When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 105 After tonight, Europe. Nobody in all of Europe wants to run into us.

The jubilant atmosphere in Monaco's dressing room was almost enough to lift the roof off.

"Dado! Did you secretly put holy water on the soles of your shoes today?"

Roy laughed and put his arm around Pulso's neck. "Four goals! Four! You've given Deportivo's defenders nightmares tonight!"

When Deschamps pushed open the locker room door, he was greeted by the sweet aroma of champagne—someone had already eagerly opened a bottle, and the foam was splashing everywhere.

Pulso was surrounded by his teammates, his hair wet, whether from champagne or sweat, it was hard to tell.

"Four goals! Four goals!"

Giuly, riding on Pulso's back and using an empty wine bottle as a microphone, shouted, "Croatian Warrior! Share your thoughts!"

Pulso grinned, his eyes narrowing into slits. "If I had known we'd get four in today, I should have eaten two extra fried eggs for breakfast!"

Roy sat on the physiotherapy bed in the corner, applying an ice pack to his calf.

He winked at Deschamps: "Coach, should we change our tactics? For example, should we have everyone hold the ball up and only let Dado shoot?"

The locker room erupted in laughter.

Even the usually serious Pedretti couldn't help but shake his head: "Madmen, they're all madmen."

Deschamps tapped his tactical board, and after the laughter subsided slightly, announced: "Gentlemen, six goals in 45 minutes."

He paused, then smiled, "Play however you like in the second half, keep scoring if you can! But..."

His voice suddenly turned serious, "Don't get hurt! Don't get hurt! Don't get hurt!"

The locker room fell silent for a second.

Roy was the first to react, removing the ice pack from his leg: "Did you hear that? The coach said we can continue the slaughter!"

"But you'll have to wear proper protective gear!"

Squillaci chuckled and tossed a bottle of water to Roy.

Evra had already ripped off his jersey, revealing his muscular upper body: "Don't worry, boss! I'll protect my legs like I would my first love!"

He then started dancing a traditional Senegalese dance in the middle of the locker room, which made everyone burst into laughter.

Giuly leaned close to Pulso's ear: "Dado, do you want to consider wearing a helmet? I'm afraid the Deportivo defender will get so angry that he'll bite someone."

Laughter filled the locker room, growing louder and louder, even drawing the attention of caddies passing by in the hallway.

On this crazy night, the Monaco dressing room became a sea of ​​joy, and everyone's face was filled with the joy of victory.

A suffocating silence filled the Deportivo La Coruña locker room.

The players hung their heads, sweat mixed with frustration streaming down their faces.

Irureta stood in front of the tactical board, his fingers tapping heavily on the 6-2 score, his voice hoarse but firm:
"Listen, the game isn't over yet! We can't let them tear us apart like this!"

He wiped away the original deployment on the tactical board and hastily drew a new arrow – Munitis would move up to the front line, Scaloni would drop back to cover, and the young Uruguayan goalkeeper Munua would replace the out-of-form Molina.

"Munua!"

Irureta stared at the substitute goalkeeper, who rarely gets playing time, and said, "You have only one task—prevent them from scoring again!"

Munua nodded silently, his fingers gripping his gloves tightly.

On the other side, Manuel Pablo sat in a corner, his eyes vacant.

Throughout the first half, the left flank he was guarding was repeatedly outmaneuvered by Roy and Rothen, becoming the biggest weakness in the defense.

Irueta walked up to him, patted him on the shoulder, and said in a low voice:
"Go and rest, child, today is not your day."

Pablo bit his lip, slowly took off his jersey, and threw it hard on the ground.

When the two teams emerged from the tunnel again, the atmosphere was completely different.

The Monaco players chatted and laughed, with Roy even high-fiving and joking with Giuly, as if this were not a Champions League group stage match but a training game.

Deschamps walked at the back with his hands in his pockets, a forced smile on his face. His team had already secured the victory, and now all they needed to do was enjoy the game.

Meanwhile, in Deportivo La Coruña, the air was so heavy it felt like you could wring water out of it.

Tristan and Valeron walked at the front, their eyes fierce, as if they were ready to fight to the last bullet.

Munua kept adjusting his gloves and took deep breaths to try to calm his wildly beating heart.

As Munitis came on as a substitute, he clenched his fists and muttered to himself, "At least one goal. At least one goal!"

Irueta was the last to emerge from the passageway; his suit was still disheveled, but his eyes were no longer lost.

He stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, staring intently at the field.

He knew that these might even be his last 45 minutes coaching Deportivo.

"Come on, lads!"

He roared, his voice drowned out by the cheers of the Monaco fans, "Don't let them win too easily!"

However, reality soon gave him an even harsher response.

Deportivo La Coruña's players stood in the center circle, the ball was gently flicked at Valerón's feet, and the game restarted. However, Monaco's pressure was like a pack of wolves hunting down their prey.

Bernardi pounced first like a hungry gray wolf, Pedretti and Giuly immediately formed a triangular encirclement, while Roy patrolled the perimeter, ready to launch a fatal blow at any moment.

"Snapped!"

Bernardi's flying tackle was like a hunting knife being drawn from its sheath, precisely intercepting Valerón's pass.

As the ball rolled toward the center circle, Roy arched his back like a cheetah that had smelled blood.

The instant the ball rolled to his feet, he suddenly started moving!

Like a red whirlwind, he burst into the penalty area, and Naibette and Andrade tried desperately to catch up but were always just a step behind.

Roy dribbled the ball to the left corner of the six-yard box, and facing the onrushing Munua, he deftly cut inside, creating space before curling a beautiful shot with his right foot!
The ball flew past the goalkeeper's fingertips, nestled close to the far post, and into the net!
"Roy!!! A genius goal!!!"

The commentator Roland's tone was no longer frantic.

"Just 46 seconds into the game! Monaco leads 7-2! Roy outmaneuvered the entire defense with a waltz-like move!"

Ferguson's cigar hung in mid-air, unaware that ash was falling onto his bathrobe: "Jesus Christ."

Before Deportivo players could recover from the blow of conceding a goal, Monaco had already raised their swords again!

Two minutes later.

Deportivo La Coruña restarted the game, and Valerón made a basic mistake when making the cross.

Bernardi pounced like a cheetah, intercepted the pass, and delivered a precise long pass!
Roy understood immediately, made a run to shake off his marker, and cleverly controlled the ball with his back to Rothen who had made a run forward.

Rothen made no adjustments and smoothly chipped the ball back into the penalty area!
Roy surged forward like a ghost, leaping between the two center-backs, heading the ball forward, and then making a powerful breakthrough down the left flank!
He dribbled into the penalty area and then changed direction several times.

Naibette and Andrade attempted to tackle, but only managed to snatch air; Roy had already changed direction and cut inside!

Facing the hasty attack of Munua, he calmly unleashed a powerful shot into the far corner! The ball slammed into the net along a straight trajectory!

"It's Roy again!!! 8-2!!!!"

Roland's voice was distorted with excitement, "Two goals in four minutes! This is one of the craziest performances in Champions League history! Roy single-handedly destroyed Deportivo La Coruña's last hope! His speed, skill, and composure were simply breathtaking!"

"Friends, we are witnessing a legend!" Roland's voice trembled with awe. "Roy played the greatest game of his career today! Monaco's attacking onslaught is unstoppable!"

Mourinho sat in his Porto office in front of the broadcast screen, his tactical notes unconsciously slipping from his hands and falling to the floor.

When Roy used a change of direction to outmaneuver the Deportivo defender, his eyebrows shot up—a top coach's instinctive appreciation when witnessing a brilliant tactical execution.

When Roy scored his seventh goal, his brow twitched, his body leaned forward involuntarily, and his fingers gripped the armrest of his seat tightly.

But then his lips tightened, and he stroked his chin, deep in thought, as if he were already simulating how to use a chain defense to lock down this dangerous young man.

The eighth goal.

"Caralho! (Damn it!)"

He cursed under his breath, but a hint of undisguised admiration crept onto his lips.

"That French kid."

Mourinho muttered to himself in Portuguese, "He's a devil."

He suddenly grabbed the remote control and pressed the replay button, his eyes glued to the entire process of Roy's second goal in the second half.

When Mourinho saw Roy control the ball with his back, he suddenly slammed his fist on the table and exclaimed, "Perfect first touch!"

But then his face darkened, and he grabbed his phone to quickly type a text message: "Immediately collect all of Monaco's match videos this season, especially Roy's."

Mourinho put down his phone, his fingers unconsciously unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

Even though the air conditioning was on in the office, he felt unbearably hot.

At this moment, I am experiencing the most contradictory psychology of a professional coach—a complex emotion that is a mixture of the ecstasy of discovering a treasure and the vigilance of facing a threat.

His gaze was fixed on the broadcast screen: Roy was receiving a thunderous cheer in the corner flag area, while Deschamps on the sidelines simply clapped lightly.

This detail made Mourinho sneer.

“Damn it,” he muttered in his native tongue, “he doesn’t even think it’s anything special.” When the assistant coach pushed open the door, he saw Mourinho tapping the table repeatedly with his index finger, the rhythm getting faster and faster.

"José, did you see that Croatian's four goals?"

The assistant coach had barely opened his mouth when Mourinho raised his hand to interrupt him.

"The focus is not on any particular player."

Mourinho's voice suddenly became unusually calm: "All of Europe should understand one thing tonight."

"Didier Deschamps built a finely tuned war machine. Roy is just the sharpest blade, look here."

"A center forward who can score four goals in a single Champions League match is willing to be a tactical pivot because they have more ruthless weapons."

In the last 20 minutes of the match, the pace of the game seemed to slow down a bit, but not because Deportivo La Coruña regained their defensive intensity, but because Monaco's players were no longer pressing forward with all their might.

They were like a pride of well-fed lions, strolling lazily, occasionally baring their fangs, but no longer tearing and biting wildly.

Tristan scored a consolation goal for Deportivo near the end of the match, his low shot from the edge of the penalty area finding Roma.

After scoring, he didn't celebrate; he simply lowered his head and silently walked back to the center circle.

For Monaco, Pedretti responded with a long-range shot just before the final whistle, making the final score 9-3.

The statistics show that Monaco's attacking efficiency is astonishing: 14 shots, 11 shots on target, 9 goals, and a shooting success rate of 64%! The attacking line of Roy, Pulso and Giuly creates threats in almost every attack.

While Deportivo La Coruña also had 14 shots, only 6 were on target. If their defense hadn't been so disastrous, their 21% shooting accuracy would have been considered quite good.

But football matches are not just about statistics.

Deportivo's defense tonight was like a torn fishing net; no matter how much they tried to patch it up, Monaco's attacking onslaught always managed to find a loophole.

The Monaco players even had a hint of unfulfilled desire on their faces when the final whistle blew – they could have scored more.

When the scoreboard finally lit up 9-3, the fans at the Stade Louis II had already shouted themselves hoarse.

The Monaco players high-fived each other, their smiles relaxed, as if it were just an ordinary victory.

Deportivo La Coruña's players, heads down, hurried toward the players' tunnel, eager to escape this nightmarish night.

That night, Monaco showed Europe in the most brutal way that their attack was enough to tear apart any defense.

When the final whistle blew, Mourinho was already standing by the window.

The waves of the Atlantic Ocean crashed against the Douro River estuary in the distance, much like the thoughts churning in his mind.

The 9-3 scoreline was not only a massacre, but also a declaration – Deschamps' team is destined to wreak havoc in this season's Champions League.

Scaloni dragged his heavy steps off the pitch, his ears ringing.

The lights, shouts, and even the smell of the grass in the stadium were all swirling in his mind.

His legs felt like they were filled with lead, and every step was incredibly difficult.

In a daze, he looked up at the sidelines.

Roy was strolling slowly toward Deschamps, a relaxed smile on his face.

Deschamps reached out and ruffled Roy's hair, whispered something in his ear, and the two of them laughed at the same time.

This scene was magnified infinitely in Scaloni's eyes; everything around him blurred, leaving only the figures of the two people.

He stared intently at the scene, his teeth unconsciously clenching his lips.

Water droplets slid down his cheeks, it was hard to tell if they were sweat from the game or something else.

He knew he would never forget that moment.

The Monaco locker room erupted in chaos, with cheers, whistles, and stomping from the players creating a cacophony that shook the ceiling.

Pulso stood in the center of the locker room, holding up a bottle of Romanée-Conti, the bottle gleaming under the lights, as dazzling as their victory tonight.

"Dado! Open it quickly!"

Juli slammed his fist on the locker and shouted, but his voice was drowned out by a chorus of cheers.

Pulso grinned, his fingers trembling as he used the corkscrew to unscrew the cork.

The aroma of the wine filled the air instantly, but when he poured Roy his first glass, he was embarrassed to find that...

One bottle of wine is simply not enough to share.

"Uh"

Pullso scratched his head, looked at the noticeably reduced amount of red wine in the bottle, glanced at the twenty-odd pairs of expectant eyes around him, and grinned dryly, "Guys, looks like we'll have to drink it sparingly."

Roy suddenly burst into laughter and patted Pulso on the shoulder: "Dado, please forgive me for taking the liberty of making this decision."

He looked around, a sly glint in his eyes, and said, "I'll tell you a story."

The locker room fell silent, and everyone looked at him curiously.

"A young general from the Han Dynasty in ancient China was named Huo Qubing."

Roy's voice carried an unusual seriousness. "After he led his army to defeat the Xiongnu, the Han emperor rewarded him with a jar of imperial wine. But Huo Qubing felt that the victory belonged to the entire army, not just him alone. So he poured the wine into a spring so that all his soldiers could share in the glory."

He paused, a smile playing on his lips: "Later, that place was called 'Jiuquan' (meaning 'wine spring'). A thousand years later, people still remember the young war god's illustrious military exploits, his ability to conquer thousands of miles and win every battle."

The locker room fell silent, then erupted in cheers.

Marcelo Gallardo leaned against the locker and muttered, "That kid always manages to tell such awesome stories."

"so--"

Roy grabbed the precious bottle of Romanée-Conti, the liquid swirling inside, reflecting the bright lights of the locker room, like a flowing flame.

He first looked at Pulso, his eyes questioning.

Pullso paused for a moment, then grinned and nodded vigorously: "Of course!"

Roy laughed too, strode over to the bottled water in the corner, and said loudly, "Why don't we learn from Huo Qubing?"

Under everyone's watchful eyes, he poured the entire bottle of Romanée-Conti into a bottle of water.

The wine spread in the water, its deep red color gradually fading, but its aroma filled the entire room.

"Now, victory belongs to everyone!"

Roy held up the empty bottle, his voice echoing in the locker room.

The locker room erupted in deafening cheers.

The atmosphere became absolutely electric.

The players scrambled to get cups of water, and even the laundry worker, bus driver, and caddies were pulled in to share.

Someone joked, "If the Deportivo La Coruña players are willing to drink, we'll share a glass with them too!"

Roy raised his glass, the slightly reddish liquid swirling gently within.

He took a sip, a trace of water still remaining at the corner of his mouth.

The noise in the locker room gradually quieted down, and everyone looked at him.

“The night we lost to Bordeaux last season,” he said softly, but everyone heard him clearly, “I said the whole of Ligue 1 should be afraid of us.”

Suddenly, he grinned, that signature, somewhat wild smile.

“But tonight,” he raised his glass, his voice suddenly rising, “after tonight! Europe—!!! All of Europe—!!!”

His gaze swept across every face. "Nobody wants to run into us!"

The locker room erupted in chaos.

Giuly smiled and handed a glass to Caniggia.

Evra pounded on the locker with his fist.

The Wind Child narrowed his signature blue eyes, his gaze sweeping over the dancing Evra, before snatching the water glass from Giuly's hand and downing it in one gulp: "...This tastes pretty good."

Pullso laughed and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, not caring at all as the liquid dripped down his chin.

In the corner, Morientes quietly observed all of this.

His eyes were glazed over, and he seemed to see himself in 2000, when he scored a goal at the Stade de France to help Real Madrid win their eighth title.

As Roy walked by with his bucket, Morientes suddenly reached out and stopped him, solemnly scooping up a full cup of "water of victory."

“To fear,” he said softly as he raised his glass, his voice drowned out by the noise in the locker room, “Let all of Europe be afraid.”

Deschamps stood at the door, looking at the group of young people.

He didn't stop the revelry; he simply nodded slightly.

On this night, Monaco won more than just one game.

They issued a declaration of war to the whole of Europe.

(The following two matches are briefly described)
(End of this chapter)