The next morning, the rain had stopped, but a thick fog had rolled in over Yorkshire. It covered the training pitches in a blanket of white, making the goalposts look like ghostly skeletons.

Michael Sterling stood at the window of his office, holding a mug of tea. He was tired. Negotiating with three different continents in one day was exhausting. But he was also buzzing.

The deals were agreed in principle. Now came the boring part. The paperwork.

The door to his office burst open. There was no knock. There was never a knock when Arthur Milton was involved.

The old scout marched in. He looked dishevelled. His coat was rumpled, and there was a smear of ketchup on his collar, likely a souvenir from the Nando's meeting in London.

Behind him walked a boy.

Isaiah King.

In the flesh, he looked even smaller than he did on FaceTime. He was wearing a black tracksuit that was two sizes too big, and his hood was pulled up so high that only his nose and chin were visible. He walked with a bounce, a swagger that said he owned the room even though he had never been there before.

"We are here," Arthur announced, collapsing onto the sofa. "He did not speak for three hours. He just played music on his headphones. Terrible music. It sounded like robots fighting in a blender."

Isaiah ignored Arthur. He looked around the office. He looked at the framed photo of Steve Sterling on the wall. He looked at the league table on the screen.

Then he looked at Michael.

"So," Isaiah said. His voice was quiet, scratching with teenage attitude. "This is the empire?"

Michael smiled. He put his tea down. "This is the start of it. Welcome to Barnsley, Isaiah."

Isaiah snorted. He walked over to the window and looked out at the foggy pitches. "It is foggy. I cannot even see the grass. How do you play football if you cannot see the grass?"

"We use the fog," Michael said, walking over to stand next to him. "It hides us. The opposition does not know where we are until it is too late."

Isaiah looked up at Michael. For a second, the moody teenager mask slipped, and Michael saw a flash of genuine curiosity.

"You talk weird for a manager," Isaiah said. "My coach at Arsenal just shouted. He shouted about shape. He shouted about tracking back. You talk about fog."

"Did you listen to him?" Michael asked.

"No," Isaiah shrugged. "He was boring."

"I am not boring," Michael said. "And neither is this contract."

He walked back to his desk and picked up a document. It was a pre-contract agreement. It stated that on January 1st, Isaiah King would officially become a Barnsley player.

Isaiah walked over. He picked up the pen. He didn't read the paper. He just looked at Michael.

"You promise I play?" Isaiah asked again. "I am not coming here to sit in the cold and watch the big guys run."

"I promise you get a chance," Michael said seriously. "If you are good enough, you play. I do not care about age. I do not care about size. Look at our team. Our best midfielder is a sixteen year old who hates running. Our striker is a rejected prince. We are the island of misfit toys, Isaiah. You will fit right in."

Isaiah smirked. He uncapped the pen. He signed his name with a flourish. A big, messy signature that took up half the page.

Isaiah King.

"Done," Isaiah said, dropping the pen. "Now. Can I see him?"

"See who?"

"The Bouncer," Isaiah said. "Kai Sora. I want to see if he is real."

Michael laughed. "He is real. He is probably in the canteen eating his third breakfast. Come on."

The canteen was busy. The first team squad had finished their morning recovery session and were fueling up for the afternoon tactical meeting.

The noise level was high. Jamie Weston was loudly recounting a story about a fishing trip. Finn Riley was trying to balance a spoon on his nose. Higgins was eating a steak that looked like it was meant for a dinosaur.

When Michael walked in with the small figure in the black hoodie, the noise died down slightly.

"Fresh meat!" Jamie shouted, grinning.

Isaiah didn't flinch. He scanned the room. His eyes locked onto a table in the corner.

Kai Sora was sitting there. He was eating a bowl of cereal very slowly. He had his headphones around his neck.

Isaiah walked straight over to him.

Michael and Arthur watched from the doorway.

Isaiah stopped in front of Kai's table. Kai looked up, spoon halfway to his mouth.

"You are the Bouncer," Isaiah said. It wasn't a question.

Kai chewed slowly. He swallowed. "I am eating," Kai said simply.

"I am Isaiah," the boy said, puffed out his chest. "I am the new signing. I am a striker. And I am faster than you."

The whole canteen went silent. Even Higgins stopped chewing his steak.

Kai looked at Isaiah. He looked at the oversized tracksuit. He looked at the dreadlocks peeking out of the hood.

Kai smiled. It was his lazy, amused smile.

"Everyone is faster than me, little man," Kai drawled. "Running is hard work. If you want to run for me, you are hired."

Isaiah blinked. He wasn't expecting that answer. He frowned. "I will score more goals than you."

"Okay," Kai said, going back to his cereal. "Good luck. The goal is that big white thing outside. Try not to miss."

The room erupted in laughter. Jamie Weston was howling.

Isaiah went red, but then he smirked. He liked the challenge. He sat down opposite Kai and stole a piece of toast from Kai's plate.

"Hey!" Kai protested weakly.

"Tax," Isaiah said, biting into the toast. "London tax."

Michael turned to Arthur. "They will get along fine."

Arthur nodded. "Or they will kill each other. Either way, it will be entertaining."

Back in the office, the work was not done.

The London deal was signed. But South America and Asia were waiting.

Michael sat down at his computer. He opened his email.

A document had arrived from Uruguay. It was scanned, slightly crooked, and had a coffee stain in the corner. But it was the contract for Diego Nunez.

The signature was there. Thick, heavy ink. It looked like it had been signed with a chisel.

Diego Nunez.

Michael printed it out and filed it in the folder marked JANUARY REVOLUTION.

Then, the phone rang.

It was the Director from Tokyo Verdy.

"Moshi moshi, Sterling san," the polite voice said.

"Director," Michael answered. "Is everything okay? Did Kenji agree?"

"Kenji is... honored," the Director said. "He has signed the papers. He is very excited to play in England. He has already bought an English dictionary. He is learning the words for 'tackle' and 'run'."

"Those are the only words he needs," Michael chuckled.

"There is one small request," the Director added hesitantly. "Kenji's mother... she is worried about the water in Barnsley. She says English water is too hard for Japanese hair."

Michael blinked. "The water?"

"Yes. She wants to know if you can install a water softener in his apartment. It is a small thing. But mothers are important."

Michael laughed out loud. "Director, for Kenji, I will install a waterfall if he wants. Tell his mother the water will be soft as silk."

"Arigato," the Director said, sounding relieved. "We will send the papers now."

Michael hung up. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Three players.

Isaiah King. The spark.

Diego Nunez. The muscle.

Kenji Sato. The engine.

They were coming.

But secrets in football never stayed secret for long.

Later that afternoon, Michael was scrolling through Twitter on his phone while waiting for the tactical meeting to start.

He stopped.

A tweet from a famous transfer journalist, Fabrizio Romano, had just popped up.

"EXCLUSIVE: Barnsley FC making surprise moves! The Championship side has agreed pre-contracts with THREE unknown talents. An 18yo defender from Uruguay, a Japanese midfielder, and former Arsenal wonderkid Isaiah King. The 'Moneyball' revolution in Yorkshire continues. Here we go! #BarnsleyFC #Transfers"

The comments underneath were brutal.

User123: "Who is Diego Nunez? Is he Darwin's cousin?"

LeedsFan99: "Barnsley signing nobodies from the Japanese league? They are going to get relegated."

TacticoGenius: "Isaiah King? The kid with the attitude problem? Good luck controlling him. Barnsley are desperate."

Michael read the comments. He felt a familiar fire burning in his chest. The same fire he felt when people laughed at his Dad. The same fire he felt when people said Barnsley would go down.

He liked it.

He liked being the underdog. He liked it when they laughed. Because it made the silence so much sweeter when they won.

He put his phone in his pocket and walked into the meeting room.

The squad was waiting. Higgins, Danny, Jamie, Raph, and even the new kid, Isaiah, who was sitting at the back looking sulky but attentive.

Michael stood at the front of the room. He looked at the map of the pitch on the screen.

"Cardiff City on Saturday," Michael said. "They are big. They are physical. They think they can bully us."

He looked at Isaiah.

"They think we are a small team signing small players," Michael said.

He looked at Higgins.

"They think we are lucky."

He slammed his hand on the table.

"Let them think that. In January, we get reinforcements. We get the Bull. We get the Engine. But until then? It is just us. And us is enough."

The room was silent. Focused.

"Arthur," Michael said. "Show them the clips."

Arthur clicked the remote. The screen showed footage of Cardiff's defense leaving huge gaps behind their fullbacks.

"We hunt there," Michael said, pointing at the screen.

He looked at his team. The Dynasty was growing. The pieces were falling into place. The contracts were signed. The ink was dry.

Now, they just had to survive until Christmas.

Michael smiled.

"Let's go to work."

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