On April 14th, Real Madrid traveled to face Tottenham Hotspur in the second leg of the Champions League quarterfinals.

This time, playing at home, Tottenham put up a stronger performance, creating several attacking opportunities. Yet, after 90 minutes, they still failed to score.

However, they managed to draw a few yellow cards and threatened Real Madrid's goal.

In the 31st and 71st minutes, Suker and Kaká scored respectively, sealing a 5-0 aggregate victory for Real Madrid and securing their place in the Champions League semifinals.

"And that's the match! Tottenham showed some fight, but they couldn't break through Real Madrid's defense. Just as Mourinho said—he's built the best backline in the world!"

Tottenham's attack was completely neutralized.

Srna, Khedira, and Ramos worked in tandem to shut down Bale once again.

As the final whistle blew, Real Madrid's players celebrated—they had advanced to the semifinals.

But the road ahead would only get tougher.

"Everyone played well..."

Florentino Pérez made a surprise appearance in the locker room, leaving the players slightly stunned.

The president was rarely seen—aside from Suker and Casillas, most players might only catch a glimpse of him once a season.

If he showed up for the Champions League final, that would make sense.

But here? In the quarterfinals?

Of course, Pérez wasn't just here for fun.

After Mourinho submitted a transfer request for Gareth Bale, Pérez had taken a keen interest and decided to personally negotiate with Tottenham's chairman.

When the boss speaks, you pretend to listen attentively—Real Madrid's players knew the drill.

Pérez singled out Suker and other top performers for praise, even handing out bonuses as rewards.

That evening, the squad flew back to Spain, while Pérez stayed behind in London.

The Next Morning

Suker had just crawled out of bed when Zorančić barged in, looking frantic.

"Big news!"

Suker rubbed his eyes, groggy.

"Real Madrid are making moves for Bale!" Zorančić said urgently.

Suker tilted his head.

"They're going after Bale! They're creating competition for you!"

Suker blinked. "And?"

Zorančić scowled. "Don't you get it? Bale's talent could threaten your position!"

Suker nodded, yawning. "Sit down first. Want coffee?"

"How can you be so calm?!" Zorančić grumbled. "Fine. Iced."

Suker rolled his eyes, brewed an iced coffee, and handed it over.

Zorančić chugged it in one go.

"Alright, let's talk. What's your plan?" he demanded.

Suker: "Who's more talented—Bale or Kaká?"

"Kaká!" Zorančić answered instantly.

Suker shrugged. "If I can handle Kaká, why not Bale?"

"But Bale's young! He's only 21!"

Zorančić pressed. "How long do you think your prime will last?"

Suker smirked. "Long enough."

He'd grinded for those attribute points precisely to extend his peak.

He wasn't about to lose out to anyone in longevity.

Sighing, Suker stretched. "I know what you're worried about—Bale's potential, whether he'll overshadow me. But think differently—if he wasn't talented, how could he help me?"

"To climb higher, I can't do it alone. I need allies—Kaká, Benzema, others. I can't reject someone just because they're too good. That'd leave me isolated."

"To reach the top, I need more than just my own performances. I need the team. I'm confident I can keep Bale in check and make him an asset."

"Sometimes, to achieve greatness, you have to take risks."

Suker grinned. "The bigger the storm, the bigger the prize."

"But—" Zorančić tried to argue.

Suker cut him off. "Relax. I don't take risks without a plan."

Then he narrowed his eyes. "Wait. You could've said all this over the phone. Why come to Madrid?"

Zorančić hesitated, then sighed. "Actually… I wanted to discuss something else."

"What?"

"Remember those two youngsters I signed at Dinamo Zagreb?"

Suker nodded. "Brozović and Kovačić?"

Zorančić's eyes widened. "You know them?"

"Saw them play," Suker said casually.

Zorančić leaned in excitedly. "I'm sending Brozović to Serie A. But Kovačić—he's special. I don't want to waste his talent. So I was thinking… could we get him to Real Madrid?"

Suker stared. "What?"

Zorančić grinned. "I know it sounds crazy, but it's possible! With your help, he could get a few games."

Suker's eyes darted. "How old is he?"

"Seventeen."

Suker facepalmed. "You're just trying to inflate his value, aren't you?"

This was like padding a résumé.

Zorančić wanted to pluck Kovačić from Dinamo, give him a "Real Madrid" stamp—even if he barely played, the prestige would help him elsewhere.

In theory, it made sense.

In reality? Disastrous.

Worse, Zorančić wasn't a former player. He didn't grasp how crucial game time was at 17.

Ever since diving into commercialization, his mind was all about hype and marketing—forgetting the fundamentals.

"I could help, but don't do this. You'll ruin him," Suker warned. "At 17, he needs minutes, not a flashy CV. One extra game is worth more than any label."

"If I were his age, I'd pick a starting spot in a mid-table team over benchwarming at Real Madrid."

Suker locked eyes with Zorančić. "Who else knows about this?"

"No one." Zorančić looked disappointed.

"Keep it that way. Never mention it again—you'll become a laughingstock. Study football properly. I get that commercialization is hot, but shortcuts like this kill careers."

"Without the skills to back it up, he'll crumble under the pressure."

"...Fine." Zorančić sighed.

Suker frowned. "Why this idea now?"

Zorančić's eyes gleamed. "You know Neymar?"

"The Brazilian wonderkid?"

"He's 19, but already linked with every top club in Europe. Reports say he's joining a giant soon—with a starting role!"

Suker groaned. "So you're eyeing that hype train, hoping Kovačić can steal some spotlight before Neymar?"

"Exactly!"

Suker massaged his temples.

This was delusional.

First, Kovačić wasn't on Neymar's level. Even if he joined Real Madrid, the narrative wouldn't be "next big thing"—more like "nepotism", "forced signing", or "overhyped flop."

At 17, he'd shatter under that scrutiny.

Second, even if everything went perfectly—he'd still barely play. His talent wasn't that explosive.

You can't force growth in the wrong soil.

Suker had high hopes for Kovačić.

By the 2018 World Cup, Croatia's golden generation would be fading.

Suker's ambition wasn't just one World Cup—he wanted more.

If he could accelerate these youngsters' growth, he'd do it—for himself and Croatia.

But not at the cost of breaking them.

Training Grounds

The door creaked open—Srna and Kaká walked in.

Suker checked the clock.

6:30 AM.

These freeloaders are way too punctual.

He waved Zorančić off—they'd talk later—then headed to the kitchen to cook breakfast.

"Why are you here?" Srna asked Zorančić.

Zorančić gave a vague excuse.

Srna nodded, not pressing further.

"The devil's fixture list is here," Srna muttered.

Kaká sighed. "Three Clásicos in two weeks… Can we even survive that?"

Every match against Barça was grueling—but three in 14 days?

April 24th – La Liga, Matchday 33: Real Madrid vs. Barcelona (Home)

April 28th – UCL Semifinals, 1st Leg: Barcelona vs. Real Madrid (Away)

May 4th – UCL Semifinals, 2nd Leg: Real Madrid vs. Barcelona (Home)

This schedule was brutal.

Just thinking about it made them nauseous.

The Champions League semifinals were set:

Top Half: Real Madrid vs. Barcelona (El Clásico x3)

Bottom Half: Manchester United vs. Schalke 04

Compared to the bottom half, this was the real marquee tie.

Two superclubs colliding—six times this season, counting the Copa del Rey final.

For fans, this was dream material.

For the players? Pure torture.

Over breakfast, they vented before heading to training.

In the locker room, the mood was tense.

"Three Clásicos in two weeks? I'm gonna puke."

"I'm already sick thinking about it."

"This'll be the hardest fortnight of the season."

"Can't the league reschedule? Barça won't want this either!"

"No way. It's too late—changing now would screw other teams."

The chatter died as Mourinho entered with his staff.

"I know how tough this stretch will be," he said firmly. "This might be our biggest hurdle yet. But the path to glory is never easy. Only the strongest prevail."

"We won't fall here. Winning each of these games is everything."

"Get changed. Training starts now."

Mourinho dubbed these two weeks the "Marathon Fortnight"—a grueling test of endurance.

The schedule was fixed. No changes.

Whoever blinked first would lose.

They had to stay sharp, hungry, and ruthless.

Starting strong was key—luckily, the first match was at the Bernabéu.

But even then, they couldn't afford any slip-ups.

Barcelona's Side

Barça was also groaning about the fixtures.

If Real Madrid dreaded three straight Clásicos, Barça—having lost all five meetings this season—was terrified.

Losing the first match (April 24th) would end their La Liga title hopes.

Then came two Champions League ties—their only shot at silverware.

These three games would be wars.

Two superclubs, fighting to the death.

The happiest man? Sir Alex Ferguson.

United couldn't have asked for a better draw.

Schalke 04 were impressive underdogs, but knocking out United seemed unlikely.

Ferguson could cruise to the final—then face a battered Real Madrid or Barcelona.

Media Frenzy

The football world was buzzing about this unprecedented clash.

Germany's Kicker: "La Liga Civil War—Will Ferguson Have the Last Laugh?"

Italy's Gazzetta dello Sport: "A Grueling Duel—Testing Bodies and Minds."

Spain's Marca: "The Worst Possible Draw—Whoever Advances Will Be Battered."

Catalonia's Sport: "Neither Barça Nor Madrid Will Reach the Final at Full Strength!"

The hype was real.

Three Clásicos in two weeks?

Pure chaos.

April 23rd – Barça Arrives in Madrid

Despite it being a league game, Barça flew in early, treating it like a cup final.

Their pressure was immense.

Lose here, and the league was gone.

But they also needed revenge.

Even at the Bernabéu, they had to try.

With Barça's arrival, thousands of their fans flooded Madrid.

Clashes with Madridistas erupted immediately.

Just like the first Clásico, the streets became battlegrounds.

Riot police patrolled everywhere, ready to arrest anyone causing trouble.

But the hatred ran too deep.

Fans hurled everything—food, drinks, even a dog was tossed into the fray.

The scene was pure madness.

The war was about to begin.