On April 6th, in the capital of Spain, Madrid.

After a busy day, night fell, and the neon-lit city was filled with groups of fans marching through the streets.

They paraded proudly, heading toward the Santiago Bernabéu Stadium in the city center.

As the second half of the season progressed, midweek had become the most anticipated day for Real Madrid fans.

Unlike their previous "Round of 16" struggles, the current Real Madrid was terrifyingly strong.

That's right!

Even the fans saw it that way.

This wasn't just self-praise—30 consecutive wins in the league, plus the Champions League and Copa del Rey, had extended their unbeaten streak to over 40 games.

The 2010/2011 season was undoubtedly one that Real Madrid fans would never forget.

This season, they were passionate, driven, and unafraid of any opponent.

Any team daring to step onto the Bernabéu would be crushed by Real Madrid.

The area around the Bernabéu was already echoing with loud chants.

Tens of thousands of fans gathered near the team bus entrance, singing at the top of their lungs as Real Madrid's bus arrived.

"Oh~~~~ We have the best defense in the world!"

"Ramos, Pepe, they are warriors! And the lively Marcelo!"

"Calm Srna, he's our defensive brain!"

"The handsome Kaká brings us victory~~~~"

The singing grew louder, building toward its climax.

Suddenly, tens of thousands of fans roared in unison:

"SUKER!!!!!!—"

The next moment, an even more explosive chant erupted:

"GOAL!!!!!!!!—"

"Suker!! Goal!!"

"Suker!! Goal!!"

Arms rose like a forest as they lifted their hands high, singing passionately.

Amid the chants, the Real Madrid bus entered the stadium.

At the player entrance, the Real Madrid squad stepped off the bus one by one.

"Ramos and Pepe are warriors, Srna is the commander, so why am I just the 'lively one'?" Marcelo pointed at himself. "Don't I get a cooler nickname?"

Benzema teased, "With those big eyes of yours, you'll never look cool!"

Marcelo's eyes were always wide—sometimes innocent, sometimes clueless. Combined with his frizzy hair, he really couldn't pull off "cool."

"How about 'Lion King'?" Suker suggested with a grin.

Marcelo immediately gave a thumbs-up. "That's cool! I'll be the Lion King!"

"Lion King?" Benzema smirked. "You look more like the old monkey holding up Simba!"

The moment he said it, the entire group burst into laughter. Even Benzema couldn't hold back.

"Sorry, 'old monkey'—I mean, Lion King! Hahahaha!!"

Laughing and joking, the players walked into the stadium, the atmosphere relaxed.

Once in the locker room, Mourinho instructed the players to change and warm up while reinforcing tactics.

The plan remained the same—defensive counterattacks!

There was no need for high pressing; Tottenham wasn't a possession-based team.

A deep defensive line would compress space, making it easier to contain Bale.

At the same time, it would leave more room for Suker and Kaká to exploit on the break.

Of course, Tottenham might adopt the same strategy—they were equally wary of Real Madrid's wings.

In that case, Real would apply measured pressure.

Soon, they took to the field in training gear to warm up.

Tottenham's players were preparing on the other side.

Under the deafening cheers of the home crowd, the Spurs squad looked tense.

Just the name "Bernabéu" was intimidating, and this was their first time playing here.

Add to that Arsenal's 1-5 thrashing by Real Madrid in the previous round.

As fellow North Londoners, Tottenham knew exactly how strong Arsenal was.

They had beaten Arsenal this season, but the Gunners still sat above them in the table—and that match had been far from easy.

If that Arsenal had been dismantled so effortlessly, the pressure on Tottenham was immense.

"Bale!" Manager Harry Redknapp called out. When Bale turned, Redknapp pointed to his eyes. "Stay focused!"

Bale nodded firmly.

Suker glanced over.

At this stage, Bale still looked youthful—short buzz cut, smooth cheeks.

Suker stroked the stubble on his chin. After relentless effort, his facial hair was finally filling in.

Suker naturally had sparse body hair—his legs were smooth, leading to jokes about whether he waxed.

But thanks to Gattuso's recommended hair-growth serum and frequent shaving, progress was visible.

Suker didn't want a full beard, but some stubble made him look more intimidating—and mature.

At 24, his baby face still gave him a "youthful" vibe.

"Suker!" Srna suddenly called.

Suker turned just as a ball flew toward his face. Instinctively, he arched back, chesting the ball up before spinning and volleying it back to Srna, who controlled it effortlessly.

Srna gave a thumbs-up. "Great pass!"

The Bernabéu erupted in applause.

Suker hadn't even seen the ball coming, yet his reaction was flawless—smooth and stylish.

Tottenham's players noticed too.

The pressure mounted.

After warm-ups, both teams returned to the locker rooms.

Suker changed into his match kit, pulled on his socks (no need for holes this time—they weren't as tight), strapped on his shin guards, and laced up his boots.

Casillas stood up. "Gather up, lads!"

The team huddled.

Casillas spoke firmly. "We're in the quarterfinals now. Nobody wants this journey to end. I'm telling you—you're the best. No one can beat you. So play with confidence, make them pay for challenging us!"

Finally, he roared: "¡Hala Madrid!"

The team echoed: "¡HALA MADRID!"

They followed Casillas out to the tunnel.

Suker, as usual, stood at the back, eyes forward.

Tottenham's players kept glancing at Real's squad, but the Madridistas ignored them entirely.

The mind games had already begun.

Whoever looked more was the more nervous one.

Suker paid no attention to the stares directed at him.

Soon, the referee led both teams onto the pitch through the archway.

Starting Lineups:

Real Madrid (4-3-3):

GK: Casillas

DEF: Srna, Ramos, Pepe, Marcelo

MID: Khedira, Alonso, Di María

FWD: Kaká, Benzema, Suker

Tottenham Hotspur (4-4-2):

GK: Gomes

DEF: Corluka, Assou-Ekotto, Dawson, Gallas

MID: Sandro, Palacios, Pienaar, Van der Vaart

FWD: Crouch, Bale

*"This is the first leg of the 2010/2011 UEFA Champions League quarterfinals—Real Madrid hosting Tottenham Hotspur at the Bernabéu!"*

"Real Madrid in their iconic white home kits, Tottenham in black away jerseys!"

"Pre-match reports dubbed this the 'Battle of Speed'!"

"Bale, Suker, Kaká, Srna—all renowned for their pace. What kind of spectacle will these speedsters deliver?"

"Real Madrid must be wary of Welsh star Gareth Bale. Since his demolition of Maicon in the group stage, Bale has only grown stronger in the Champions League, now sitting fourth in the scoring charts with 5 goals."

"But opposite him, Suker leads Real with 10 goals, second only in the competition."

Hearing the announcement, Suker's cheek twitched.

Last round, he'd only scored once.

Meanwhile, Cristiano Ronaldo had capitalized, netting a brace against Marseille to overtake him.

Suker was frustrated.

Ronaldo had racked up five goals against Marseille. Five!

The gap between them had vanished—now, Ronaldo was ahead.

Today, Suker had to score—and score big—to reclaim his spot.

Real Madrid kicked off the first half.

Suker and Benzema stood at the center circle.

Suker tapped the ball forward just past the halfway line, and Benzema immediately passed it back.

"The match is underway! Tottenham Hotspur faces Spanish giants Real Madrid at the Bernabéu—can they hold their own?"

"And can Gareth Bale continue his stellar form against Real, piercing Casillas' net?"

From the start, Tottenham didn't press high. Instead, they dropped deep—prioritizing defense while leaving space for Bale to sprint into.

"Stay calm, don't panic!" Van der Vaart, the most experienced, kept reminding his teammates.

This was their first time facing a team of Real Madrid's caliber—nerves were inevitable.

"We need to ease into the game, control the tempo—"

Van der Vaart wanted to slow things down, let Tottenham settle.

But Real Madrid had other plans.

Suker drifted across the pitch, shadowed by South African midfielder Steven Pienaar.

Pienaar's task was simple: mark Suker, deny him chances.

He had no idea how to stop Suker, but he had to try—it was their only hope.

Suker noticed Pienaar's tense gaze but showed no reaction.

The guy looked like a deer in headlights.

Rookie.

Suker smirked internally.

Then—a sudden twitch of his shoulders.

Pienaar planted his feet, arms wide, ready to block Suker's cut inside.

But Suker's grin widened.

Feet set? Can't accelerate now?

Goodbye.

Suker exploded forward, sprinting along the edge of the box.

Srna slipped a pass to Kaká, who immediately played it sideways—straight to Suker.

Without breaking stride, Suker adjusted his body and crack!—a fierce shot!

Thud.

The sound was off.

The ball deflected off Pienaar's outstretched boot, skimming just wide.

"Suker!! An early attempt, but Pienaar's desperate block deflects it wide! Real Madrid earn the first corner!"

Suker looked down at Pienaar.

The midfielder's heart pounded.

He'd been terrified.

Suker's feint and burst had left him in the dust—and that shot was coming hard.

Pienaar had thrown himself at it, barely getting a touch.

If Suker had connected cleanly, they'd have been in trouble.

Gritting his teeth, Pienaar stood up.

He needed to focus even harder.

"Great job!"

"Brilliant block!"

Teammates praised him, but Pienaar couldn't smile.

Van der Vaart patted his shoulder. "Well done. Stick to him like glue!"

Pienaar grimaced.

There might not be a next time.

Might not reach him in time.

Suker, meanwhile, had taken up position near the top of the box—not entering the scrum.

Yet, Tottenham still surrounded him.

Boom!

Kaká took the corner.

Suker feinted, then darted toward the far post.

Gomes spotted the movement and lunged—just as Suker met the ball with a powerful header!

Thump!

Gomes palmed it over the bar.

"This guy…" Suker landed, eyeing Gomes. "Not bad."

Commentator González: "Suker finds space, but Gomes denies him! Another corner for Real Madrid!"

Second corner in a row.

Tottenham's players felt the pressure.

Clear it this time!

Boom!

Kaká delivered again—this time toward the midfield.

Benzema, wrestling two defenders, lost out.

Michael Dawson cleared it straight to Van der Vaart.

"Counterattack!"

Van der Vaart fired a pass to Bale and sprinted forward.

"Here comes Tottenham's break! Will Bale accelerate? Oh—Srna's sliding tackle! The ball's out for a throw-in. Bale couldn't get going!"

Srna stood up, glancing at Bale.

He'd timed it perfectly—Bale's first touch was heavy, and Srna pounced.

Compared to Suker, Bale's technical flaws were evident.

Suker wouldn't have stopped the ball dead—he'd have taken it in stride.

Two days of focused training had taught Srna how to handle speedsters.

Stop the first step.

Tottenham's throw-in.

Bale shielded the ball from Srna, who shoved back.

The throw came in—Bale controlled it, then suddenly relaxed.

He wanted to unbalance Srna.

But Srna held his ground, angling his body to force Bale wide.

"Taunting me?" Bale scowled.

Fine. Let's see who's faster.

Bale pushed the ball past Srna and accelerated.

Srna's eyes lit up.

He took the bait!

As Bale surged, Srna stepped in, muscling him toward the touchline—but Bale still raced past.

"Bale's past him! Can he reach—"

Before the commentator finished, Ramos arrived first, intercepting the ball and passing to Pepe, who found Marcelo.

Tottenham lost possession again!

"Brilliant teamwork! Srna's pressure forced Bale wide, and Ramos was already covering behind. Perfect defensive coordination!"

"Real Madrid clearly studied Bale—and Srna's positioning was impeccable."

The ball switched to the left flank.

Van der Vaart halted his run, backtracking.

Then—Marcelo played a quick pass to Suker.

"Corluka!" Van der Vaart yelled. "Don't let him run!"

Corluka charged at Suker, slowing as he closed in—ready to pounce when Suker controlled it.

But… Suker didn't control it.

He let the ball roll forward, then exploded into a sprint.

"SUKER!! HE'S OFF!"

"Tottenham aren't the only ones with speed—Real Madrid have their own supercar on the left!"

Spanish commentator González roared as the Bernabéu erupted.

In two strides, Suker was a step ahead of Corluka.

He caught up to the ball, cut inside—

Corluka stumbled, completely beaten.

Now at the edge of the box, Suker fired a low, driven shot before defenders could close him down.

Swish!

The ball nestled into the far corner.

14th minute—Real Madrid 1-0 Tottenham Hotspur!

"SUKER!! A lightning break down the wing! Unstoppable speed tears Tottenham apart!"

"Real Madrid strike first—Suker's clinical finish gives them the lead!"