The English summer usually promised two things: rain and disappointment.

But this August, the sky over Barnsley was a terrifying, brilliant, cloudless blue.

Michael Sterling sat in his Audi, his hands gripping the steering wheel, but the car wasn't moving. It couldn't move.

Outside his tinted windows, the world had turned red.

"This… is insane," Michael whispered, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

A month ago, they had buried Steve Sterling. A month ago, the town had mourned. But grief, Michael had learned, was a strange fuel. It burned hot, and then it turned into something else.

It turned into belief.

Twenty-five thousand people were in the streets.

A sea of red shirts, red scarves, and red smoke bombs clogged the roads leading to Oakwell.

The "Fortress" was no longer a cute nickname for a League One stadium. It was a destination.

Michael rolled down his window. Immediately, the sound hit him like a physical wave.

"STER-LING! STER-LING! HE'S ONE OF OUR OWN!"

A group of teenagers, wearing the new black-and-gold away kits, spotted him. They didn't politely wave. They banged on the hood of his car, screaming in pure, unadulterated joy.

"WE'RE GONNA SMASH 'EM, BOSS!" one of them roared, his face painted with the Barnsley crest.

Michael waved back, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Today wasn't a friendly against a half-asleep Sunderland. Today wasn't a cup match against a reserve team.

Today was Matchday One of the EFL Championship.

And they weren't playing a nobody. The scheduling gods, in their infinite sense of drama, had given them the ultimate test.

Leeds United.

The Fallen Giants. The team with the massive budget, the Premier League pedigree, and the fans who travelled in armies. This was a Yorkshire Derby to start the season. A war for the north.

Michael finally managed to inch the car through the parting "Red Sea" and into the players' lot. He killed the engine and took a deep breath.

He looked at the empty passenger seat.

"Well, Dad," he whispered, touching the silver watch on his wrist—Steve's watch.

"You wanted a big stage. Is this big enough for you?"

He stepped out of the car, straightened his black suit jacket, and walked toward the tunnel.

The locker room was different.

Last season, before a big game, there had been fear. There had been nervous pacing. But the "Sterling Era Training Complex" upgrades—paid for with Michael's System Points and his father's legacy—had changed the atmosphere. The room was sleek, dark, and professional.

But the chaos inside? That was exactly the same.

"TURN IT UP!" Jamie Weston roared.

The 'Rocket' was standing on a bench, shirtless, bouncing to a bass-heavy track that was rattling the expensive new light fixtures.

His [CA 71] physique looked sharper, leaner. The Championship pre-season had been brutal, but Jamie looked like he was carved out of granite.

"Jamie, sit down, you idiot," Sam Jones laughed.

Michael paused at the door, watching his goalkeeper.

Sam was wearing the Number 1 jersey.

On Deadline Day, Michael had stood in this very room with Arthur, staring at a contract for a 6ft 5in Italian veteran goalkeeper.

A "Giant," just like Steve Sterling had asked for.

But Michael hadn't signed it.

He had looked at Sam—the kid who caught a ball one-handed against Sunderland, the kid who had grown from a nervous wreck into a [CA 72] wall. And Michael had torn the contract up.

"We don't need a mercenary," Michael had told Arthur. "We ride with the ones who got us here."

Sam caught Michael's eye now and nodded. A calm, serious nod. He knew the trust that had been placed in him.

In the corner, Shaun "The Butcher" Higgins was sitting in complete silence. He was staring at a spot on the wall, his eyes unblinking. He looked like he was meditating, or perhaps imagining the various ways he could legally dismember a Leeds striker.

And next to him…

Kai Sora.

He was asleep.

Actually asleep. His legs were stretched out, a towel over his face, his headphones on.

"Is he… breathing?" Michael asked, walking over to Arthur Milton.

Arthur was standing by the tactical board, his cane resting against the wall. The old scout looked healthier.

The grey in his skin was gone, replaced by a flush of excitement.

"He is conserving energy," Arthur rasped, a smirk playing on his lips. "He told me that 'warm-ups are for people with bad technique.'"

Michael laughed. "And you let him sleep?"

"I let him do whatever he wants," Arthur grunted. "As long as he passes the ball like he did last month."

Arthur clapped his hands. The sound cut through the music. Jamie scrambled off the bench. Kai slowly peeled the towel off his face, blinking like a cat waking up from a nap.

"Right," Arthur said. His voice wasn't a roar. It was a gravelly whisper that demanded total silence.

"Listen to that noise upstairs."

They all looked up. The ceiling was shaking. Thump. Thump. Thump. 25,000 people jumping in unison.

"That," Arthur said, pointing his cane at the ceiling, "is expectation. Last year, they hoped you wouldn't lose. This year? They expect you to win."

He looked at the whiteboard. It was simple. No complex arrows. Just one word written in red marker.

RESPECT.

"Leeds United," Arthur said, spitting the name out like a curse word. "They are big. They are rich. Their striker earns more in a week than most of you earn in a year. They think this is a training match. They think Barnsley is a cute little story."

Arthur turned to look at "The Butcher."

"Shaun. What do we do to people who don't respect us?"

Higgins slowly stood up. He cracked his neck. Click.

"We make them regret it," The Butcher growled.

"Exactly," Arthur smiled, a terrifying, shark-like expression.

"They want a football match. You give them a street fight. Michael?"

All eyes turned to Michael.

This was the moment. The "Boss" speech.

Michael looked at his "Kids." Danny Fletcher, the 'Redeemed King,' looked calm. Raph, the 'Magician,' was bouncing a ball on his knee. Finn Riley, the 'Wild Fox,' was vibrating with caffeine and adrenaline.

"My Dad," Michael started, his voice steady, "left us a lot of money. He built this room. He bought the lights."

He paused.

"But money doesn't play. Systems don't play. You play."

He looked at Danny.

"Leeds think they are the Kings of Yorkshire. Go out there and show them… that the Prince has returned."

Danny Fletcher's eyes went cold. He nodded.

"Let's go," Michael whispered.

"YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Jamie screamed, kicking the door open.

The tunnel was suffocating.

The Leeds players were huge. They stood tall, chests puffed out, wearing their pristine white kits. They were chatting, laughing, looking at the Barnsley players with amused condescension.

Their captain, a 30-year-old veteran defender with a nose that had been broken four times, looked down at Kai Sora.

"School trip, is it lad?" the Leeds captain sneered.

Kai didn't even look up. He was adjusting his socks. "You're blocking my light, old man," Kai drawled.

The Leeds captain blinked, his face turning a majestic shade of purple. "What did you say, you little—"

PHWEEEEET!

The referee waved them out.

They walked out into the sunlight, and the noise… vanished.

It didn't vanish because it stopped. It vanished because it was so loud that Michael's brain couldn't process it anymore. It was just white noise. A wall of sound.

Red smoke filled the air. A giant banner was being unfurled in the East Stand.

It wasn't a picture of a player. It was a picture of a Shark. And underneath, the words:

THE LEGACY LIVES ON.

Michael felt a lump in his throat. He took his seat in the dugout. Arthur sat next to him.

"Ready, Boss?" Arthur asked.

"Ready," Michael said.

KICKOFF!

The Championship was not League One.

Michael realized this within ten seconds.

Leeds didn't wait. They pressed. Fast. Hard. Aggressive.

The ball was snapped back to the Leeds midfield. Bam. Bam. Bam. Three one-touch passes, and suddenly, their winger—a lightning-fast Brazilian—was sprinting at Mateo.

Mateo, the 'Magic Bean,' froze for a microsecond.

That was all it took.

The winger dropped a shoulder, feinted left, and exploded right. Mateo was left spinning in the dust.

"COVER!" Sam Jones screamed.

The winger whipped a cross into the box. The Leeds striker, a towering giant, rose above the defense.

THWACK!

A header. Powerful. Downward.

Michael stopped breathing.

It was going in. Bottom corner.

But Sam Jones didn't dive. He launched himself!

His body stretched, a blur of neon green. His hand clawed at the air.

SLAP.

Fingertips. Just fingertips.

The ball diverted, smashed against the post, and bounced out.

"CLEAR IT!" Sam roared, scrambling to his feet.

Higgins didn't ask questions. He swung a leg like a sledgehammer and booted the ball sixty yards upfield.

"OH MY WORD!" the commentator screamed in Michael's ear. "WHAT A START! LEEDS UNITED ALMOST SILENCE THE FORTRESS IN TWENTY SECONDS! BUT SAM JONES SAYS NO!"

Michael let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "They're fast, Arthur. They're so fast."

Minute 15.

Barnsley hadn't touched the ball. It was wave after wave of white shirts. The "Kids" were shell-shocked. The speed, the physicality—it was a different world.

Kai Sora hadn't touched the ball. He was wandering around the center circle, looking like he was waiting for a bus.

"They're mocking us," Jessica whispered from the row behind the dugout. "Look at them."

The Leeds fans were chanting "Olé" with every pass.

Pass. Olé. Pass. Olé.

It was humiliating.

The Leeds captain received the ball near the halfway line. He looked at Kai, who was five yards away. The captain smirked and took a loose, heavy touch, inviting Kai to press.

"Come on then, puppy," the captain taunted.

Kai sighed.

He didn't run. He just shifted his weight.

And then, "The Butcher" arrived.

Higgins had left his position at center back. He had sprinted forty yards. He hit the Leeds captain like a runaway freight train.

CRUNCH.

It was a fair tackle. One hundred percent ball. But the force of it sent the Leeds captain rotating in the air. He landed with a thud that shook the ground.

The ball exploded loose.

Higgins stood over the fallen captain. He didn't shout. He just stared down, his shadow falling over the man.

"Welcome to Barnsley," Higgins grunted.

The crowd erupted. The "Olé" chants died instantly, replaced by a feral roar.

The ball rolled… perfectly… to Kai.

Kai looked at the ball. He looked at the Leeds defense, which was now disorganized, shocked by the violence of the tackle.

And Kai… smiled.

It wasn't the bored smirk. It was the [PA 97] Predator smile.

"Finally," Kai whispered.

He didn't pass sideways.

He turned. He looked up.

Danny Fletcher was running. He had seen the tackle coming. He knew.

Kai pulled his leg back.

THUMP.

It was a laser beam. A forty-yard, ground-hugging pass that sliced right through the gap the Leeds captain should have been filling.

It cut the entire Leeds team in half.

Danny Fletcher didn't have to break stride. The ball arrived at his feet like an obedient dog.

He was through. One on one. The Leeds goalkeeper came rushing out, a giant in orange.

Danny didn't panic. The Wembley miss? Gone. The pre-season goal? That was practice.

This was real.

Danny dropped his shoulder. The keeper bought it. He went to ground.

Danny… just… stepped… over… him.

A ghostly, elegant movement. The 'Prince' gliding past a peasant.

The goal was empty.

The 25,000 fans sucked in a collective breath. The sound of 25,000 hearts stopping.

Danny tapped it.

The ball rolled. Slowly. agonizingly slowly.

Over the white line.

It hit the back of the net with a soft rustle.

GOAL.

For one second, there was silence.

And then, the Fortress detonated.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"

Michael was out of his seat. He was jumping. He was hugging Arthur. He was hugging the physio. He didn't care.

Danny Fletcher ran to the corner flag. He didn't do a silly dance. He didn't scream.

He just stood there, arms wide open, chin up, accepting the adoration of his people.

Michael looked up at the Director's Box. He imagined his Dad sitting there, booming laugh echoing.

"One nil, Dad," Michael whispered, wiping a tear from his eye. "One nil."

On the pitch, Kai walked past the Leeds captain, who was still getting up, rubbing his ribs.

Kai looked down at him.

"School's in session," Kai drawled.

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