Chapter 46: Coach An's Slam the Table to Protect Cristiano Ronaldo, Arsenal Deploys Godslayer Tactics

A few days later, the Champions League match day will begin.

London

By 4 p. m., it was already dark.

London in February is just like this—the sun hides at four o’clock.

Gray clouds pressed over the city, occasionally blowing a breeze.

The rain wasn’t heavy, but that chill seeped through the bones.

The Real Madrid bus left the hotel.

With a white body, the Real Madrid emblem stands out in the gray streets of London.

The car was stopped when it was still 800 meters from the Emirates Stadium.

It wasn’t traffic jams, but people—Arsenal fans packed both sides of the road.

Not just hundreds, but tens of thousands.

Red and white jerseys, scarves, flags, and slogans.

RONALDO RIP

GO HOME GRANDPA

LONDON IS YOUR GRAVE

Some fans were even holding up something.

It’s a frame, and inside the frame is a photo of Cristiano Ronaldo.

The photo even had a black cross drawn on it.

Simply put, it’s a portrait.

The players on the bus saw everything.

Jude Bellingham cursed.

Vinícius Júnior took off his headphones, and Kylian Mbappé sat next to Cristiano Ronaldo today. His expression darkened as he reached for the car curtain, ready to pull it back.

But Cristiano Ronaldo’s hand was pressed against his wrist.

“Don’t pull me.”

Kylian Mbappé looked at him, while Cristiano Ronaldo’s eyes stared out the window.

Those twisted faces, those raised middle fingers, those cardboards filled with malicious words.

Cristiano Ronaldo’s lips curved slightly, a slight smile.

In his mind, the system panel lit up.

London’s malice is damn strong.

The taunt value is not rising.

It was exploding.

+15 million.

+22 million.

+31 million.

Before they even reached the stadium, before entering the aisle, and before the kickoff, just the 800 meters the bus passed through had already brought in nearly 100 million.

Cristiano Ronaldo withdrew his hand, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes.

London.

It’s really a great place.

Pre-match press conference at the Emirates Stadium media hall.

Carlo Ancelotti sat on the stage.

Below, the crowd was filled with British journalists.

The first three questions were about polite formations, injuries, and opinions about Arsenal.

Carlo Ancelotti brushed it off with his Italian-accented English, not really hurting anything.

The fourth question came from a BBC reporter.

“Mr. Carlo Ancelotti, do you dare to start a 39-year-old striker at the Emirates Stadium who has not scored in the league this season?”

He deliberately emphasized the words ‘zero goals’.

Cristiano Ronaldo certainly didn’t score zero, but the media just loves to stir things up.

Someone in the media hall laughed, but Carlo Ancelotti did not.

He stared at the reporter for three seconds, then raised his right hand and clenched it into a fist to slam it onto the table with a bang.

The microphone twitched.

The media hall instantly fell silent.

“Cristiano Ronaldo starts.”

Carlo Ancelotti doesn’t speak loudly, but every word is full of energy.

“Unlimited firing rights.”

Then he stood up.

“Any more questions? That’s my attitude.”

The scene was so quiet that no one raised their hand. Carlo Ancelotti glanced around at them.

He turned and left.

The video was quickly sent back to Madrid.

Real Madrid headquarters VIP meeting room.

After watching the video, the senior representative placed his coffee cup on the table.

Then pick it up and put it down again.

The third time he picked it up, he smashed the cup against the wall.

Coffee splattered on one wall, and ceramic shards fell onto the carpet.

“That old guy is crazy.”

“A 39-year-old striker playing away. Unlimited firing rights in the Champions League knockout stage. "

He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Prepare Plan B.”

“If we lose tonight and the plane lands, the coaching change process will start immediately.”

He hung up the phone.

Standing by the window, looking out at the Madrid sky.

The sky in Madrid is different from London’s; Madrid is blue.

But the faces of the higher-ups were dark.

Emirates Stadium locker room.

Ninety minutes before the match.

Arteta stood in front of the tactical board.

Arsenal players sat in front of him, including Saliba, Gabriel, Rice, Ødegaard, Saka, and others.

Arteta’s eyes were unusually bright today.

That kind of brightness is excitement, almost fanatical affirmation.

“All the tactical plans you saw before are nullified.”

The players looked at each other in confusion.

“The new plan is codenamed Godslayer.”

He picked up a marker and drew a circle on the tactical board.

Two letters are written in the center of the circle.

CR7.

“Tonight, there is only one defensive target.”

He drew four lines pointing from four directions toward that circle.

“Saliba, Gabriel, Rice, Kiwior.”

“The four of you do only one thing from the first minute to the ninetieth minute.”

He poked the circle with the tip of his pen.

“Lock him up.”

“No matter where he is in the penalty area, midfield, or even when he runs into the corner flag area, the bodies of the four of you are always within three meters of him.”

“Don’t let him catch the ball, don’t let him turn, don’t let him lift his head.”

“Kylian Mbappé, don’t worry about him.”

Saka frowned

“Forget about Kylian Mbappé.”

Arteta shook his head.

“Kylian Mbappé is just the limbs, while Cristiano Ronaldo is their brain.”

He threw the marker onto the table.

“If you cut off your brain, your hands will be ruined.”

The changing room fell silent.

Arteta swept his gaze over everyone’s faces.

“Tonight, let’s kill the gods.”

Fifteen minutes before the player tunnel match.

The two teams met in the passage.

The passage was narrow, with two rows facing each other, one red-and-white and one white.

Arsenal’s players are on the left, while Real Madrid’s players are on the right.

Arteta stood at the very front of the Arsenal lineup.

He wore a dark gray coat, hands in his pockets.

He found Cristiano Ronaldo through the crowd.

Cristiano Ronaldo stood at the middle rear of the Real Madrid queue.

Arteta stared at him and then smiled.

That confident smile is like waiting for Cristiano Ronaldo to look back at him.

But Cristiano Ronaldo, his eyes are looking ahead.

He was watching the end of the corridor—the green of the lawn, the white of the lights, and the movement of figures in the stands.

There was no sign of Arteta in his peripheral vision.

She never glanced at him from start to finish.

Perhaps during his playing days, he never cared about this defender.

It’s not that he’s deliberately ignoring, he truly doesn’t care.

Both teams stepped onto the turf.

The Emirates Stadium was packed tonight.

But the boos erupted the moment Cristiano Ronaldo stepped onto the turf.

The Champions League boo isn’t just a boo—it’s a roar.

Eighty thousand people let out low, furious roars at once, shaking even the ground.

Even the hair on the armbands could feel the impact of the sound waves.

Cristiano Ronaldo stands on the pitch.

Lights shone down overhead, making his shadow appear long and inflated.

Here you can find the world’s most brutal away atmosphere.

Eighty thousand people wanted to see him die, but there was no expression on his face.

The opening whistle blew, and Real Madrid kicked off.

Modrić took the ball and passed it to the right.

Jude Bellingham made a forward run to connect, while Kylian Mbappé made a high-speed cut inside from the left flank.

This is the standard opening.

But Arsenal’s defense made a move that no one expected.

Saliba did not join Kylian Mbappé, Gabriel did not join Kylian Mbappé, Rice did not remove midfielders, and Kiwior did not fill in the role.

The four of them moved at the same time.

Cristiano Ronaldo heads in the same direction.

Cristiano Ronaldo had just received a pass from Modrić, controlled the ball with his right foot, and was about to look up.

But the moment he looked up,

The four of them had already arrived, from all directions to the left.

An iron cage—an impenetrable iron cage formed by four people.

Cristiano Ronaldo was locked down, Kylian Mbappé was completely open on the left, and Vinícius Júnior was completely open on the right.

No one cared about them; Arsenal locked one with four men.

The 80,000 people at the Emirates Stadium fell into a deathly silence in an instant, then erupted into wild cheers.

They saw Arteta’s killer move.

At the commentary table, the British commentators were so excited that their voices were splitting into loud noise.

“Arteta saw through it; he completely saw through that Cristiano Ronaldo is the core of Real Madrid. Four people strangled each other—this was a genius-level tactical arrangement! "

Right in the center of this iron cage, Cristiano Ronaldo stomped on the ball with his right foot.

He didn’t panic, didn’t pass, didn’t make a back, didn’t try to break free.

He lowered his head and looked at the ball at his feet.

Then his right ankle moved.

An extremely subtle, unusual torsion angle.

Those were technical moves that no coach on earth had ever taught.

Saliba saw the angle of that ankle.

His pupils contracted slightly because he didn’t understand.

That angle wasn’t shooting, not passing, not dribbling.