Chapter 133: Heading to Liverpool! Grudges await reckoning

On the fifth day after the match.

The Spanish Football Federation has officially announced the Copa del Rey semifinal matchups.

Real Madrid vs Celta.

Barcelona vs Atlético Madrid.

At the tactical briefing, assistant coach Davos spent fifteen minutes explaining Celta’s fast passing and cutting system and their high pressing style.

But no one listened seriously.

It’s not that they disrespect their opponents, but that everyone’s nerves are being pulled by another thread.

Four days later.

Champions League quarterfinals.

Away game.

Liverpool.

Anfield.

When Carlo Ancelotti stood up, the atmosphere in the entire tactical room tensed up by a degree.

“We’ll talk more about Celta later.”

The old man switched the chewing gum from the left side to the right side to chew.

“Now, let’s talk about Liverpool.”

Projection screen switching.

Aerial footage of Anfield Stadium appeared on the wall. Red stands, green lawns, and the player entry tunnel known worldwide as the ‘Hell Passage’.

You' ll Never Walk Alone.

The melody of that song seemed to be heard through the screen.

Carlo Ancelotti’s gaze swept across the entire arena.

“Has anyone been to Anfield?”

Kylian Mbappé raised his hand, Jude Bellingham raised his hand.

Then there’s Cristiano Ronaldo.

He didn’t raise his hand, just slightly lifted his chin.

Have you been there?

He has played there countless times, as a Manchester United player.

The red sea at Anfield, for Manchester United’s players, has never been an away game—it’s a battlefield.

England, Liverpool.

As soon as the news of the Champions League match was announced, the whole city was set ablaze.

Front page headline of the Liverpool Echo:

HE' S COMING BACK

(He’s coming back. )

Subtitle: Anfield has been waiting for a long time.

The Daily Mirror reports even harsher.

The 39-year-old veteran returns to hell, and Cristiano Ronaldo’s Anfield nightmare is about to repeat.

On social media, the frenzy of Liverpool fans can no longer be described as excitement.

It was a collective, long-planned release of malice.

“Manchester United’s discarded pawn comes to the Reds’ turf to die, dream on.”

“Last time at Anfield, he played for Manchester United, right? I think we got four of them that time. I don’t remember well, I can check it out.”

“Welcome home, Penaldo. The KOP stands have prepared a ninety minute of greetings for you. "

More people flocked to Cristiano Ronaldo’s Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

The comment section was overrun by a red siege.

“Did Alex Ferguson ever teach you to hide and cry? You should order your own wreath.”

“YNWA means You' ll Never Win at Anfield, remember the old man.”

“Still playing at 39, maybe Real Madrid just can’t find a better one.”

“The spirit of the Istanbul Miracle Night will forever bless Liverpool. You, diving king, will only drown when you return.”

Thousands upon thousands of strips, densely packed, covering the sky and earth.

Among them were some even more terrible ones: digging up photos of his son, old news about his late father, and footage of a malicious foul in the Premier League with mocking memes.

Every knife stabbed at the most painful spots.

What they want to do is simple.

Drive him crazy.

Forcing Cristiano Ronaldo, who had gone wild on the training ground three days ago, to bring him back out.

An emotionally out-of-control Cristiano Ronaldo is ten thousand times easier to deal with than a calm Cristiano Ronaldo.

Madrid Barajas Airport.

Real Madrid’s dedicated coach travels at a steady speed on the highway.

The carriage was quiet; most players wore noise-cancelling headphones with their eyes closed, resting, and the air was filled with the usual grim atmosphere of a pre-battle battle.

The last row by the window.

Cristiano Ronaldo lowered his head, his thumb slowly sliding across the phone screen.

One piece.

Another one.

Another one.

Those malicious words flowed across the screen, icy and bone-chilling.

He watched very intently.

Not a single one was skipped.

Then.

A faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

The curve wasn’t big, but if someone nearby saw it, they’d probably feel a chill down their spine.

That is not a reaction of anger.

That is the joy hunters feel when they hear their prey crash into the encirclement on its own.

Cristiano Ronaldo locked the screen, put the phone in his coat pocket, then turned his head to look out the window.

On the runway, the white charter jet bearing the Real Madrid emblem was warming up its engines, and the navigation lights on the wings flickered rhythmically in the dusk.

Two hours later, the plane will land at John Lennon Airport.

One more night, he will walk into that passage.

The passage at Anfield.

That passage he had walked countless times under the name Manchester United number 7.

Every time you step inside, the red walls on both sides bear the slogans of THIS ISANFIELD, which are like declarations of war.

At that time, he was young and hot-blooded, wishing he could smash that sign with a single punch.

Now it’s different.

Cristiano Ronaldo closed his eyes, the image of the Anfield stands flashing through his mind.

Fifty-four thousand red seats, fifty-four thousand faces twisted and screaming, and that song sung from the opening to the end.

A song that never stops.

They thought the noise would kill him.

He thought hatred could consume him.

He thought the overwhelming insults would turn him back into the madman who lost control on the training ground.

So naive.

They don’t know what they’re feeding.

Every negative comment, every boo, every curse is fuel.

It was the number flashing on the system panel, the stairway to his ultimate power.

The more they hated him, the stronger he became.

This logic is so simple it’s laughable.

The coach slowly drove into the airport’s VIP passage.

Cristiano Ronaldo opened his eyes, stood up, and picked up the backpack from the luggage rack above his seat.

Kylian Mbappé glanced back at him from the front row.

“Ready, Brother Luo.” The Frenchman asked.

Cristiano Ronaldo looked at him and smiled.

That smile was calm, gentle, and even carried a hint of kindness.

But Kylian Mbappé shivered inexplicably.

“Anfield.”

Cristiano Ronaldo threw his backpack over his shoulder and walked toward the car door. The sound was quiet, but everyone in the cabin heard it clearly.

“Long time no see.”

The car door opened.

The March evening breeze in Madrid blew in, carrying the scent of aviation fuel.

Cristiano Ronaldo walked down the steps, his white jacket billowing slightly in the wind.

His steps were neither fast nor slow, his back straight and straight.

Behind him, Real Madrid players filed out one after another, following him toward the boarding gate.

No one spoke.

No one needs to speak.

Everyone knows what will happen at Anfield in four days.

Or rather,

Everyone was eagerly awaiting to witness that event firsthand.

A storm is crossing the Bay of Biscay, sweeping across the French plain, and heading straight for the red city on England’s northwest coast.

At the center of the storm was a thirty-nine-year-old man.