The triumphant, chaotic joy of the Sheffield Wednesday victory lasted for exactly twelve hours.

Michael woke up the next morning, the hero of his own story, the 'Kid Genius' who had just toppled the league leaders.

He had his 400 points, his [Full Recovery Potion] unlocked, and his team in the promotion spots.

He sat in his small kitchen, sipping his morning coffee, and stared at the fixture list on his laptop. The words had not changed.

[FA CUP, THIRD ROUND: BARNSLEY FC vs. NORTHWOOD FC]

The warmth of the victory was gone, replaced by a cold, familiar, acidic knot in his stomach. His father.

He didn't have to wait long. The media, which had been his fawning admirer for all of half a day, smelled blood in the water. This was a story. This was the story.

By noon, the 24-hour sports networks were in a frenzy.

The screen was a split-image: on the left, Michael, in his club suit, looking young, intense, and defiant. On the right, his father, Richard Sterling, looking like a king—powerful, immutable, draped in the dark blue of Northwood.

And the headline, in massive, dramatic, white-and-gold letters:

THE STERLING JUDGEMENT: FATHER VS. SON IN FA CUP SHOWDOWN

"I mean, you just cannot write this stuff, Gary!" a pundit was screaming, his face red with excitement.

"The son, cast out, who sold his inheritance to build his own club from the 'scraps' of the game! And now, by the pure, beautiful fate of the FA Cup, he is drawn against the father! The King vs. The Prince! It's Shakespearean!"

Michael switched off the TV. He felt sick.

The next day, the tension, which had been a low hum, became a roaring, all-consuming fire. His father had called a press conference.

Michael, unable to stop himself, gathered with the entire Barnsley squad in the canteen to watch it live on the big screen.

The room was silent, the players all instinctively feeling the weight of the moment.

This wasn't just another opponent; this was the Gaffer's Gaffer. This was the source of the revolution.

Richard Sterling walked onto the podium. He wasn't in a tracksuit, like Arthur. He was in a bespoke, £5,000 navy blue suit that radiated power. He sat down, calmly took a sip of water, and looked out at the packed room of journalists, his face a mask of complete, arrogant, regal calm.

"Mr. Sterling!" a reporter called out.

"You've drawn your son's team in the cup. An emotional day, surely?"

Richard smiled. It was a slow, paternal, deeply patronizing smile that made Michael's skin crawl.

"Proud?" he said, his voice a smooth, confident baritone.

"Of course, I'm proud of Michael. It's wonderful to have a hobby. It keeps him busy."

Michael flinched as if he'd been physically slapped. A low, angry murmur went through the players in the canteen.

"He's done very well," Richard continued, waving a magnanimous hand. "He's beaten a few struggling teams, he's had a good little run, and that's lovely. It really is. It's all very character-building for a young man."

Another reporter shouted, "Are you worried? His team is the talk of the lower leagues! They've beaten two Premier League teams."

This time, Richard laughed. It was not a kind laugh. It was a short, sharp, bark of pure, dismissive mockery.

"Worried?" he scoffed. "About a team of... of children? No. Let's be very clear. On match day, my son is going to get a very valuable, very necessary lesson in what real football requires."

He leaned forward, his face hardening, the King dropping his mask for just a second.

"Northwood is a professional machine, a team of proven, elite winners. Barnsley... is a very pretty, very exciting toy."

He sat back, his smile returning. "And we are going to put that toy, very gently, back in its box."

The feed cut. The canteen was silent. But it was a new, cold, furious silence.

Michael looked around. His players were seething.

"A toy?" Finn Riley, the wild fox, whispered, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He was bouncing his leg, his eyes flashing. "He thinks we're a toy?"

"Did that... that geezer... just call us 'lovely'?" Dave Bishop, the captain, said, his face a dark, angry red. "Like we're a... a bunch of schoolgirls?"

"He's just like all the rest," Jamie Weston said, his fists clenched on the table.

"He thinks we're a joke."

Michael looked at the faces of his "Braves." The fear, the awe, the "FA Cup magic"... it was all gone. Replaced by a cold, unified, "we-are-going-to-end-you" fury. His father, in one 30-second, arrogant clip, had just done Arthur's job for him. He had given his team the single greatest motivational speech of their lives.

Michael walked into his office. Arthur was already there, leaning on his crutch, staring at the tactics board, a look of pure, analytical focus on his face.

"He's arrogant," Arthur said, his voice a low, happy growl. He hadn't even looked up.

"He's fatally arrogant. He thinks we're children. And because he's your father, he's not just going to beat you, Michael. He's going to try and humiliate you. He's going to play his strongest team. He wants to teach you a lesson."

"Good," Michael said, his own eyes as cold as his father's.

"Let's see his 'machine.' I'm curious."

He closed his eyes. The world went blue.

"System. Full first-team roster scan: Northwood FC."

The data flooded his mind. It was... impressive. And deeply, deeply interesting. He opened his eyes, a slow, dangerous, villainous smile spreading across his face.

"Gaffer," he said, his voice full of a sudden, dark joy. "

You are going to love this."

"Give it to me," Arthur rasped, turning from the board, his eyes glittering.

"He's stacked," Michael said, pacing the room, reading the stats from his mind.

"A 34-year-old World Cup winner in midfield. A 36-year-old legendary striker who has won everything. Their team is a 'who's who' of yesterday's superstars."

"They're maxed out!" Arthur cackled, slamming his crutch on the floor for emphasis. "They're finished! They're a team of veterans who peaked five years ago! They're a museum exhibit!"

"They're strong," Michael said. "But they are slow."

Arthur hobbled to the board, a new, manic energy in his movements. He ripped off the Sheffield Wednesday tactics and grabbed a red marker.

"He's right, Michael! He's bringing a machine! A heavy, old, expensive, diesel-powered tank!"

He turned, his eyes burning with a tactical fire that Michael had missed more than anything. "He is bringing a battalion of grizzled, decorated, world-famous, slow-moving veterans."

"And we," he said, his voice a low, thrilled, dangerous whisper, "are a swarm of butterflies... armed with switchblades."

He looked up at Michael, his smile pure, deadly confidence.

"They are not going to touch the ball, Michael. They are not even going to see it."

Michael was about to reply, his own blood singing with the same, glorious confidence, when his phone buzzed. He looked down.

Ethan.

His brother. The New York banker.

He almost hit 'ignore.' But no. He was done running. He answered the call.

"Just calling to congratulate you, little brother," Ethan's voice was a familiar, poisonous, sarcastic drawl.

"You finally got what you wanted. You get to play against Dad. The world is watching."

"It's just another game," Michael said flatly.

"No, it's not," Ethan sneered, his voice dripping with condescending pity. "It's the end of the fairy tale. Dad is going to crush you. He's going to dismantle that little 'toy' of yours, piece by piece, in front of the entire world. I just hope you enjoy the ending, Michael."

Michael was silent for a beat, the cold, familial hatred washing over him.

But this time, it didn't touch him. He thought of Arthur, his partner. He thought of his team, his "Braves." He thought of the "butterflies with switchblades."

"Watch the game, Ethan," Michael said, his voice as cold and sharp as ice.

He hung up.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.