When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 26 The Xiongnu King's Declaration (Please continue reading!)

"Can FedCom's planes really outrun me?"

The filming wrapped up smoothly, and Roy sat on the sidelines to rest and joke around.

Claire took a bottle of mineral water from her assistant; the cap had been loosened at a 45-degree angle. She handed it to him.
"Of course not."

"But their lawyers are three times faster than you can sprint."

Roy chuckled softly, his tone light as if he were talking about the weather.

"It seems I'm not famous enough, otherwise you guys would be bidding for the sneaker brands to shoot the ad."

A flicker of surprise crossed Claire's eyes:

"You are very perceptive."

She adjusted her posture.

"I've already started to learn how to play this game."

The entire shoot will be conducted on a green screen, with special effects added in post-production.

The following is the storyboard for a FedCom logistics advertisement:

Duration: 60 seconds

Opening: An absurd mistake (0:00-0:10)

Scene: Monaco training ground, overcast.

Lens:

An extra (pretending to be Kuri) shouts, "Catch!" and kicks the ball into the sky. The ball gradually turns into a small black dot and disappears.

Standing on the training field, Roy frowned and looked up. The camera zoomed in on his bare feet, revealing the veins on the insteps.

Shaking his head helplessly, Roy suddenly sped up and chased after the ball frantically in the direction it disappeared into the horizon.

Subtitle: "Oh no...where are my sneakers?"

A frantic run across France (0:11-0:40)

Nice, Bay of Angels (0:11-0:15)

Roy ran barefoot across the Promenade des Anglais, and when he stepped into the shade of a beach umbrella, he flinched as if he'd been electrocuted (for comedic effect). A bikini-clad girl lying under the umbrella covered her mouth and swooned.

Bordeaux wineries (0:16-0:20)

Leaping over piles of oak barrels, his feet splattered with crimson grape juice, the owner raised his glass and exclaimed, "Don't step on my Cabernet Sauvignon!"

As Roy leaped over the oak barrels, he knocked over the most expensive one, marked "1982 Lafite," but immediately turned back and righted it.

Mont Saint-Michel (0:21-0:25)

Roy raced through the rising tide, and the monks who witnessed his speed crossed their hands: "God bless his Achilles tendon."

The Hall of Mirrors at Versailles (0:26-0:30)

As you pass through the palace, in the portrait of Louis XIV, the king's wig is lifted by a gust of wind, and Roy's shadow is infinitely replicated in the 357 mirrors of the Hall of Mirrors.

Eiffel Tower (0:31-0:35)

Roy sprinted all the way to Paris, finally overtaking the football still flying in the sky. He dashed along the Champ de Mars, and the tourists' camera lenses couldn't keep up with his afterimage.

Stade de France (0:41-0:50)

Roy rushed onto the court, panting, and found a FedEx box lying quietly in the center circle.

He sat cross-legged and slowly began to unpack the box.

Just as I finished tying my shoelaces, a whooshing sound came from the sky.

The missing ball finally fell!

Volley shot (0:51-0:58)

Slow motion: Roy leaps into the air and volleys a shot (close-up of his expression).

The ball tore through the net like a cannonball.

The advertisement, displayed on a black screen with yellow text, reads: "FedCom, faster than Roy."

Small print in the bottom right corner: "Next-day delivery service is only available in France. See the official website for details."

(The author is too comprehensive; type that in the chat.)
4:00 PM, on the left bank of the Seine, at a used bookstore.

Roy got out of the car, his leather shoes stepping on the damp riverbank steps. His gaze swept across the river, where three swans were tearing apart a piece of bread thrown in by a tourist. The crumbs looked like scattered gold coins in the setting sun.

Behind him, Claire Bertrand deliberately lagged two steps behind, her high heels tapping out a cold, hard rhythm on the cobblestones, as if reminding him: "This is not a football field, it's another battlefield."

Vincent Durok, the 52-year-old chief reporter for L'Équipe, sat in a wicker chair at the stern of a used bookstall boat on the riverbank, a 1974 copy of France Football open on his lap.

When Roy appeared, the old fox began to assess the situation.

His stance wasn't as relaxed as most 18-year-old players; instead, it was like a sheathed military knife, taut yet restrained.

As I boarded the ship, my eyes swept over the bookstalls, lingering for a few seconds on the 1958 World Cup special edition.

Drucker noted in his mind: Nostalgia? Weakness?

After exchanging greetings, Durok rose slightly and gestured for Roy to sit down. He closed the magazine, deliberately leaving Pele's 1970s smiling face facing upwards.

"Mr. Roy, did you know that Pelé was so nervous during his first interview with L'Équipe that he spilled his coffee?"

As he said this, he pushed a cup of espresso toward Roy, with a note underneath:
"Your mother's work photo at the seafood market is worth 5 euros."

This is a rather despicable interviewing technique.

But he didn't expect Roy to choose the most unexpected interview location.

Choosing the Bois de Boulogne would allow him to relax in a secluded and relaxed environment, close to the Paris Saint-Germain training ground, where he could casually discuss Ligue 1 schedules and transfer matters.

Chopin Café in the Latin Quarter allows him to ask Roy about his "national team ambitions" while looking at the autographed French national team jersey from Euro 1984 hanging on the wall. The owner, a Marseille fan, might certainly give the Monaco players a hard time.

The Stade de France was his designated battlefield; the empty stadium amplified the echoes of conversations, and he could start any question with an elegant "Listen, the ghost of the goal celebration is still there."

Or, pointing to the lawn, he might say, "Imagine if a Champions League final were held here, would you score the winning goal?"

Roy glanced at the note as if he didn't care at all, picked up his coffee and drank it all in one gulp: "Too bad I'm not Pele."

He pressed the note down with his coffee cup, and the light reflected from the river danced on his face.

The sound was like a blade slicing through water, calm yet sharp.

I am not Pelé.

Drucker's heart skipped a beat, his pupils dilated slightly, and his knuckles tightened involuntarily, causing his pen to leave a dot on his notebook.

They've found a weakness.

But his face still wore a seasoned sneer, and the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth remained as deep as knife-cut ravines.

Is this your ambition?

He leaned forward, and the wicker chair creaked softly, as if it too was holding its breath, waiting for an answer.

"You're so young, yet you think you can surpass Pele?"

His gaze shifted from Duruk's face to the river.

There, a swan was pecking at breadcrumbs, elegant yet cruel. The right index finger tapped lightly on the table, the rhythm slow and precise.

Click, click, click.

As if counting down, or calculating something, he suddenly smiled.

Drucker was puzzled. Damn it, was he waiting for me to ask that?
But it doesn't matter. As long as he answers, whether arrogant or humble, I can find a way to break through.

"Pele has three World Cups."

His voice was soft, yet it pierced the silence like a bullet.

"And I don't even have a single Champions League title."

pause.

Ripples spread across the river, and the church bells rang in the distance.

"So, Mr. Truk..."

His eyes lit up as he picked up a French version of "The Art of War" from a used bookstore, though some passages were a bit hard to find due to translation issues.

But in the end, the fingertip stopped at the line "Victorious soldiers first win battles and then seek war."

"The question you should be asking isn't 'Can it be surpassed?' but rather..."

"When should I start calculating this distance?"

Drucker felt a mixture of frustration and excitement; frustration because he realized Roy hadn't fallen into the trap at all.

This answer is neither arrogant nor humble; it is a math problem.

Excited strokes of the pen recorded on the paper: 18 years old, he has already learned to kill with silence. In the next ten years, he will be the media's nightmare.

The confrontation was about earning respect, and that's when the interview officially began.

"Will you retaliate against Real Madrid the way you retaliated against Lille?"

He reached out and pushed a piece of paper over: a copy of Transfermarkt's transfer record, worth 30 euros.

He "arbitrarily" assumed that Roy had already retaliated against Lille. If Roy said he wouldn't retaliate against Real Madrid, then he could write that Roy still had feelings for Real Madrid. If he said he would, that would be an even bigger sensation.

"Retaliation? Real Madrid has already paid the price."

Drucker was shocked; Roy's fingertip was hovering over the number 30 euros.

“They could have had me, or a large sum of money, but they only received 30.”

Drucker presupposes that “retaliation” is emotional, but Roy translates it into economic value.

"If you think I need revenge, then my answer is that we're even now."

Duluk raised an eyebrow.

"So Real Madrid is still an option for you."

"Options? In the world of football, there is no 'reservation,' only 'value.'"

He raised his head, looked directly at Duruk, and spoke in a deep, clear voice.

Duluk wrote: "He spoke of Real Madrid as if he were evaluating a buyback proposal for a bad asset."

He himself is that severely undervalued potential stock.

He couldn't let himself be led astray any longer. He put down his pen, the metal cap striking the solid wood table with a crisp sound, like a judge's gavel falling.

"Please forgive my directness, but I just need to know if this option exists! Provided that you and both of you are satisfied with each other's value."

Don't ask why Duruk keeps mentioning Real Madrid; it's because it gets attention.

Roy smiled.

"Mr. Truk, have you seen a Dick Lowry miniseries called Attila the Hun?"

He picked up another open book, "The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," and ran his fingertips over the illustration of the statue of Caesar.

"When the barbarians first came to Rome, they were overwhelmed by its splendor, where marble columns were taller than snow-capped mountains and streets paved with gold could buy the entire grassland."

"But Attila did not kneel down; he had only one thought: he would return."

"He returned to Pannonia and sharpened his battle axe."

Roy's gaze was fixed on Duruk, his pupils burning with a cold, wildfire-like intensity.
"If I'm not mistaken, in your hearts, Real Madrid is the Rome of the football world."

Drucker's lips twitched upwards as he forced himself to appreciate his opponent's brilliant analogy, suppressing the urge to whistle in excitement.

He now understood that he had gone from underestimating the guy to trying to pry open his defenses, but the kid had never actually considered being cautious in his words and actions.

"So, if there were an Attila in the world of football, he would definitely come back."

"It depends on where he stands."

"Either—"

Roy picked up a pastry from the table, crushed it into crumbs in his hand, and the crumbs fell into the Seine, startling a school of silverfish.

"He will lead his iron cavalry and trample the Bernabéu's turf."

"Either—"

He pointed to the well-defined profile of Octavian in the book, with a laurel wreath in his hair.

"They need to present him with a golden cup and a contract, begging him to put the crown on his head."

Is this comparing Real Madrid to a decadent empire?

Drucker was shocked by the inflammatory rhetoric of this anti-heroic narrative; his Adam's apple bobbed violently, as if he were swallowing a sharp-edged piece of ice.

The pen blotted out ink on the three characters "King of the Xiongnu".

For the first time in his 20-year professional career, he missed a record.

"You wanted a story, and now you have this story."

Roy's voice suddenly became light and cheerful, as if he were switching from "The Hun" to a light comedy, while he tapped his temple with his index finger.

"But Attila is still sharpening his battle axe, and if you put it on the front page of your L'Équipe now, it will become a joke."

“I forgive you for offending my mother and hope this ends here.”

"Perhaps from now on, we should talk about some peace topics that are acceptable to both sides."

Drucker leaned back in his wicker chair, suddenly feeling as if he were the one being interviewed.

He took off his glasses and wiped them with the corner of his shirt; the reflection from the lenses obscured his humiliated yet excited gaze.
For example, which peace-related topics?

His voice was hoarse, as if Attila's iron cavalry had crushed his throat.

The high heels stomped on the wooden planks of the old bookstore boat, but it felt like cat paws stepping on a velvet carpet.

It took her a full twelve seconds to cover seven steps.

As she bent over, a strand of golden hair fell down, carrying the bitter orange scent of shampoo.

"For example, Mr. Roy's gratitude towards the French youth training system?"

(End of this chapter)