Michael didn't drive straight home. He couldn't.

His 4-0 demolition of Portsmouth was a distant, secondary victory. The real win was standing in the tunnel, watching a skinny, 16-year-old, arrogant basketball player agree to try his "stupid little game."

He was driving his sensible, gray Audi, but his mind was in the stratosphere. He was buzzing. He was vibrating. He was the owner of a [PA 97] generational talent.

A talent no one in the world knew about. A talent who had, until ten minutes ago, never even considered kicking a football.

He was so wired, so full of a manic, joyous, system-fueled energy, that the thought of sitting alone in his small, quiet flat was unbearable. He just drove, aimlessly, through the darkening streets of Barnsley, the red-and-white scarves of celebrating fans a blur in his window.

He found himself, instinctively, pulling over by a small, floodlit community park. He cut the engine.

Under the harsh, yellow lights, a chaotic, joyous game of 7-v-7 was underway. It was kids.

Kids of all ages, from 10-year-olds like Liam Carter, to teenagers who looked about Kai's age. They were terrible. Their passes were clumsy. They were tripping over their own feet. They were shouting, laughing, and playing with a pure, unadulterated joy.

A skinny kid, who couldn't have been more than 12, got the ball. He tried to do a step-over, like he'd seen Finn Riley do, got his feet tangled, and fell flat on his face.

He didn't get angry. He just laughed, scrambled to his feet, and chased after the ball again, his face a mask of pure, breathless fun.

Michael just smiled, a real, genuine, warm smile.

This. This was why.

This was the "hobby." This was the "toy" his father had mocked.

Kai Sora, with his arrogant, bored, "how-hard-can-it-be" attitude, didn't understand this. He saw "physics" and "angles." He didn't see the magic.

Michael's job wasn't just to train a [PA 97] wonderkid. It was to make him fall in love.

As he sat there, watching the kids play, his heart full of a new, grounded, and profound sense of purpose, the world went blue.

It wasn't the "Crisis" red. It wasn't the "Generational" gold. It was a calm, celebratory, beautiful blue.

[LEGENDARY ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: 'THE UNTOUCHED DIAMOND']

[DESCRIPTION: You have identified a Generational Talent (PA 95+) who has never played professional football. This is a one-in-a-billion discovery. You haven't just found a wonderkid. You are about to create one from nothing. The ultimate test of your 'Barnsley Philosophy' has begun.]

[REWARD: +500 SYSTEM POINTS!]

Michael let out a low, satisfied laugh. 500 points. He was rich again. He checked his balance.

[TOTAL: 550 PTS]

He looked at his [Legacy Development] tab.

The [Upgrade Youth Academy (Lvl 2)] cost 750 points. He was almost there.

"Soon," he whispered.

"Soon, we'll stop rejecting the 'too small' kids."

He finally felt the exhaustion of the day, a heavy, wonderful blanket. He started the car and drove home, the image of the laughing, clumsy, joyful kids burned into his mind. He fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow, and for the first time in his life, he didn't dream of his father. He dreamed of a [PA 97] kid, in a basketball jersey, kicking a ball.

Monday morning. The new, upgraded, £1.5 million training facility was buzzing.

The 4-0 win over Portsmouth had cemented their status. They were the real deal. The players were walking with a new, confident swagger. The "Barnsley Braves" were the team to beat.

Michael walked into the pristine, Premier-League-level locker room, a coffee in his hand, a smug grin on his face. Arthur was already there, leaning on his cane, watching his players file in. The vibe was immaculate.

"Morning, Boss," Jamie Weston said, ruffling Michael's hair as he walked past.

"Ready to watch the magic?"

"Always, Jamie," Michael laughed.

"Morning, Gaffer," Michael said, nodding to Arthur.

"Morning, Chairman," Arthur said, his eyes sharp.

"Good win. But today... today, the real circus begins."

Michael's grin widened. "You're excited."

"I'm terrified," Arthur corrected. "I'm about to introduce a 16-year-old kid who has never kicked a football to a room full of professionals who just beat the league leaders 4-0. This is... this is insane."

As if on cue, the main door to the locker room slid open.

And in walked Kai Sora.

He was not in the club tracksuit. He was wearing his uniform: ripped black jeans, a faded Lakers jersey, a pair of expensive basketball sneakers, and his headphones clamped over his ears, the tinny sound of complex, high-energy jazz leaking out.

And he was dribbling his basketball.

Thump... thump... thump...

The sound of the rubber ball on the brand-new, polished-oak, immaculate locker room floor was a sacrilege.

The room, which had been buzzing with loud, happy, confident chatter, went dead silent.

Every player... froze.

Jamie Weston, who was in the middle of a loud, boisterous story, stopped, his mouth open.

Finn Riley, who was stepping out of a cryo-chamber in a cloud of white mist, just stared, his face a mask of pure, baffled disgust.

Thump... thump... thump...

Kai didn't seem to notice. He just... kept... dribbling, his eyes lazily scanning the multi-million-pound facility.

"Uh... Boss?" Jamie finally whispered, his voice cracking.

"Who's... who's this? Did the basketball team book the wrong room?"

Finn Riley, his red hair a chaotic mess, walked over, a predatory, 'Wild Fox' grin on his face. He looked at Michael.

"Oi, suit guy... wait, no, Boss. Is this the new mascot? Did you sign the lead for the 'Barnsley Bouncers'?"

The room erupted in laughter. It wasn't mean. It was just... absurd. This kid, with his basketball, in their high-tech, sacred, football sanctuary.

Kai finally stopped dribbling. He caught the ball under his arm. He slowly, achingly slowly, pulled off his headphones, his face a mask of pure, bored, arrogance.

"This the first-team locker room?" he asked, his voice a smooth, unimpressed drawl.

"It is," Michael said, fighting, and failing, to keep a smirk off his face.

"Cool," Kai said. He spun the basketball on his finger, his eyes looking over the £50,000 cryo-chambers, the high-tech massage tables, the pristine new lockers. "It's... smaller than I thought."

The laughter died. Instantly.

Captain Dave Bishop, the 33-year-old veteran, stood up. The 'Old Guard' respect was on the line. He walked over, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated "who-the-hell-are-you" confusion.

"Who," he said, his voice a low, dangerous grumble, "the hell... are you, kid?"

Kai just looked him up and down.

A [CA 10] looking at a [CA 68]. He didn't see stats. He just saw an old guy.

"I'm Kai. The new guy. The one he," he jerked his thumb at Michael, "begged to sign."

"Begged?" Michael spluttered, his smirk vanishing.

"I did not beg!"

"You're the new guy, eh?" Finn Riley said, his own 'Wild Fox' grin now full of a new, dangerous, territorial energy. He was the king of the 'arrogant-new-kid' castle, and he didn't like competition. He walked right up to Kai, until they were almost chest-to-chest.

"You any good at... you know..." Finn mimed, badly, kicking a football.

Kai just shrugged, his eyes bored.

"It's just kicking, right? You just... put it in the net. How hard can it be?"

Michael just winced. He put his head in his hands. Oh, no. He's... he's going to get him killed.

Finn's grin widened. It was no longer a smile. It was a threat.

"Oh," Finn whispered, his voice full of a sudden, dark joy. "This... this is going to be fun." He looked at Arthur, who was just leaning on his cane, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated, chaotic amusement.

"Gaffer," Finn pleaded, his eyes shining. "Can we... please... skip the warm-up? I really, really want to see what the 'Bouncer' here has got. Let's do a possession drill. A rondo."

He pointed. "Me. Jamie. And Danny."

"Against... him."

Arthur Milton, the Gaffer, the [PA 91] genius, the man who was supposed to be the adult in the room, just... smirked.

"Alright," Arthur said, his voice full of a sudden, gleeful, evil energy.

"Let's see what the 'Bouncer' can do."

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