"You absolute, magnificent idiot. What have you done?"

He had, in his moment of triumph, created a monster. He had given a [CA 55] assistant manager a single, miraculous victory, and that man, high on a success he didn't understand, had just walked into the middle of the town square and punched a sleeping bear in the face.

His phone, which had been buzzing with positive alerts for a week, now lit up with a new, horrifying kind of fire. He opened Twitter.

"Who is this clown? 1-0 win and he thinks he's a genius?"

"League One Gaffer Calls Out Premier League Wolves!"

"ARROGANCE or INSANITY? Barnsley's interim boss just handed Wolves their team talk!"

Michael scrolled, his stomach churning, until he saw the one notification that made his blood run cold. It was from a verified account, with millions of followers.

João Veloso, Wolves' £60 million Portuguese star winger, their most famous and dangerous player.

The tweet was short, simple, and utterly chilling.

"Heard some League One gaffer thinks we're 'struggling.' Naive talk. Can't wait for match day."

Michael dropped his phone on the desk as if it were on fire. This was a catastrophe. This was the exact, exact opposite of the 'Honorable Defeat' strategy.

They were no longer the plucky, hungry underdogs. They were the arrogant, loud-mouthed fools.

Wolves weren't just going to play them; they were going to hurt them.

He slammed the intercom button on his desk. "Brenda," he said, his voice ice-cold.

"Get Steve in my office. Now."

A minute later, Steve walked in. He was still strutting, his chest puffed out, a bright, idiotic smile on his face. He was the man. He was the gaffer who had won.

"Morning, Boss!" he chirped. "Great day, eh? Really put the wind up 'em! Showed 'em we're not scared!"

Michael just stared at him. He let the silence stretch, his cold gaze slowly draining the smug, self-satisfied energy from the interim manager. Steve's smile faltered, replaced by a look of nervous confusion.

"What... what do you mean, Boss?" he stammered.

"What the hell did you do, Steve?" Michael asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

"I... I reckon we can take 'em'?" Michael said, repeating the line like it was a piece of rotten fruit. "You 'reckon'?"

Steve's confidence completely evaporated, replaced by the pale, squeaky-voiced terror Michael knew so well.

"I... I just wanted to show confidence, sir! For the lads! You know... show them that I believe in them! That we're not scared..."

"You didn't show confidence, Steve, you showed stupidity!"

Michael snapped, finally standing up, his control breaking. "Do you have any idea what you've just done? Wolves were in a slump! They have a European game next week! They were going to rest their team, just like Man United! They were going to play their kids! They were going to underestimate us! And you... you just gave them a reason not to."

He snatched his phone from the desk and shoved it in Steve's face, displaying João Veloso's tweet.

"Read that, Steve! That's their £60 million superstar. He's not resting now. He's coming here, to Oakwell, and he's bringing all his £500-million-pound friends with him! And they're not coming to play a cup tie. They're coming to humiliate us. To punish us. You didn't just poke the wolf, Steve, you walked into its den, slapped its cubs, and stole its dinner! Your job is to coach the team we have, not give a stronger opponent a motive to tear us apart! Don't you ever talk to the press like that again!"

Steve was as white as a sheet, his entire body trembling. "Oh, God," he whispered, his eyes wide with dawning horror. "I... I'm so sorry, sir. I... I got... I got carried away... I didn't mean to... I just... I don't know what to do..."

Michael sighed, the anger vanishing, replaced by a cold, hard, managerial dread. He was stuck.

Arthur was in a hospital. He had a Premier League team, now motivated by pure rage, arriving in two days. And his only manager was this guy.

"Get out, Steve," Michael said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Go... go watch the tapes. And don't talk to anyone. I'll call you in an hour."

Steve, looking like he was about to be sick, scrambled out of the office.

Michael was alone. He was in the exact same position he'd been in a week ago: facing an impossible challenge, with no manager. But this time, he had a new tool.

He closed his eyes. "System. Show me my balance."

[BALANCE: 300 POINTS]

The reward from the 'Victory in the Darkest Hour.' He had been saving it. Now, it was his only hope.

"Open [Coaching Staff Development]."

The new interface appeared. He saw the list: [Steve: CA 55 / PA 60], [Mark: CA 62 / PA 75]. He clicked on Steve. A shop menu appeared, one he hadn't seen before.

[Permanent PA Upgrade (+5)] (Cost: 500 pts) - Too expensive. And, frankly, a waste on Steve.

[Learn New Trait: 'Motivator'] (Cost: 300 pts) - Tempting. But he didn't need a motivator; he needed a genius. And Steve wasn't one.

[Temporary Upgrade (1 Week): Advanced Tactical Understanding] (Cost: 250 pts) - A one-week rental... of a genius brain. It was perfect.

It was almost all his points. It would leave him with only 50. But what other choice did he have? Let the [CA 55] version of Steve try to "be compact" against a furious, world-class Premier League attack? No. He had to act.

"System," he commanded, his voice firm. "Purchase [Temporary Upgrade: Advanced Tactical Understanding] for Steve."

[CONFIRMED. -250 System Points. New Balance: 50 pts. Buff will be active for 7 days.]

He took a deep breath. He hit the intercom.

"Steve, get back in here."

A moment later, Steve shuffled back into the office, his head bowed, his face a mask of pure misery.

"Sir, I just... I can't apologize enough. I'll... I'll resign if you want... I've ruined everything..."

As he was speaking, Michael watched him. He saw it. A faint, shimmering blue light, like a digital wave, washed over Steve's head for a split second.

Steve stopped, mid-apology. He blinked. He looked at the wall. He looked at his own hands. A look of profound, almost dizzying, confusion crossed his face. It was the look of a man who had just been woken from a very long, very stupid dream.

"Steve? Are you okay?" Michael asked, trying to keep the smirk out of his voice.

Steve's eyes, previously wide and terrified, suddenly... changed. They narrowed. They became focused, sharp, and analytical.

He looked at Michael, not with fear, but with the cool assessment of a partner.

"Sir," Steve said, his voice no longer a reedy squeak, but a firm, confident baritone. "You're absolutely right. My comments were emotionally driven, tactically suicidal, and have put this club in an almost unwinnable position."

Michael just stared. It worked. It worked too well.

Steve walked past him, uninvited, and strode to the large tactics board on Michael's wall. He grabbed a marker.

"I've been re-watching their tapes all morning, but I've been looking at it all wrong," he said, his hand moving with a confident, fluid motion, drawing lines and arrows that Michael had only ever seen Arthur draw.

"We've been planning to hit them with Finn on the right, but that's what they'll expect now. It's an obvious counter. But their real weakness..." he circled a name, "...is their left-back. The Algerian. He's their main attacking outlet, Veloso drifts inside, and he bombs forward on the high press. But his recovery... it's lazy. The center-back on that side, the Belgian, he's a giant, but he's slow on the turn."

He drew a new, sweeping arrow. "The real way to win is to exploit that high press. We switch Finn to the left. We play him as an inverted winger. We let the fullback run, and we hit the space he vacates with a diagonal ball to Finn, cutting inside onto his strong foot. It's a perfect counter to their entire system."

He turned to Michael, his eyes glittering with a tactical brilliance that did not belong to him. "It's our only chance. It's how we can win."

Michael just sat there, a slow, dangerous smirk spreading across his face. He had just turned his bumbling, terrified assistant into a temporary tactical genius.

"Good," Michael said. "Go tell the lads."

Match day. The tunnel at Oakwell was a powder keg. The stadium was sold out, the noise a deafening, unified roar.

The Wolves players filed into the tunnel. They looked angry. They weren't the B-team. This was their full-strength, £500-million-pound squad.

João Veloso was there, his face a mask of arrogant disdain.

The Wolves captain, a huge, bearded English defender, looked over at the Barnsley line.

His eyes landed on Steve, who was standing at the end of the line, his face a mask of perfect, analytical calm, a clipboard in his hand.

The captain sneered, his voice a low, threatening growl, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Get ready for a lesson, kids. And you..." he looked at Steve, his eyes full of pure disgust. "...watch your mouth."

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