A month.

A month of holding his breath. A month of watching his "straight line" path to promotion wobble and bend, threatening to break.

Michael sat in his office, his sanctuary, his war room, and stared at the league table on his TV.

The 24-hour sports news was, for once, not a source of pain or mockery, but a source of grudging, bewildered respect.

"I've got to be honest, Jeff," one of the pundits was saying, his face a mask of confusion, "I don't get it. I really don't. I thought they were done. I thought the 'Barnsley Braves' were a one-hit-wonder that would collapse the second their manager was out. But... look at this."

A graphic filled the screen. The League One table.

1- Sheffield Wednesday

2- Portsmouth

3- Derby County

4- Barnsley FC

"Fourth place!" the pundit continued. "They're still in the playoff spots! Under the command of interim boss Steve, a man no one had ever heard of, the team has managed to fight, tooth and nail, to stay in the hunt."

Michael let out a slow, tired breath. It had been the longest month of his life.

The on-screen graphic shifted:

LAST 4 MATCHES: 2 Wins, 1 Draw, 1 Loss.

It was a turbulent, wobbly, unconvincing month of results. They had ground out ugly 1-0 wins, salvaged a desperate 1-1 draw, and been thoroughly beaten by a mid-table side that had simply out-worked them. They were surviving.

Michael looked out his window at the training pitch below. Steve, his [CA 55] assistant, was trying his best.

He was yelling, "Triangles! More philosophy!" but the magic was gone.

Jamie and Finn looked frustrated. Their passes were just a little off, their runs just a bit out of sync.

They were a world-class orchestra, and they were being led by a man who could barely read music.

Michael had been running the club himself. He'd been managing the press, managing the board, managing Steve's fragile confidence, and resisting the urge to spend his new 300 System Points on [Temporary Tactical Upgrades] every single week.

He was proud they hadn't collapsed, but he was terrified that this was their new reality. A long, slow grind.

He missed his partner.

A sound from the pitch below made him look up. Steve had stopped shouting. The players had stopped running. They were all... just... staring.

They were looking at the entrance to the training ground. Michael squinted. A figure was standing there. He was thin. He was pale. He was leaning heavily on a black metal crutch.

Michael's heart stopped.

He didn't wait for the lift. He was out of his office, down the stairs, and bursting through the doors onto the pitch in a second.

The players were still frozen. And then, Captain Dave Bishop, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated relief, slowly began to clap.

It was a single, rhythmic, powerful clap. Then Finn Riley joined in, a wide, rebellious grin on his face.

Then Jamie, then Danny, then the entire squad, the entire coaching staff, the physios, everyone. The training ground erupted in a spontaneous, thunderous, beautiful round of applause.

Arthur Milton, his eyes sharp as a hawk, his leg in a heavy-duty medical brace, just stood there, his face hard, trying not to show the emotion.

He soaked it in for a second. He had been through hell. He had faced down his own mortality.

And he had come back.

He lifted his crutch and slammed the metal tip onto the concrete path.

The applause died instantly.

"Alright, alright," Arthur barked, his voice rough, but full of its old, undeniable authority. "That's enough. You look like you're practicing for a testimonial, not a promotion."

He hobbled, with a slow, painful click-clack of the crutch, to the center of the huddle, his eyes scanning every single player, a look of fierce pride battling with his natural grumpiness.

"I've been watching," he said, his voice low. "Every single minute. From a very uncomfortable hospital bed. You've all done a hell of a job." He looked at Steve, who looked like he was about to burst into tears of pure, unadulterated relief.

"You kept the ship afloat, Steve. Well done."

He leaned heavily on his crutch, his gaze sweeping over his team. "But last month," he said, his voice hardening, "was about surviving."

He pointed a shaky finger at the league table, which was pinned to the wall of the tactics shed.

"Fourth place. Fourth. We are not here to survive We are not here to make the playoffs."

His voice rose, the old, icy, brilliant fire returning, the fire that had cowed journalists and inspired a revolution.

"This month... is about dominating."

Goosebumps. Michael felt them rise on his arms. The players were locked in, their expressions transformed, the frustration of the last month burned away, replaced by a new, sharp, dangerous focus.

The real Gaffer was back.

Arthur hobbled over to the tactics board and ripped the old sheet off, revealing the next match.

"It starts Saturday. Away. Against the number one, best-in-the-league team. Sheffield Wednesday."

A low, anxious murmur went through the players. Wednesday were a machine.

They were 1st place for a reason.

"They're not in first place for nothing," Arthur said, as if reading their minds.

"They are ruthless, they are disciplined, and they have this guy."

He nodded to Mark, the analyst, who had been waiting with a laptop, a look of pure, hero-worship on his face. "Play the video."

The screen on the wall flickered to life. It wasn't a highlight reel of clever goals. It was a highlight reel of pure, unadulterated bullying.

The player had "RILEY" on his back, but he was the polar opposite of their Finn. He was a giant, a 6'5" monster of a man, with the build of a heavyweight boxer.

The first clip showed him receiving a pass. A defender, a big, strong center-back, was tight on his back.

Riley just... flexed. He shrugged his shoulders, and the defender literally bounced off him and fell onto the grass. Riley turned and smashed the ball into the net.

Another clip. A high ball into the box. Riley went up, his elbow high, catching the keeper in the face. The keeper dropped the ball. Riley tapped it into the empty net.

The referee, intimidated, gave the goal.

"Marcus 'The Butcher' Riley," Arthur said, as the players watched, a new, cold dread filling them.

"The league's top scorer. Sixteen goals in fourteen games. He is a monster. He is a bully. He is everything we are not."

Arthur clicked the video off. The screen went black, leaving the team in a new, tense silence.

"They think they're going to roll right over us," Arthur said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "They think we're just 'kids.' They think they're going to push us, bully us, and break us. They're going to try and make us play their game."

He picked up a marker, his hand still shaking slightly from his injury, and looked at his three young superstars—Finn, Jamie, and Raphael.

A slow, dangerous, beautiful smile spread across his face.

"The 'Butcher,' meet the 'Magicians.' Let's get to work."

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