The away dressing room at Old Trafford was a small, cramped, concrete box painted a depressing shade of beige.

Michael stood in the corner, his suit jacket now off, his tie loosened.

He felt like he had just run a marathon himself, his body buzzing with a residual, staticky energy from the [Power Shot] and the [Honorable Defeat].

The team filed in, one by one. They were physically wrecked. Their legs were heavy, their chests heaved, and their faces were streaked with sweat and exhaustion. They had, in the end, been beaten by a team of multi-million-pound superstars. They had lost.

But they weren't broken.

There was no shouting, no finger-pointing, no slamming of lockers.

They just sank onto the hard wooden benches, their heads bowed, but not in shame. It was the profound, exhausted silence of soldiers who had left everything on the battlefield.

Jamie Weston was staring at his left boot as if it were an alien object.

The door opened, and Arthur Milton walked in. He didn't look like a man who had just lost 4-2. He looked like a man who had just seen the future.

He stood in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant.

"Get your heads up," he said, his voice not loud, but it cut through the exhaustion like a knife. "Every single one of you. Get. Your. Heads. Up."

Slowly, one by one, the players raised their eyes. They met the gaze of their manager, a man who was now looking at them with a fierce, burning pride.

"I want you to listen to me," Arthur said, his voice low and intense. "What did the world see today? Did they see a terrified, third-tier team roll over and die? Did they see us get humiliated? No."

He began to pace, his energy filling the small room, igniting the air. "They saw us. They saw a billion-quid squad, the richest club in the world, have to fight for every single bloody inch on their own pitch. They saw us get punched in the mouth three times, and instead of crumbling, we stood up, and we punched them back."

He pointed a finger at Jamie, who flinched. "We put two goals past a World Cup-winning goalkeeper. In this stadium. We hit the crossbar so hard I'm surprised it's still standing. We didn't just compete... we attacked."

He stopped in the middle of the room, his eyes scanning every single player, from the oldest veteran to the youngest boy.

"From this day forward, I never want to hear us described as 'some League One side' ever again. When people talk about us, they will talk about what they saw today. They will talk about courage. They will talk about hunger. They will talk about a team that is not afraid of anyone."

He took a deep breath, his chest swelling with pride. "You're not just Barnsley FC anymore. As of today, you are the 'Barnsley Braves.' And I'll tell you this... I am damn proud to be your gaffer."

A profound, electric silence filled the room. Michael felt a shiver trace its way down his spine.

He looked around. On the arms of the captain, Dave Bishop, the man who had been a skeptic, goosebumps had risen.

The players were sitting straighter, their exhaustion forgotten, replaced by a steely, unbreakable sense of identity. They had walked into this stadium as a collection of players. They were walking out as a brotherhood.

As the players began to shower and change, the atmosphere was transformed. The silence was replaced by a low, proud buzz. They were defeated, but they were not vanquished.

Michael's gaze drifted over to Jamie Weston. The kid was sitting on the bench, his hair still wet.

He was holding something, reverently, like it was solid gold.

It was a red Manchester United jersey.

The number on the back belonged to the £50 million right-back he had skinned in the first half. The superstar defender, in a moment of pure, earned respect, had sought out the kid from the cage and swapped shirts with him.

A few minutes later, Michael found himself in the small, functional manager's office reserved for the away team. Arthur was already there, gulping down a bottle of water.

"Well, Chairman," Arthur said, a tired but satisfied smile on his face.

"We lost the battle. But I think we may have just started the war."

Michael didn't respond. He was staring at his phone, his expression unreadable.

"Michael?" Arthur asked, a note of concern in his voice. "You're not upset, are you? We did everything we could."

Michael was quiet for a second more. Then, a strange sound emerged from his throat. It started as a low chuckle, then grew. It was a cold, low, "villainous" laugh, a sound not of joy, but of pure, vindictive, calculated triumph.

"Arthur," Michael said, his voice brimming with a chilling excitement. He turned the phone screen around. "Look at this."

Arthur leaned in, confused. He was looking at the official Barnsley FC Twitter page. The follower count was spinning like a slot machine. Before the match, it had been 80,000. It was now climbing past 580,000.

"Five hundred..." Arthur whispered, his eyes wide.

Michael swiped. The Instagram page. "+800,000 new followers. And counting."

He swiped again, to an email from the club's head of commerce that had just come in. Michael read it aloud. "'Boss, the official merch store has crashed. We've received over 10,000 new orders in the last hour, mostly from overseas. We are completely sold out of Weston and Riley kits. What do I do?'"

Arthur just stared, his mind struggling to process the scale of what was happening. This was a year's worth of commercial growth. In ninety minutes.

Michael finally looked up from his phone, his eyes glittering with a cold, predatory light that was almost frightening.

He had taken his "honorable defeat" points from the system, but this... this was the real prize.

"We came here for a cup tie, Arthur," he said, the cold laugh still in his voice.

"We left with a global brand."

He was still savoring the moment, the greatest triumph of his young life, when his phone buzzed in his hand with a new notification. A text message.

He looked down, his good mood evaporating instantly, replaced by a familiar, icy chill.

The name on the screen was "Father."

He opened the message. It was brutally short.

"Don't let this go to your head. It was a fluke."

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