CHAPTER 517: THE ROAR OF LUKOIL ARENA

Lukoil Arena, Moscow, Russia.

During the away match against Spartak Moscow, Richard was welcomed by his Russian friends and fellow investors — Roman Abramovich, Alexander Abramov, and Aleksandr Frolov. Each of them was a major shareholder in Evraz, a UK-incorporated multinational steel manufacturing and mining company.

Roman Abramovich leaned back on the leather sofa, a glass of tea warming his hand rather than vodka. From everything Richard had observed so far, Abramovich was nothing like the Western stereotypes. He wasn’t loud or flamboyant — but quiet, analytical, almost shy. His eyes were always working.

"Richard," he began, calm and precise, "you’ve built a very... effective system. Global. Long-term. I want something similar for Russian football. Or..." He leaned forward slightly, a thin smile forming."Give me the recipe to defeat Spartak."

Richard’s mouth twitched.

It was impossible to deny how envious Abramovich was of Spartak Moscow — Russian champions three years in a row.

Richard had heard the complaints more than once, especially about why he had recommended Zenit St. Petersburg instead of Spartak. He sighed, even though he knew Abramovich was half-joking. After all, acquiring Zenit had always been about politics — tied to their company’s factories and influence in Saint Petersburg.

"Spartak winning isn’t a bad thing," Richard said. "Especially with their rivalry against CSKA. That’s domestic strength."

"I know," Abramovich replied, his tone tightening. "But I want European relevance. Sustainable. Not just money thrown at players who arrive at twenty-eight and leave at thirty-one."

"What do you mean?" Richard asked, though he already knew.

"What else? I’m burning money here. Clubs are cheap, but their infrastructure is neglected. Fans are loyal, yet ignored—"

"And fix those three," Richard interrupted lightly, "and Zenit’s value rises."

Abramovich shook his head with a soft, humorless laugh. "Tell me a story first — do you really believe football can become a profitable business here? All I’ve seen so far are endless wages and repairs."

Richard nodded. "It won’t be glamorous. Not at first. You’ve only been in charge of Zenit for two years — you’ll need to tear down old habits." He paused, leaning forward. "Let me tell you something."

As they continued discussing the future of football, Richard spoke passionately about its growth model. Football was becoming increasingly Europeanized — a surge of foreign players and aggressive commercialization.

"The Premier League is the best example," he said. "Look at the broadcasting revenue alone."

He took a slow sip of his tea. "Italy, however — yes, Serie A may be the best league in the world right now. But its structure limits long-term growth. Restrictions on non-EU transfers, family-run ownership that blocks foreign investment — all of it is risky. And then there’s the brutality on the pitch."

He leaned slightly closer.

"Do you remember the player I sold to AC Milan last year?"

Abramovich shook his head, admitting he hadn’t followed the matter closely.

Richard sighed. "Andriy Shevchenko. He went because he dreamed of Serie A. But what did he find? Weeks spent in rehabilitation — knee problems from relentless, cynical challenges." Richard shook his head. "Their most spectacular attacks often end in brutal fouls. Fans want to see brilliance — players dazzling on the pitch, not sidelined on crutches."

Abramovich narrowed his eyes, clearly considering the implications.

"What I’m trying to say is — make the league always organized and always competitive. You already understand TV, sponsorships, marketing. Germany has stability, but their 50+1 rule keeps foreign money out. Stable, yes. Explosive growth? No."

Abramovich crossed his arms. "And where does Russia fit into this future?"

Richard’s eyes drifted toward the pitch, where Spartak’s players were warming up — sharp, confident, relentless.

"Right now?" he said quietly. "Russia is sleeping. Great potential. No direction."

"So tell me," Abramovich pressed, his tone sharpening, "how do we wake it up?"

Richard smiled. "Infrastructure. Training facilities, youth academies, scouting networks. And fans — give them identity, give them dreams. Turn Zenit into the pride of Saint Petersburg."

"And then?" Abramovich asked.

"Then Russia goes to Europe," Richard replied confidently. "Build so well that everyone else has no choice but to follow."

The match against Spartak Moscow and Manchester City began in chaos.

Spartak’s home end was already a sea of red and white — some official, many hand-painted, all hostile. Soviet-era chants thundered through the cold evening air, drums pounding like artillery. It wasn’t just passion — it was territory. Their tifo though, was very interesting.

This was post-Soviet football culture at its rawest:

1. Militsiya (police) lined the stands in thick coats, wearing hard, unreadable expressions

2. Hooligan groups — Spartakovtsy and Fratria among them — clustered at the curva, eager for trouble

3. Flare smoke curled into the night sky despite stadium rules

4. Nationalist chants erupted now and then, aimed at anything foreign

Manchester City’s players, stepping out for warm-ups, were greeted by a wall of whistles and insults — some English curse words surprisingly well-pronounced.

A plastic bottle clattered near the touchline. Then another. The stadium announcer attempted to calm the fans — nobody listened.

Inside the VIP box, Richard watched in silence. He leaned slightly toward Abramovich. "You want European relevance?" he said quietly. "It starts by surviving nights like this."

On the pitch, the referee checked both keepers. His whistle rose to his lips.

The roar that followed kickoff made the stadium feel alive.

O’Neill did not greet Spartak Moscow’s coach, Oleg Romantsev. To be honest, he was too busy avoiding plastic bottles being thrown from the stands. Realistically, Spartak’s chances of advancing were already gone — but they still had one motivation: drag Manchester City down with them.

The group standings before kickoff:

Inter Milan – 10 points

Sturm Graz – 9 points

Manchester City – 7 points

Spartak Moscow – 1 point

Manchester City still had a chance to reach the knockout stage — but everything had to go perfectly:

City must win tonight. Tomorrow, Inter must defeat Sturm Graz— or —Inter and Sturm Graz must draw, because the goal difference between City and Sturm Graz was far too big. No one believed Sturm Graz could beat Inter by a ridiculous score like 3–0, especially at Meazza.

Richard has a deep respect for Spartak, who under coach Oleg Romantsev was known for dominating domestic football. They combined scouting from across the former USSR, aggressive youth recruitment, and a club identity that resonated with many fans. So, the advantage of being the dominating force in Russian football; playing against them away would feel like walking into a fortress, with home crowd, confidence, tradition, and pressure on the opponent.

Standing on the sidelines with his hands in his pockets, he watched O’Neill pacing back and forth, probably feeling anxious, thoughts racing through his mind.

PHWEEEE~

As the match began, Richard observed the players’ movements and lowered his head, managing a self-deprecating smile. It seemed they had disregarded his words once again.

Today, before the match, he had made an exception and gone over tactics in the locker room, even reiterating the key points to the players at least five times the day before.

Spartak wanted to survive! They wouldn’t be content with just a point — and what would they do?

They wanted to drag City down with them!

If they patiently controlled the game, opportunities would surely present themselves. Yet, right after kickoff, City’s players dashed forward like unbridled horses, eager to overwhelm their opponents — exactly like in the previous match.

Perhaps they thought: "Don’t worry, they need points to survive, but we want the championship!"

Pires’s shot from outside the box was feeble and easily collected by the opposing goalkeeper. Soon, a familiar scene unfolded — but this time, the visitors played the lead role.

The goalkeeper threw the ball out, and it swiftly moved forward through a series of quick passes. Spartak players charged into City’s half as if racing.

Makelele’s foul delayed the attack, but the referee ignored it because the attacking side retained possession of the ball.

Manchester City’s players, who had pressed aggressively at the start, were noticeably slower to recover. They had gritted their teeth to reach this point, but their stamina was already hitting its limit. In the early minutes, most players’ movements revealed their fatigue.

Moreover, they had grown accustomed to overwhelming opponents in previous matches. Faced with Spartak’s swift counterattacks today, they found themselves flustered.

Spartak Moscow, leveraging four players’ intricate movements upfront, effortlessly tore through City’s defense with a numerical advantage during a rapid counterattack.

When the ball hit the back of the net, City’s players stood stunned, while the away fans fell silent, shocked.

"We conceded a goal?!"

"Spartak take the lead! And what a shocker — just two minutes on the clock, and Manchester City are already behind! But there’s plenty of football left to play. City are an attacking side, they’ve got quality all over the pitch, so don’t expect them to fold just yet."

Under normal circumstances, Richard knew City wouldn’t fear conceding a goal. But seeing the players’ tense expressions today made him feel anything but confident. He stood up and shouted, gesturing with both hands downward, trying to calm the players.

His actions made Abramovich and his friends in the VIP box smirk in amusement.

Sitting back down, Richard sighed. Conceding a goal wasn’t the end of the world — and since it happened so early, it could actually be beneficial. They had plenty of time to adjust; there was no need to panic.

’There is plenty of time to catch up,’ he told himself. Yet his gestures served little purpose — the players were already too focused on achieving victory, driven solely by their relentless willpower.

After the restart, City attacked with more ferocity and showed some effective play, but their impulsive mentality caused their final attacking sequences to lose power dramatically. Consequently, defensive players pushed up to assist in the attack. As the match progressed, their formation became increasingly aggressive.

In the thirty-second minute, Spartak unleashed a swift and deadly counterattack, leaving City’s already unbalanced formation severely exposed.

The goal hit the back of the net again.

Spartak Moscow 2 – 0 Manchester City

Richard fell into deep silence; even those on City’s bench appeared to be in disbelief.

A two-goal lead?!

At that moment, City’s players truly felt the blow. Their eyes involuntarily drifted toward the bench — in this predicament, it seemed only the staff could guide them back on course.

O’Neill turned his back to the players and waved his arms toward the stands, signaling for the fans to rally behind the team. The traveling Cityzens supporters seemed to recover more quickly than the players. Yet, how could a handful of fans, having traveled all the way from England, really compete with the home crowd?

Winning the league title would be fantastic, but that didn’t mean the team could afford to fail tonight.

A thunderous roar rose again from Luzhniki Arena.

From the stands, the name Cityzens! echoed like a battle cry. Carl Moran yelled, leading the Blazing Squad — Manchester City’s most dedicated traveling supporter. Cityzens clutched scarves and banners, raising them high with each beat, their voices combining into a single, unified roar.

At that moment, the players on the field finally snapped to attention. They returned to their half and exchanged a few words before rearranging their formation after the restart, without the earlier haphazardness.

However, with Spartak leading by two goals, they couldn’t afford to sit back and relax. They had to hold their ground — all else would follow.

At halftime, the score remained 0-2, with City two goals down.

It seemed their hopes of progressing to the knockout stage were slipping away.

In the locker room, O’Neill was the last to walk in. The players were waiting for him, eyes eager, as if expecting to glean the secret to victory from his words.

Instead of going straight to the tactical board, he spoke earnestly. "First, we need to stop conceding any more goals. Second, opportunities will come — Spartak’s defense isn’t impenetrable. Today, however, you’ve been too anxious. In the second half, my only requirement is that you calmly observe the situation before making passes or runs. Make the right choice: pass, dribble, or shoot. I believe you already know how to do that."

The players exchanged glances, their expressions revealing lingering doubt. Pires looked up and asked, "Boss, will that guarantee a win?"

O’Neill clenched his fists. "I have faith in you! You can win! But remember — while passion is essential in football, so is rationality. You must show courage and fighting spirit, but equally, you must demonstrate football intelligence."

The players nodded in unison.

After they emerged for the second half, Mourinho pulled O’Neill aside, puzzled. "Why don’t you yell at them to wake up? If they had executed the tactics we set before the game, how could it have turned out like this?"

O’Neill shook his head and patted Jansen on the shoulder. "They’re just overly eager for victory and too confident in themselves. If I yelled at them now, it would only create conflict. The team doesn’t need that right now."

"But that doesn’t mean we can ignore the coach’s tactical plans!"

"Jose, here’s a saying you should remember: ’If you aren’t reckless when you’re young, what’s the point of being young?’"

He held no grudge against the players; it all seemed perfectly normal to him. He had been young once too — rebellious, overconfident in his skill, and convinced he was the best. That saying about harsh truths resonated deeply with the youth.

As long as they could still focus on the pitch, he felt a sense of gratitude, even if their energy wasn’t being channeled correctly. What mattered most was how to guide the players back onto the right path; that was his true concern.

"I’ll take responsibility for the result, whatever happens," he said, patting Mourinho on the shoulder before leaving the locker room.