Guru's getting impatient. He wants an answer.

Ethan's thumb hovered over the screen. He thought of the 'Composure' trait, the immunity to the 'tilt' that had almost cost them everything. He thought of the ten million pounds, a sum that could fast-track his family's dream into an immediate reality.

But then he thought of the man himself. GridironGuru. The smug commentary, the condescending messages, the way he had used Ethan's most painful loss as content for his own channel.

Another message from Liam came through.

The new condition... it's a 'Pink Slip' match. Loser doesn't just forfeit their trait. They have to forfeit the contract of their highest-rated player.

Ethan's blood ran cold. Emre Demir. Guru wasn't just trying to beat him. He was trying to take his best player, the heart and soul of his team. It was a cruel, arrogant, and utterly disrespectful demand.

And in that moment, something inside Ethan clicked. The fear, the awe, the feeling of being a "minnow" in a shark's ocean... it all just vanished, replaced by a cold, clear, and utterly serene sense of defiance.

He typed his reply.

To: Liam Tell your boss the wager is off.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself. He then opened a new message, this one to GridironGuru's official FCG account.

To: Manager 'GridironGuru', Quantum FC Subject: Regarding your generous offer.

Thanks for the invitation, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline.My club isn't a casino, and my players aren't poker chips. We're a little busy preparing for our first season in the Championship. You know, actual, competitive football. Maybe we'll see you in the FA Cup... if you make it that far.

Good luck with your YouTube channel.

The Gaffer.

He hit send, a slow, liberated grin spreading across his face. He wasn't playing Guru's game anymore. He was playing his own.

The next day, he logged into the pod for the first official training session of the new season.

He felt like a new man.

He materialized on the training ground.

The suspensions from last season were a distant memory.

The League One patches on their sleeves had been replaced with the sleek, prestigious badge of the Championship.

"Alright, you champions, listen up!" Ethan called out, and the team gathered around him, a mixture of familiar and new faces.

"Welcome to the Championship," he began, his voice ringing with a new, powerful confidence. "The challenge is bigger, the players are better, but so are we." He gestured to the two new arrivals. "I want you all to welcome the two newest members of the Apex United fortress. From Sporting Lisbon, our new number one, Franco Israel!"

The young goalkeeper, a player with a quiet, intense confidence, gave a respectful nod to the group.

"And from Bournemouth, our new defensive rock, Marcos Senesi!"

The Argentinian defender, a player who looked like he was carved from granite, just crossed his arms, his expression a mask of pure, unadulterated focus.

David Kerrigan, naturally, was the first to speak. "A new keeper, eh?" he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Let's see if he's any good. I bet I can chip him from the halfway line."

Franco Israel just looked at him, a slow, lazy smile on his face. "I bet you can't," he said, his English perfect.

"And a new defender!" Kerrigan continued, circling Senesi. "You any good at tackling, or are you one of those fancy, ball-playing types?"

Before Senesi could answer, Grant Hanley stepped forward, clapping the new Argentinian on the shoulder. "Don't mind him, son," the captain grunted. "He's an idiot. But he's our idiot. Welcome to the club. We're glad to have you."

"Right," Ethan said, a grin on his face. "To business. To get everyone up to speed, we're going to have a little game. Six-v-six. Bibs versus no-bibs. Let's see what we've got."

The teams were divided. It was a clash of the titans. Emre, Viktor, and Hanley on one side. Kerrigan, Sargent, and the two new boys on the other.

The game began, and it was a frantic, high-quality, and utterly brilliant spectacle.

The first test was Kerrigan versus Senesi. The agent of chaos received the ball and immediately went on one of his signature, mazy dribbles, a whirlwind of step-overs and shimmies. But Senesi was a wall. He didn't dive in.

He just jockeyed, matched him step for step, and then, with a perfect, clean, and brutally efficient slide tackle, he took the ball, got to his feet, and played a simple, intelligent pass.

Kerrigan just sat on the turf for a second, a look of stunned admiration on his face, before getting up and giving his new teammate a respectful nod.

The second test was Emre versus Israel.

The SSS-Rank magician, in a moment of pure genius, dribbled past three players, leaving them in his wake.

He was one-on-one with his new goalkeeper. He opened up his body and curled a perfect, unstoppable shot towards the top corner.

But Franco Israel moved like a cat. He flew through the air, his body at full stretch, and with a hand that seemed to appear from nowhere, he got his fingertips to the ball and pushed it onto the post. It was a save that defied physics.

The players on the sideline, who had been expecting the net to bulge, were silent for a second, and then they just started to applaud.

The game was a beautiful, chaotic stalemate.

A testament to the new, incredible depth of talent in the squad. It ended, fittingly, 0-0.

As the final whistle blew, the players, old and new, came together in the center circle, not as two opposing teams, but as one.

They were laughing, patting each other on the back, a mixture of veterans and wonderkids, champions and new arrivals, all united by a single, simple purpose.

Ethan watched them, a feeling of profound, unshakeable belief settling in his heart. Guru could keep his 'Composure'. He could keep his mind-reading cheats. He could keep his soulless, 88-rated robots.

THREE DAYS LATER

The morning of the first match of the Championship season was a beautiful, chaotic symphony.

Ethan sat in the pre-match briefing room, a calm, focused expression on his face, but around him, his team was a buzzing hive of nervous, excited energy.

This was it. The big leagues.

"Right, so their striker," David Kerrigan was saying, looking at a holographic display of the opposition lineup with the intensity of a seasoned analyst.

"He's big, he's slow, and he looks like he's got the turning circle of a cruise ship. I reckon I can nutmeg him at least twice before halftime."

"Your job is to score goals, you lunatic, not to humiliate the opposition," Grant Hanley grunted, but there was a new, easy-going humor in his voice. The suspensions from last season had forged a strange, grudging respect between the grizzled captain and the agent of chaos.

The two new boys, Franco Israel and Marcos Senesi, were sitting together, a picture of quiet, professional focus. "They like to play the long ball," Senesi said to his new goalkeeper in a low, Argentinian-accented whisper. "Anything over the top, you shout. I'll deal with it."

Israel just gave a single, confident nod. "You just worry about the headers. Anything on the floor is mine."

Ethan listened to them, a proud, paternal smile on his face. This was his team. His champions. A beautiful, glorious, and now ridiculously talented mess.

"Alright, you beautiful maniacs, listen up!" he called out, and the room fell silent, all eyes turning to him.

"Welcome to the Championship," he began, his voice ringing with a quiet, powerful confidence.

"Look around you. This room is filled with champions. With giant-killers. With legends. But out there," he said, gesturing to the virtual stadium beyond the walls, "out there, we are nothing. We are the new kids. The lucky upstarts from League One. And our opponents today... they are the fallen giants."

He brought up the crest of their opponents on the main screen. The iconic red and white stripes of Sunderland AFC.

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