September in Yorkshire was usually grey, wet, and miserable. But for Michael Sterling, the last thirty days had been the brightest of his life.

He sat in his office at the Sterling Era Training Complex, staring at the large LED screen on the wall.

It was showing the EFL Championship League Table.

1. Leicester City - 21 pts

2. Southampton - 19 pts

3. Leeds United - 18 pts

4. Ipswich Town - 17 pts

5. Barnsley - 16 pts

Michael leaned back in his dad's old leather chair, which he had moved into the new office.

A month had passed since that crazy opening day win against Leeds.

They had played seven games. Four wins. Two draws. One loss.

The loss had been a brutal 3 to 0 defeat away at Southampton, a harsh reminder that some teams in this league had Premier League budgets and players who didn't make mistakes.

But Barnsley had bounced back. They had beaten Sheffield Wednesday in a fiery derby, and they had scraped a lucky win against Norwich thanks to a ninety-fifth-minute header from Shaun Higgins.

The press was calling them the Surprise Package. The fans were calling them the Super Tykes.

The door to his office creaked open.

Arthur Milton walked in. The old scout didn't knock anymore.

He just sort of appeared, like a ghost with a cane and a tactical obsession.

"Stop looking at the table, Boss," Arthur rasped, dropping a stack of files on Michael's desk. "It is bad luck. We are only seven games in. The season is a marathon, not a sprint."

Michael smiled, spinning the chair around. "I know, Arthur. But it looks good, doesn't it? Above West Brom. Above Watford. My Dad would have framed this screenshot."

Arthur grunted, sitting down on the sofa. "Your Dad would have asked why we aren't first. Speaking of sprints, have you seen the schedule? It is disgusting."

Michael picked up the file. He knew what was coming.

The Championship was famous for being the hardest league in the world not because of the quality, but because of the volume. Saturday, Tuesday, Saturday. It was a meat grinder.

"And now," Arthur said, pointing his cane at the calendar on the wall, "we have the Carabao Cup. Round Three."

Tonight. Oakwell. Under the lights.

"Newcastle United," Michael said, feeling a fresh wave of adrenaline. "Another Premier League giant. Another test."

"Another headache," Arthur corrected, though his eyes were gleaming. "They are rich. They are fast. And they are bringing their first team. They want a trophy. We are barely surviving the league fitness-wise. The sensible thing to do is play the kids."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "We are the kids, Arthur."

Arthur let out a dry chuckle.

"True. But you know what I mean. Higgins needs a rest. Danny has played every minute. If we play them tonight, they might snap in half against Cardiff on Saturday."

Michael stood up and walked to the window. He looked out at the pristine training pitches.

The rain was lashing down, but the squad was out there. He could see Jamie Weston trying to wrestle Higgins to the ground in the mud.

He could see Kai Sora standing under an umbrella held by a physio, presumably refusing to get wet until the actual session started.

"We don't rest," Michael said softly. "Not tonight. The town is buzzing, Arthur. 20,000 tickets sold for a Tuesday night cup game. They want to see us fight the big boys. We play the strongest eleven."

Arthur tapped his cane on the floor. A sign of approval.

"I hoped you would say that. I already told Higgins he is starting. He looked... pleased."

"Pleased?"

"He asked if Newcastle players bounce well," Arthur smirked.

Seven hours later...

At night, under the glare of the floodlights, it felt intense. The darkness seemed to close in around the stadium, trapping the noise inside.

Michael stood in the locker room.

The team looked ready. But they also looked tired.

Danny Fletcher was taping up his ankle. The 'Prince' had been battered by Championship defenders all month. He had three goals and four assists, but he also had a collection of bruises that looked like a map of the world.

Raph, the Magician, sat quietly. He was staring at his boots. He always got nervous before big games, even now.

And then there was Kai Sora.

The Bouncer was sitting in his locker, eating a banana. He looked completely unbothered by the fact that in twenty minutes he would be playing against international midfielders worth fifty million pounds.

"Kai," Michael said, walking over. "You good?"

Kai finished the banana and tossed the peel into the bin with a perfect no-look throw. "I am fine, Boss. But I have a question."

"What is it?"

"Why do they call them Magpies?" Kai asked, looking genuinely confused.

"Newcastle. They are the Magpies. But they are humans. It is misleading."

Michael blinked. The rest of the locker room went silent.

"It is a bird, Kai," Michael sighed. "Black and white. Like their kit."

"Oh," Kai nodded slowly. "That makes sense. I thought maybe they liked shiny things. Like trophies."

"They do like trophies," Michael said, raising his voice to address the room. "And they think they are going to walk over us to get one. They think because we are in the Championship, we are just a training cone for them."

Michael looked around the room.

"We are fifth in the league. We are not a joke anymore. Tonight, we don't worry about fitness. We don't worry about Cardiff on Saturday. Tonight, we show the world that the Fortress is not open for visitors."

"YEAH!" Jamie Weston roared, slamming his fist into his hand.

"Let's go hunting," Higgins growled, standing up. He looked massive in the black home kit.

The walk out of the tunnel was electrifying.

Newcastle had brought 5,000 fans. They were loud, shirtless, and waving black and white flags. But the 20,000 Barnsley fans were louder.

"RED ARMY! RED ARMY!"

Michael shook hands with the Newcastle manager, a famous tactician who looked at Michael like he was a competition winner rather than a rival manager.

"Good luck, kid," the Newcastle manager said, offering a limp hand. "Try to keep it respectable."

Michael's smile didn't reach his eyes. "We will try our best."

KICKOFF.

The difference in quality was obvious immediately.

Newcastle didn't panic like Leeds. They didn't rush. They controlled the ball. Their midfielders were slick. They moved the ball around Kai and Higgins like they were traffic cones.

For the first ten minutes, Barnsley didn't touch the ball.

"They are good," Michael admitted, watching Newcastle's Brazilian winger dance past Mateo.

"They are elite," Arthur agreed. "We need to disrupt the rhythm. We are being too polite."

On the pitch, Higgins seemed to come to the same conclusion.

A Newcastle midfielder, a silky playmaker, tried to turn in the center circle. He had been running the game, dictating the tempo with ease.

He didn't see the shadow looming.

Higgins didn't tackle him. tackle implied an attempt to win the ball.Higgins simply arrived in the same space at the same time with the force of a falling piano.

THUD!

Shoulder to shoulder. Legal, but devastating.

The Newcastle player flew sideways. He rolled three times and looked up at the referee with wide eyes.

The referee waved play on.

"That is better!" Michael yelled.

The game changed instantly. The polite passing stopped. Newcastle realized they were in a fight.

Minute 25. Barnsley won a corner. Their first of the game.

Raph placed the ball. The Newcastle defenders were giants. They towered over Jamie and Danny.

"They are too big," Michael muttered. "We can't win a header."

"We don't need to win a header," Arthur said. "Watch Kai."

Kai Sora was standing on the edge of the box. He wasn't marking anyone. He wasn't making a run. He was just standing there, hands on his hips, looking at the floodlights.

The Newcastle defenders ignored him. Why mark the guy who isn't moving?

Raph raised his hand.

He whipped the ball in. But he didn't cross it high. He drilled it. Low and hard.

A driven pass along the ground toward the edge of the box.

The ball zipped across the wet turf. It bypassed the jungle of bodies in the box.

It rolled straight to Kai.

"SHOOT!" the crowd screamed.

Kai didn't shoot. He trapped the ball dead.

A Newcastle defender rushed out to block him.

Kai waited. He waited until the defender was two feet away.

Then, with the casual arrogance of someone flipping a pancake, Kai scooped the ball.

A delicate chip.

The ball floated over the rushing defender's head. It floated over the defensive line.

And dropping into the space behind them was Jamie Weston.

Jamie didn't have to break stride. He met the ball on the bounce.

The ball rocketed past the Newcastle keeper before he could even raise his hands.

SMASH.

It hit the back of the net so hard the goal frame shook.

GOAL!

1-0 BARNSLEY!

Michael leaped into the air, punching the sky. The stadium erupted.

The noise was so loud it felt like the roof was going to blow off.

"The Lazy Special works!" Michael laughed, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders.

"Physics," Arthur said, a smug grin on his face. "Nobody expects the pass to go to the guy standing still."

On the pitch, Jamie was sliding on his knees, screaming in delight. Kai was walking slowly back to the center circle, accepting high-fives with a mild nod.

Minute 40... Newcastle woke up. They stopped trying to be pretty. They started using their speed.

Their striker, a Swedish giant, received the ball and turned Higgins. It was the first time all season Higgins had been beaten for strength. The striker held him off and laid the ball off to the winger.

The cross came in. Fast. Whipped.

Sam Jones came out to catch it.

"KEEPER!"

But the wet ball slipped.

It fumbled through his gloves.

Silence fell over Oakwell.

The ball dropped two yards from the goal line. An open goal. The Newcastle striker was there. He pulled his leg back to tap it in.

"NO!" Michael gasped.

But then, a blur of white.

Mateo.

The 'Magic Bean' threw himself across the line. He didn't use his feet. He used his face.

BLOCK.

The ball smashed into Mateo's cheekbone and deflected wide.

Mateo lay on the ground, not moving.

"MEDIC!" Michael screamed, sprinting down the touchline.

The referee blew the whistle immediately. Sam Jones was frantically waving for the physios.

Michael reached the pitch just as Mateo sat up. His eye was already swelling shut. He looked like he had gone ten rounds with a boxer.

"Mateo! Can you hear me?" Michael asked, panic rising in his chest.

Mateo blinked his one good eye. He looked at Michael. Then he looked at the goal.

"Did... did they score, Boss?" Mateo mumbled.

"No," Michael said, his voice thick with emotion. "You stopped it, kid. You saved us."

Mateo grinned, a lopsided, swollen grin. "Good. My face... is hard."

The crowd was chanting Mateo's name.

"MA-TE-O! MA-TE-O!"

"He has to come off," the physio said. "Concussion protocol."

Michael nodded. He helped Mateo to his feet. As the young Colombian walked off the pitch, the entire stadium stood up. Even the Newcastle fans were clapping.

"You did good," Michael whispered to him.

He turned to the bench. He needed a replacement.

"Finn," Michael said. "You're up. Go to left back. Just run until you puke."

"On it, Boss," Finn Riley said, sprinting onto the pitch.

HALF TIME.

The whistle blew.

Barnsley 1 - 0 Newcastle United.

Michael walked into the tunnel. His heart was racing.

They were forty-five minutes away from knocking a giant out of the cup.

Michael looked at the Newcastle manager again. The man didn't look condescending anymore. He looked worried.

Michael smiled.

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