Manchester — At a street corner leading to Old Trafford, a massive crowd of AC Milan fans had gathered.
An estimated 3,000–4,000 supporters, dressed uniformly in red and black, filled the street like a sea of color.
At the front of the group, the leader of the Curva Sud, Bob, held a megaphone and roared:
"We're heading to the battlefield! It might not be our home ground, but we'll shout all game long so that Milan's boys hear us loud and clear!"
Bob's voice echoed through the megaphone, reverberating through the crowd.
A thunderous chant followed:
"MILAAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!"
"Victory belongs to Milan!"
"Victory belongs to Milan!!!!!!!"
"We have Maldini and Nesta! Masters of defense!"
"Maldini and Nesta! Masters of defense!!!!"
"He's gonna destroy you!" Thɪs chapter is updated by novelꞁire.net
"He's gonna destroy you!!!!"
The chants got louder and louder. Bob raised his right hand and shouted:
Bob then turned and pointed toward the stadium:
The wave of fans surged toward Old Trafford, chanting and cheering.
Even when Manchester United fans booed them and tried to drown them out, they continued shouting at the top of their lungs—sending their voice to the Milan players:
"We're here. We're fighting alongside you!"
As they neared the stadium, the booing intensified.
Bob, at the front, saw United fans flipping them off and making mocking gestures.
He didn't flinch. Their chant grew even fiercer:
At the entrance, fans without tickets had to stay outside.
The remaining 2,000 away fans entered via a side gate, guided by stadium staff.
The away section was completely isolated—a common setup to avoid clashes between rival supporters.
Old Trafford took this seriously—practically caging the Milan fans behind barriers.
Inside, they were instantly bombarded with loud boos and insults from United fans.
Those closest even hurled profanities through the fence.
But Milan fans weren't backing down—trash talk ensued.
Jeering, whistling, cursing, cheering—everything collided into a fiery, electric atmosphere.
When both teams came out to warm up, the United fans shifted their aggression to the Milan players.
"HEY! CROATIAN MIDGET! OVER HERE!"
"Who the f*** are you calling a midget?!"
The United fan held up an old photo of Suker—he looked tiny in a crowd.
The fan even pointed to his own waistline to mock Suker's height.
Suker inhaled deeply, turned away—out of sight, out of mind.
Arguing with fans? Useless.
Win or lose the argument—it just distracts you.
Maldini came over, patted Suker's shoulder, then turned to the fan and yelled:
"Come down here and say that to Suker's face!"
Boss, you're making things worse...
Thankfully, Gattuso came and shoved both of them back toward the warm-up zone.
Despite his fierce looks, Gattuso was the most reasonable guy in Milan's locker room.
Not a joke—this was Milan's reality.
Maldini & Nesta: Do the fighting
Gattuso: Tries to be the voice of reason (or takes a card)
Nesta, known for his fiery temper, would literally keep fighting while bleeding—tough as nails.
At Milan, the rule seemed to be:
The better looking you are, the fiercer you fight.
Milan players warmed up on the left, United on the right.
Occasionally, players glanced across the pitch at each other.
"Hey, Luka—what are you looking at?"
Cristiano Ronaldo passed the ball to Modrić, who had stopped and was looking toward Milan's side.
Without turning, Modrić replied:
"Suker's in great shape."
Cristiano raised an eyebrow:
"The match hasn't even started."
Modrić shook his head.
"I know him. When he's hyped, he'll do several sprint runs during warm-up to fire up his body."
He held up three fingers:
"This is his fourth sprint. I've only ever seen him do three max. He's more excited than ever before."
"He's sharper than usual. We need to be careful."
"Relax. Vidic and Ferdinand can handle him."
Just then, Rooney approached.
"Luka, pass it with me for a bit."
He tossed the ball to Modrić—completely ignoring Ronaldo.
Cristiano frowned—clearly annoyed.
But with Ferguson watching nearby, he couldn't react.
As Ronaldo walked off toward shooting practice, Rooney smirked.
"You two are like kids," Modrić said, shaking his head.
"If I can get under his skin, I'm happy."
"You're both childish."
Rooney didn't answer, just smiled.
Back in the tunnel, Suker and Modrić passed each other.
"Your shoelace is untied," Suker said casually.
Modrić stared at him:
"You think I'm that gullible? You just want me to bow to you."
"Wow, Luka! So clever!" Suker mocked sarcastically.
"Get lost—I'm coming for you later."
"We'll see who gets who."
They split off toward their respective locker rooms.
Meanwhile, European broadcasters were already hyping up the match.
Mandžukić sat in front of the TV, yelling into the phone:
"Suker vs. Luka! This is insane—peak Croatian derby!"
On the other end, Vukojević stayed silent for a while.
"...Last season, I faced Suker too. That was a Croatian derby."
"That? You guys got demolished. Even Juninho's free kicks couldn't save you."
Vukojević admitted defeat.
"So—who do you think wins? United or Milan?"
"Hell if I know," Vukojević snapped. "Both teams are goddamn terrifying—United beat Roma 7–1, Milan destroyed Bayern 5–0! Two title contenders—no one can predict this."
"Who do you want to win?"
"Suker," Vukojević answered without hesitation.
"Because I lost to Suker. If United wins, that makes Luka better than me, right?"
"Luka is better than you."
Vukojević ground his teeth, then cursed:
"Hope you end up on the bench behind Suker someday!"
"Are you cursing me?!"
"I'll play midfield and bench you instead!"
Click. Mandžukić hung up.
"Conversations with those guys never end normally…"