number from the Bernabéu. Who will be the next legend?"

Outside the window, the Camp Nou stadium shimmered with dazzling red and blue lights in the night.

Butragueño raised his glass, the amber liquid reflecting the confidential appendix on the last page of the contract.

Below the clause about the €200 million bonus for winning the Champions League, there was a line of handwritten text:

"If a goal is scored against Barcelona in El Clásico, an additional 50 will be awarded for each goal."

Not long ago, on the night of the La Liga title win.

As Florentino's face was engulfed by the camera flash, he smiled into the microphone, his voice steady and resolute:
"Raul is not for sale. We also have Ronaldo—Real Madrid's attacking line is strong enough!"

When reporters pressed him on the rumors surrounding Ligue 1's top scorer, Roy, his eyes flickered subtly before he gave a politician's knowing smile.

"He is the pride of Real Madrid's youth academy and will always be able to return to the Bernabéu at the right time."

This statement was edited overnight by Sina Sports editors into the headline: "Real Madrid President Confirms: Chinese-American Prodigy Roy May Return! May Join the Red Tower Tour in August to Face the Dragon Team!"

And that night.

Real Madrid Business Strategy Office

Florentino's fingertip swept across a market report, and the data curve surged in the "Asian Influence" column. Although the search popularity was not as explosive as Beckham's, it formed a "cultural symbol" that continued to ferment among specific groups.

Roy's "kaishaku" celebration after thrashing Japan 4-0 in the Confederations Cup sparked protests from the right wing.

However, the Asahi Shimbun's cheesy reports, such as "Bishamonten reincarnation," unexpectedly won over avid anime fans: "This villain is so cool!"

The number of searches for #RoiYa# on portal websites such as Yahoo is approximately 5 to 8 times per day.

Hot topics during the same period.

Beckham's transfer to Real Madrid: 15+ per day on average

Hidetoshi Nakata's Serie A news: Average 3-5 searches per day

“5 daily searches?” He looked up at Marketing Director José Sánchez. “That’s 1.5 times what Hidetoshi Nakata did at his peak, and—”

Sanchez quickly pulled up another set of data:
Beckham's Asia tour: Attracting housewives and teenagers, but his business lifespan is limited by age (28).
Roy's potential:
Chinese ancestry is a natural key to the Chinese market.

At 18 years old, one can package long-term assets for 10 years or more.

The image of the "cool warrior" fills the psychological gap in Asia's perception of the "Eastern hero" in the football world.

Even within Japan, there's a perception that well-known soccer players like Hidetoshi Nakata and Shunsuke Nakamura lack idol qualities due to insufficient media attention and conventional playing styles.

“More importantly,” Sanchez pointed to the Asahi Shimbun’s “Bishamonten” report, “even the Japanese are actively helping to create a god for him! This controversial nature may be more valuable than his obedient smile.”

Turning the page of the report, a screenshot of an "anti-Japanese football thriller" from Sina.com was clearly visible, stating that "its spread in China was a zero-cost viral phenomenon."

Sina Sports Forum - 2003 Confederations Cup Special Edition.

The headline read, "Swords slash at the heads of the Japanese devils! The Japanese team suffers a brutal slicing at the hands of Roy! Four goals and a decapitation gesture; Japanese media lament after the match: This is a desecration of Bushido!"

It's incredibly popular.

Although Ligue 1 did not have the broadcasting rights, Roy's legend spread like wildfire on online forums and message boards:
[A bombshell in Ligue 1!] Chinese-French striker Roy scores a last-minute winner against Lyon from a tight angle! Substitute's explosive goal showcases his "traditional kung fu"?
[The King of Bicycle Kicks is Born!] A miracle occurs in Marseille away from home! Roy's incredible bicycle kick is a shoo-in for Player of the Season!
[Golden Boot Miracle!] From a 3-goal deficit to a comeback victory! Roy's four goals in the final round cemented his status as the Ligue 1 top scorer!
[Record Crusher] Roy breaks multiple records in a single season, officially recognized as a new legend in Ligue 1!
[Asian Elements Shine in Europe] A Look Back at Roy's Five Legendary Moments of the Season – Each One Worth Collecting!

The bizarre news stories have created a martial arts narrative and a cross-sectoral craze, with Inter Milan and AC Milan fans, who each make up half of the domestic football fan base, reaching a rare consensus: "This guy is even more magical than Captain Tsubasa."

This also sparked a major debate on "naturalization".

"Zero cost," Florentino slowly began, "We didn't let go of a player, we let go of a money-printing machine! Asian banknotes should be white."

On July 4th, a special interview was conducted by Italia 1 television station in Italy on the program "Sports Night".

Location: Vice President's office at the Milan headquarters.

Host: Federica Fontana.

The camera slowly pans from the Champions League trophy in Milan's Hall of Fame to the desk, where Galliani's signature bald head gleams under the spotlight.

Fontana flipped through his notebook: "Adriano, first of all, congratulations to Milan on winning the double last season. But what fans are more concerned about is, after completing Cafu's free transfer, returning Helveg to Inter, and loaning out three players including Donati, what is the team's transfer strategy this summer?"

Galliani: "Federica, a championship team needs to maintain stability. We've brought in Cafu, an experienced right-back, and also acquired co-ownership of Golafiedi through a bidding process. A team is like a fine clock. You can replace some gears, but you can't dismantle the entire movement. Redondo's return is equivalent to a €3000 million signing, and Rivaldo's resurgence is another asset. As for the young players on loan, this is a good opportunity for them to gain match experience."

Fontana: "What were the considerations behind these deals with newly promoted Sampdoria and Lecce?"

Galliani smiled: "Maintaining good relationships with all clubs is important during a long season. However, we did have some minor friction with Ancona because of Golafiedi's transfer."

Fontana: "Speaking of future plans, Abbiati has extended his contract until 2008, and Dida will also extend his contract. Does this mean that the goalkeeper position is secure?"

Galliani nodded: "Not only that, Braida just scouted Italian U21 goalkeeper Amelia. We guarantee that we can show Kaká to the fans at the San Siro this year, and we are also in talks with Barcelona for Motta. These young players will become first-team starters in the next two to three years."

Fontana: "Speaking of gears, would Stam be the part you need? Lazio seems to be... what about the defense? Maldini is already 35."

Galliani suddenly burst into laughter, interrupting: "Ha! If I had to respond to every newspaper rumor, I should open a printing press in my office. We are indeed paying attention to the defense; Maldini's birthday reminds us of the passage of time, but at 35, he is still the best in the world."

"So we are keeping an eye on Stam and Chivu. Although Lazio is trying to keep Stam, and Chivu's agent has denied the rumors, there is still time in the transfer window."

Fontana: "Chelsea's offer for Rivaldo"

Galliani raised his index finger: "1000 million? That price doesn't even buy his golden left-footed football boots! Look at the attendance; the Brazilian magician's box office value far exceeds that number."

Galliani was suddenly handed a note, which he quickly glanced at and smiled at.

Fontana: "Reports have surfaced that you rejected a €5000 million offer from a Premier League club for Nesta?"

Galliani: "We will not sell any key players! Nesta is the core of the defense, as indispensable as those trophies."

The program was suddenly interrupted by a phone call.

The footage captured the word "Berlusconi" on the phone display screen.

Fontana seized the opportunity to ask, "Does the Chairman have any instructions regarding the transfer?"

Galliani hung up the missed call: "He always says, 'Championship teams need stars.'"

Pointing to the photo of Betis and Shevchenko on the wall.

"But the children from the youth academy, like Antonini and Amelia, are the cornerstone of Milan's future."

Fontana concluded by asking, "So what can Milan fans expect from this transfer window?"

Galliani stood up and straightened his suit: "Patience, Federica. We will maintain a stable squad and make one or two key signings at the right time, while nurturing future stars like Kaká."

"The real Rossoneri always reveal their true colors just before the transfer window closes."

Galliani's fingers paused on the letter rejecting Chelsea's €5000 million offer for Nesta, his gaze sweeping over three documents side by side on his desk:

The newspaper *La Gazzetta dello Sport* reports that Rivaldo may leave the club (Chelsea have offered €1000 million).

Braida's report on Kaká's transfer progress (São Paulo is asking for €850 million).

Berlusconi's handwritten note: "Number 11 needs a new owner—ratings."

He grabbed the phone and dialed Migliaccio's number. "Mico, listen, we're rebuilding our attacking line."

“Rivaldo’s weekly wage is too high, and that part can be saved, while Kaká’s budget has exceeded the limit by 300 million.”

“A weekly wage of 5.5 is indeed much less than Real Madrid’s,” he suddenly lowered his voice, “but the number 11 jersey can earn him an extra 200 million a year – Armani just ended Rivaldo’s endorsement.”

Outside the window, fans chanted "We want Stam!" in protest. Galliani suddenly pulled open a drawer, revealing a €300 million down payment check specially approved by Berlusconi.

He nodded in satisfaction and dialed Ancelotti's number: "Carlo, I think we can start preparing for the new season."

Roy emerged from the poolside, water droplets trickling from his hair onto his phone screen.

He pressed the answer button, and Miliacho's signature Marseille accent came through the phone:

"My Mr. Golden Boots!"

Miliacho's voice was filled with barely suppressed excitement: "Milan's offer was much smarter than we expected."

"First of all, the weekly wage of 5.5 euros seems to be 40% less than Real Madrid's, but don't forget the tax benefits in Italy - the actual take-home pay is basically the same as the offer Juventus gave you."

The agent's voice, rapidly flipping through documents, came through the microphone: "The key is this 500 million signing bonus, with a 300 million down payment. That's enough for you to buy a villa in Milan."

Roy dried his hair with a towel as he listened to Migliaccio continue his analysis: "The bonus clauses are practically tailor-made for strikers. 80 for the Serie A Golden Boot, 50 for a goal in the Champions League final! Even better is the derby goal bonus—10 for every goal scored against Inter, with no upper limit!"

"Listen, the most important thing is the number 11 jersey."

Miliacho lowered his voice, "Rivaldo is definitely leaving, and Berlusconi has personally promised to let you inherit this legendary number. Do you know what that means? The Armani endorsement contract will automatically take effect, and the prime-time interview with Mediaset is already scheduled."

Legendary my ass!

He should just retire along with Inter Milan's number 7.

(Both Milan's number 11 and Inter Milan's number 7 carry a certain curse attribute)
The palm trees by the pool rustled as Migliorgio spoke faster and faster: "Compared to the dressing room politics at Real Madrid, Milan has much less pressure. Ancelotti guarantees you'll play your best position as a shadow striker, right behind Shevchenko."

“Oh, right,” the agent suddenly changed the subject, “your girlfriend’s modeling career will be much smoother in Milan. A starting position at Milan Fashion Week’s Fall/Winter shows is practically guaranteed. And if she learns Italian, Berlusconi’s TV station has even reserved an audition for her as a sports presenter. Just imagine the two of you together at Milan Fashion Week.”

"That's enough, Miko."

Roy coughed, interrupting his agent's rambling, "How's the transfer situation at Monaco?"

Water droplets slid down his taut jawline, splashing tiny droplets along the edge of the pool.

Miliacho clicked his tongue on the other end of the phone: "They're busy putting together a retirement home for Deschamps—they just signed 36-year-old Caniggia on a free transfer, and now they're competing with Lyon for Morientes. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if they signed Maradona tomorrow."

Roy's fingertips tapped unconsciously on the pool tiles: "Where's Pedretti?"

"Monaco offered six million," came the rustling of papers on the receiver, "but Sochaux is adamant about not letting him go. Deschamps is like a housewife haggling at a secondhand market; his transfer budget is limited, but Giuly has renewed his contract."

Roy climbed out of the pool, water droplets sliding down his abs.

Miriam Jo, with a cigar in his mouth, slammed the calculator onto the recliner.

"I still have to give you some advice."

He exhaled a smoke ring, "This contract with Monaco is like a Swiss bank vault—40,000 euros are deposited directly into the account every week, and even God can't take a penny for tax."

The computer at my feet was displaying a new offer email from Real Madrid.

But here's the problem—

He suddenly pointed his cigar at the yachts in Monte Carlo Harbour, saying, "In Monaco, every penny you earn is earned by kicking it out with your feet."

Roy scratched his wet hair, his agent's voice still ringing out: "Parma only pays Nakata less than 50,000 euros a week before tax, but the Japanese player made over a million euros last year just from selling jerseys! He ranked eighth in the entire football world in terms of income! Do you know why?"

"Commercial endorsements earn far more than salaries."

He flicked his finger at the huge Beckham advertisement on the front page of the newspaper, saying, "At Real Madrid and Manchester United, even your fart can become a perfume ad!"

The sound of a casino roulette wheel could be heard in the distance. Migliorio lowered his voice and said, "A four million annual salary is the ceiling in Monaco, but at the Bernabéu? That's just a fraction of your advertising endorsements."

He suddenly laid the two contracts out side by side, as if Roy could actually see them.

"It's your choice."

Roy took the towel from the waiter, water droplets rolling down his shoulder.

In the distance, Du Chen leaned against the edge of the terrace, sunlight filtering through the hem of her white linen skirt—she had always hoped that Roy would join Milan, where the fashion resources would be more beneficial to her career.

But at this moment, Roy's eyes were fixed on his phone screen.

“Miko, I’ve signed.” His voice was deep, like the undercurrents of the Mediterranean.

On the other end of the phone, Miriam Joel's cigar hung in mid-air, ash falling softly onto his custom-made trousers.

"By the Holy Mother, what other conditions do you have?"

"The last one."

Roy touched his wet hair and smiled brightly. "Tell Campora that I can fly to Barcelona or Madrid in 45 minutes, but I'm not going—I want 100% of his image rights, from today onwards, forever."

Miliacho's pupils contracted sharply, cigar ash falling onto his custom-made trousers: "Are you crazy? Even Maradona didn't have that."

"Either take it all, or don't take it at all."

Roy tapped his knuckles on the back of his phone, making a dull thud. "This is my bottom line."

For other clubs, this is something that cannot even be discussed.

Except for Monaco.

There was silence on the other end of the phone for three seconds.

The sound of yacht horns in the distant port of Monte Carlo suddenly ceased, as if the entire Mediterranean was waiting for this answer.

(End of this chapter)