Patrick Vieira.
A central midfielder from France, he stood at 193 cm and weighed 92 kg, built like a tank.
Unlike someone like Liverpool's Xabi Alonso, who focused on building up play, Vieira used his superior physique to serve as the engine for both offense and defense.
The so-called box-to-box midfielder, he was also an exceptional defender thanks to the agility and flexibility typical of many Black athletes.
Especially during his prime.
His ability to latch onto opponents and strip the ball was unmatched.
The way he used his long legs to poke the ball away earned him the nickname "Black Octopus."
Some joked it was because of his bald head, but that wasn't the only reason.
His skills were proven by his career.
He was the world's most recognized box-to-box midfielder during his time, leading the golden eras of both Arsenal and France.
But no one is perfect. Vieira had something he wanted to hide.
"Patrick, this time we have to lift the Champions League trophy, right?"
"Boss, do you even need to ask?"
Among the major tournaments, the Champions League was the only trophy he had never lifted—The Big Ears.
And with his age now, the chances to try again were dwindling.
So this season, he was all-in for the Champions League. That was no exaggeration.
"Alright, Patrick. You're the one who's going to stop Ho-young. You're the only one who can. Be confident. You're a legend."
"Boss, I'm always in my prime. Whether it's Messi, Ronaldo, or Ho-young, I can step on any of them."
It wasn't baseless confidence.
Even now, past his peak, he had held his own against Kaka—currently in the form of his life at AC Milan.
Though he had lost the beast-like physique of his younger years, he made up for it with experience and savvy.
He believed he could perform just as well against Ho-young.
"Good. Vieira, I'm assigning you to man-marking. And Cambiasso will provide zonal coverage around you. With your coordination, the two of you can disrupt Ho-young's play."
"What?"
Vieira shot to his feet, frowning deeply.
His clenched right fist spoke volumes about his fiery temperament.
"Are you saying you don't trust me? I may be older, but do I need Cambiasso's help just to mark some kid?"
"Have you forgotten who we're talking about? Or do you still not know who Ho-young really is?"
"Hah."
Vieira was at a loss for words.
Mourinho was infamous for having conflicts with his players.
Arguing with him wasn't unusual, but what he just said felt like a direct insult.
Feeling provoked, Vieira stood up and fired back.
"Ho-young. He's scored six goals in the Champions League and sixteen in the league. Sure, I've heard about him from my friends Desailly and Zidane. But there are plenty of players with better stats than that."
"I see. Then let me rephrase what I said. You know who Ho-young is, but you haven't actually watched him play. Am I wrong?"
"..."
A dead-on point.
With so many players to keep track of, it was impossible to watch everyone from other leagues.
And this wasn't an era where platforms like YouTube made footage easily accessible.
He had followed Messi closely, but Ho-young? He had only glimpsed his play in passing.
"I'm sure that's true for most of you. And I understand. You're not analysts or scouts."
"Then you should show me some respect."
"Respect? I already respect you. I know how great you were. Your fighting spirit, pride, and will to win. I was Chelsea's manager when you led Arsenal's unbeaten season. You're one of the greatest midfielders in history. But can you honestly say you're a better defender right now than Liverpool's Mascherano? If so, I'll apologize."
"..."
Vieira couldn't answer easily, and Mourinho continued calmly.
"I didn't gather you all here to argue. I only care about one thing—winning. All I care about is lifting that trophy. And your job is to make that happen. Do you understand?"
Mourinho always carried the tag of "troublemaker."
But there was another truth behind that.
—He intentionally created conflict to push his players. That was his greatest weapon. Some players even improved through clashes with him. Didier Drogba is a prime example. To this day, he still calls Mourinho "father."
It wasn't wrong.
If Mourinho truly disliked a player, he wouldn't bother talking to him at all, let alone pick a fight.
Sometimes he did go too far, earning criticism. But this wasn't one of those times.
Realizing Mourinho's intent, Vieira backed down.
"My apologies for losing my temper. Please, go on."
Zlatan Ibrahimović, known for his own strong personality, made a strange face but said nothing.
Mourinho continued.
"And Cambiasso."
"Yes, boss."
"You'll be the second line of defense. If Ho-young gets past Vieira, stay composed and stop him immediately."
"Understood."
Inter had an abundance of defensive players.
Mourinho planned to use that to work his magic.
April 26.
Three days before the Champions League semifinal, Real Madrid had an away match against Sevilla.
Madrid needed to rest their core players, but they couldn't send out only second-stringers either.
Sevilla, after all, was sitting in third place in the league.
[Van der Vaart, Sneijder, Guti, and Higuaín are starting today. Ho-young and other core members are resting comfortably on the bench.]
[Even that is enough to intimidate Sevilla. They know Ho-young could be subbed in at any time.]
The match proceeded smoothly.
The Dutch connection, who had been benched for a while, ran with fire in their eyes after finally getting a chance.
They conceded the first goal, but Sneijder, playing as the playmaker, led a second-half comeback.
Then, Ho-young was subbed in late in the game and added another goal to seal the win.
[Sneijder's killer pass and Ho-young's composed ground shot paint a beautiful picture. The build-up from Van der Vaart and Guti was excellent too.]
[Looks like Mourinho should be nervous. Who said Madrid lacks depth? Every single player is dangerous.]
Whistle—
With Madrid's victory, Inter's match analyst, watching from Sevilla, called Mourinho with a heavy expression.
The weight and presence of Madrid at the stadium were even more intense than expected.
No ordinary preparation would be enough.
April 29, Wednesday.
Stadio Giuseppe Meazza in Milan, Italy.
Commonly known as San Siro, Inter's home stadium was hosting the big match.
The first leg of the Champions League semifinal between Inter and Real Madrid.
As usual, the match was set to kick off at 8:45 p.m.
The starting players from both teams sprinted onto the pitch after the official UEFA team photo.
Italian fans roared to boost Inter's morale.
Madrid's traveling supporters raised their voices as well, but they were no match for the roar of 70,000 fans.
The sea of Italian chants was overwhelming.
Still, Ho-young held his focus, keeping his composure.
He had experienced this many times before.
He wasn't someone who could be rattled by this anymore.
His body was filled with confidence, and his mind armed with determination.
This was the Champions League semifinal.
A win here meant the final.
He was so close to the highest honor.
At the very least, they had to return with a draw.
And as he stood in the center circle, preparing to start, his eyes fell on one man.
'Adriano.'
A towering presence only a few meters away, exuding menace.
[Adriano]
[Possessed Talents: Football Monster (T), Innate Strength of the Football Monster (SU), Unrivaled Shooting Power (SS-), Astonishing Balance (SS-), Naturally Gifted Body Balance (S), (More...)]
(You may acquire one talent if conditions are met.)
(If acquiring a T-grade (Title) talent, partial sensory adaptation is available. Must be over 18 to acquire.)
(For S-grade or higher, hidden conditions must be met.)
(Condition 1: Win the match)
(Condition 2: Record an attacking point)
(Condition 3: Score more goals than Adriano in the Champions League semifinal)
(Condition 4: Be selected as the Match's MVP)
(Hidden Condition: Unlock after acquiring at least one of his talents)
(Special Condition
(If Special Condition
A nearly perfect striker.
The number 9 who inherited the Brazilian striker lineage after Romário and Ronaldo.
In terms of talent alone, he was comparable to Ronaldo. But he had a fatal flaw.
He couldn't manage his private life.
It was said that while God gave him talent, He took away his discipline.
He didn't earn the nickname "Emperor of the Night" for nothing.
Brazilian forwards were generally known to enjoy nightlife, but Adriano took it to another level.
Late-night parties before big matches were common, and nightclub brawls weren't out of the ordinary either.
He had even won the infamous Bidone d'Oro—Italy's "Golden Trash Can" award—two years in a row.
By overwhelming vote, no less.
Football had lost its joy for Adriano, and he was considering retiring at the end of the season.
But since Mourinho's arrival, his form had been gradually returning.
Now he had helped lead the team to the Champions League semifinal.
He even rejected Manchester City's offer of double the salary to stay with Mourinho.
In a world where money ruled, that was a rare decision.
But for Adriano, money wasn't the most important thing anymore.
He was slowly changing.
Though he hadn't changed completely—he still threw a party just days ago—but on the pitch, he was different.
He wanted to repay Mourinho with results.
The match began.
[To all the viewers around the world, the long-awaited Champions League semifinal has kicked off. Real Madrid will start with possession.]
[Real Madrid comes out in a 4-2-3-1, spreading the formation wide from the get-go. Attacking midfielder Ho-young charges into the penalty area right away. At the same time, Zinedine Zidane steps forward to link up play.]
[The tension from the pre-match mind games is spilling onto the pitch. It looks like both teams want to assert dominance early.]
[Oh! Ho-young breaks forward immediately!]
6 minutes into the first half.
Zidane's soft pass rolled to Ho-young's feet.
And in front of him stood a man whose monstrous physique resembled that of a black beast.
'Vieira. So he's on me tonight.'
As Ho-young thought that, Vieira flashed a grin.
"So, you're that little brat?"
A mind game flared up across the ball.
But only for a moment.
Ho-young immediately brushed it off.
Vieira was one of the greatest midfielders ever, deserving of respect. But right now, he was just another opponent to beat.
There was no room for sympathy.
Without a word, Ho-young took off on the dribble.
(To be continued.)