The final whistle.

Michael stood in the director's box, his hands gripping the railing.

BARNSLEY 4 - 0 DERBY COUNTY

His team had been so angry, so dominant, so good, that they had simply covered for him.

The 30,000-strong crowd at Oakwell was a single, bouncing, screaming, joyous red-and-white monster.

They were singing Jamie Weston's name to the tune of a pop song. They were chanting Danny Fletcher's name. They were doing the "Olé" chant as the 10-man Portsmouth team just... stood there, their spirits broken, their faces a mask of pure, humiliated shock, just waiting for the referee to end their suffering.

Michael was on his feet, applauding, a wild, giddy, almost hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest.

He practically floated down from the director's box, his feet not touching the ground. He strode down the tunnel, which was already vibrating from the music in the home dressing room. He pushed open the door, and the wall of sound and heat hit him like a physical force.

It was pure, joyous chaos.

The music was so loud the walls were shaking.

Finn Riley, the "Wild Fox," was standing on one of the (brand new, very expensive) locker stalls, his shirt off, swinging his jersey around his head like a madman, screaming the lyrics to a song Michael didn't know.

"BOSS! BOSS! HE'S HERE!" Jamie Weston roared, his face red, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He grabbed Michael and pulled him into a bone-crushing, sweaty, champagne-soaked hug.

"DID YOU SEE IT?! DID YOU SEE THAT ROCKET?! IT BROKE THE NET! I'M TELLING YOU, IT TORE A HOLE IN THE NET!"

"I saw it, Jamie! I saw it!" Michael laughed, pounding him on the back. "You're going to be paying for that net!"

"Worth it!" Jamie screamed, as someone (probably Finn) doused them both with a bottle of ice-cold water.

Michael just laughed, his suit now soaked. He didn't care.

"Oi! Boss!" Finn yelled from his perch.

"Did you see that keeper's face? When I sent him for a hot dog? He looked like he'd just seen a ghost!"

"He had!" Danny Fletcher, the 'Brain,' yelled back, a rare, unrestrained grin on his face as he balanced a ball on his head.

"The ghost of his own career!"

The room erupted in laughter. Even the 'Old Guard' was in on it.

Captain Dave Bishop, a man Michael had only ever seen look serious, was sitting in the corner, a towel over his head, his shoulders just... shaking... with laughter.

This was the moment. This was the "invisible chemistry" Arthur had talked about.

He stood there for a long time, just... basking.

After a few minutes, the noise and the heat becoming too much, he slipped out of the main dressing room, his heart full, and went into the adjoining, and much quieter, brand-new physio room. He needed a second. Just a second to breathe.

He leaned against one of the new, futuristic, £50,000 cryo-chambers, a deep, satisfied, smug grin on his face. He had done it. He had faced down his father, his brother, the press, the league leaders... and he had won. He had a team of superstars, a genius manager, and a "straight line" path to the title.

And then, as he stood there, at the absolute peak of his triumph, his world went gold.

It wasn't the familiar, cool, blue light of the system. It was a bright, pulsing, blindingly gold, holy light.

A new notification, in a font he had never seen before, flashed in his vision.

[!!! GENERATIONAL TALENT DETECTED! PROXIMITY ALERT !!!]

Michael's heart stopped. His smug grin vanished, replaced by a cold, electric shock.

Generational?

[A TARGET WITH A POTENTIAL ABILITY (PA) OF 95+ IS WITHIN A 100-METER RADIUS!]

Michael choked. He literally choked on his own breath.

Ninety-five?

He... he didn't have a 95. His highest was Raphael, a 93. A 95... that wasn't a superstar. That was a legend! That was a once-in-a-lifetime, history-defining...

[TARGET STATUS: CIVILIAN. UNATTACHED.]

[TARGET PROXIMITY: 75 METERS. 70 METERS. 65 METERS...]

Michael's blood ran cold. Civilian? 100 meters?

That meant... they were here. In the stadium. Right now.

And... 65 meters...

They were leaving.

"No," Michael whispered, his voice a panicked, hollow sound.

"Oh, no, you don'T."

He burst out of the physio room, his suit still dripping, his heart hammering against his ribs. He sprinted down the tunnel, ignoring the confused "Boss?" from one of his players.

He ran out, onto the edge of the pitch. The stadium was emptying.

Thousands of happy, singing, red-and-white-clad fans were filing out of the exits.

He was about to lose them. He was about to lose a [PA 95+] talent in a sea of 25,000 people.

"System!" he commanded, his voice a hoarse, desperate whisper. "Scan! Scan the crowd! Find him!"

[ACTIVATING 'WONDERKID' SCANNER... SCANNING... SCANNING...]

His vision exploded. It was like the Matrix.

Every single person, every fan, every steward, every media member... they all had a number over their head.

[Fan: CA 5 / PA 10] [Steward: CA 15 / PA 20] [Journalist: CA 30 / PA 35]

It was a blur of useless, meaningless data.

"No, no, no... filter!" he yelled, "Filter for... for PA over 90! Now!"

[FILTERING... TARGET ACQUIRED!]

The system zoomed.

His vision, like a high-tech sniper scope, locked on, past the pitch, past the stands, to one of the main exit tunnels of the stadium.

He was 40 meters away.

It was a father, and his son. The father was holding his hand, trying to pull him through the happy, slow-moving crowd. The son... the son was tiny. He couldn't have been more than 10 years old. He was skinny, had a mop of unruly, mousy-brown hair, and was wearing a Barnsley shirt that was three sizes too big for him, with "FLETCHER 9" ironed onto the back.

Michael focused. He scanned the kid.

And the numbers that appeared... they were not blue. They were a pulsing, shimmering, platinum white.

They were the most beautiful, most terrifying, most impossible numbers Michael had ever seen.

[LIAM CARTER. AGE: 10.]

[STATUS: CIVILIAN. BARNSLEY FC ACADEMY TRIALIST (REJECTED - 'TOO SMALL').]

And then... the numbers that stopped Michael's heart, that stopped the world from spinning, that changed his entire, pathetic, 1.5-million-pound training ground upgrade into a joke.

[CA: 12 / PA: 97]

Michael Sterling stopped breathing.

Ninety... seven.

A 97-potential. A kid who was... who was REJECTED... by his own... stupid... academy... because he was... "TOO SMALL"?!

He was right there. He was walking away. He was about to be lost forever, a ghost, a legend that never was.

Michael didn't think. He didn't plan. He just acted.

He leaped over the advertising hoardings, his £1,000 suit snagging on a piece of plastic. He sprinted, his expensive, leather-soled shoes slipping on the pristine, "carpet-like" turf, his heart a frantic, dying bird in his chest.

"WAIT!" he roared, his voice cracking, a desperate, insane sound that echoed in the emptying stadium.

"STOP! KID! IN THE FLETCHER SHIRT! DON'T LEAVE!"

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