It was match day morning, and the home dressing room at Oakwell was a tomb.

The usual pre-match ritual—the loud, thumping bass of a playlist, the cheerful, rowdy insults, the sharp, electric smell of anticipation—was gone.

Today, the only sound was the funereal, rain-slicked clatter of studs on concrete as players walked in one by one, their faces grim.

Michael stood in the corner, a silent ghost in a club suit, his presence barely registering.

His "Braves," his giant-killers, looked like a defeated army. They were broken.

The press, of course, had seen to that.

On the large TV in the corner of the canteen, muted, the 24-hour sports news was playing on a loop. The headline was a brutal, all-caps gut punch:

"THE COLLAPSING CLUB: Barnsley Manager in Hospital, Midfielder Fails Doping Test."

The story was a vulture's feast. It painted a picture of a club in freefall, a "circus" whose luck had finally, tragically, run out.

And at the center of the storm was the interim manager, Steve.

He was standing at the front of the dressing room, holding a tactics board, but his hands were shaking so violently that the little magnetic players were rattling.

His face was a pale, sweaty green, and his voice, when he tried to speak, was a reedy, terrified squeak.

"Right... right, lads..." he stammered, his eyes darting around the room, finding no comfort in the deflated, hollow-eyed expressions of his players.

"They're... they're a good team. They like to... to play. So we need to... to be... compact. Yes. Very... compact..."

Michael sighed. This was a catastrophe.

Steve, the [CA 55 / PA 60] assistant, was a nice man.

He was a loyal servant. But he was not a leader. He was a supply teacher who had just been asked to command an army in a war, and he was having a full-blown nervous breakdown in front of his troops.

The players were deflated. They had no manager. Their real manager, their architect, was in a hospital bed.

Their vice-captain, Mark Jennings, the "lungs" of their team, was gone—his name now a byword for a scandal.

They were leaderless, rudderless, and about to walk out in front of 20,000 fans who were expecting a miracle.

Hope was lost.

Michael looked at his team, at the broken pieces of his empire. He looked at Steve, who was now just pointing, wordlessly, at a passing diagram. He had to do something.

He couldn't give a speech. W

hat could he say? His "Money vs. Hunger" line, which had once felt so powerful, now tasted like ash in his mouth. Tactics wouldn't save them. Speeches wouldn't save them.

They needed a miracle.

And Michael, the desperate god of his own small, collapsing universe, knew he was the only one who could provide it.

He closed his eyes. The din of the dressing room, the shaky, pathetic sound of Steve's voice, it all faded away.

"System."

The familiar, cool, blue light was a comfort.

"Show me my balance."

[BALANCE: 150 POINTS]

The points from the "Miracle at the Den." He had been saving them, hoarding them, planning to buy recovery potions or a lottery ticket.

Now, they felt like his last, single bullet in a gun. He couldn't afford to miss.

"Open the Skill Shop."

He needed a replacement for Jennings. He didn't just need a player. He needed a concept. Jennings was their engine, their tackler, their enforcer. He needed to buy, with his last 150 points, a new engine.

He scanned the list. [Power Shot]. [Third Lung].

All good. But not what he needed. He needed... this.

[PERMANENT TRAIT: The Interceptor]

[Cost: 150 Points]

[Description: Massively increases a defensive midfielder's ability to 'Read the Game,' 'Cut Off Passing Lanes,' and 'Make Successful Tackles.' The player becomes a defensive wall, a human magnet for the ball.]

It was perfect. It was exactly what Jennings had been, but better. It was the entire position, distilled into a single, purchasable skill.

It was every single point he had.

"Buy it."

[Skill Purchased: The Interceptor - 150 pts].

[Current Balance: 0 pts].

He was broke again. Back to zero. The panic of that was momentary, replaced by a much more urgent problem.

Who to give it to?

He couldn't give it to Dave Bishop, his captain. He was a defender, needed at the back. He couldn't give it to a an attacking player, it would be a waste. He needed a new defensive midfielder.

He scanned the room, his system-enhanced gaze sweeping over his players. The starting XI was already set in Steve's mind, a safe, uninspired, "compact" lineup destined to lose 1-0. He looked at the substitutes' bench.

It was a line of academy kids, their faces pale with a mixture of excitement and pure, unadulterated terror. He scanned them, one by one.

[Liam (GK): CA 49 / PA 72]

[Ryan (DEF): CA 51 / PA 69]

And then, his eyes landed on a kid at the end of the bench.

A boy named Tom. An 18-year-old who Michael had literally never spoken to.

A boy who was on the bench only because the squad was so thin. A boy who had never, ever, played a single minute of professional football.

[Tom Harrison (MID): CA 45 / PA 70]

Michael stared at the numbers. They were, in a word, terrible. A Current Ability of 45. He was, objectively, the worst player in the room. His potential was a 70, meaning his absolute, life-long ceiling was to be a mediocre, forgettable player in this very league.

He was a nobody. He was a non-entity.

And he was the only option.

"This is insane," Michael thought, his hand hovering over the 'Confirm' button. "This is a career-ending, club-destroying, insane decision."

But what was his alternative? To trust Steve's "compact" plan? To go out and lose, slowly and painfully? No.

This was the "Barnsley Philosophy." Find value where others saw risk. He was about to inject a [CA 45] player with a 150-point, supernatural defensive skill. He had no idea what would happen. It was a mad scientist's experiment, in the middle of a league game, with his entire empire on the line.

He took a deep breath.

"System. Gift [The Interceptor]... to Tom Harrison. Now."

[Skill Gifting Confirmed. Tom Harrison now possesses the trait: The Interceptor!]

Michael opened his eyes. The room was still a tomb. Steve, the interim manager, had finished his sad, rambling speech and was now, his clipboard shaking so hard it was a blur, about to announce the starting lineup.

"Right... lads..." Steve squeaked. "Lineup. Sam, in goal. You know."

"Back four... Dave, Ben, Ryan, Scott. Same as last week."

"Wingers... Finn, Jamie. Up top... Danny."

The "Holy Trinity" was in. They all just nodded, their faces grim.

"And... in the midfield..." Steve paused. This was the moment. This was the hole left by Jennings. "We're going to go with... with..."

He hesitated. His eyes darted to Michael, a look of pure, desperate, 'please help me' terror. He was looking at his notes, but he was frozen. He couldn't make the call.

Michael stood up.

The clatter of his chair in the silent room made every player jump. He walked from the corner, his footsteps the only sound, and stood next to the trembling interim manager.

His voice was not loud. It was ice-cold, firm, and absolute.

"Tom."

The entire room turned. The players, Steve, everyone. They looked at Michael, and then they looked at the end of the bench, at the 18-year-old academy kid who looked like he was about to be sick.

Tom Harrison, his face instantly draining of all blood, pointed a shaking finger at his own chest.

"M...me?"

Michael's gaze was locked on him. He had just staked his entire season on a coin flip.

"You're starting."

The room was in shock. The players, Steve, and Tom Harrison himself just stared at him, their mouths open, in absolute, total disbelief.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.