From his seat in the director's box, Michael felt like a lonely red rowboat in the middle of a vast, angry, blue-and-white ocean.

Thirty thousand Sheffield Wednesday fans, the loudest and proudest in the league, were roaring, their voices a single, unified, deafening wave of sound.

This was the home of the first-place team, and they were here to see a slaughter.

Michael looked down at the touchline.

Arthur was there, leaning on his crutch, his face a mask of pale, grim focus, his eyes already locked in a silent battle with the opposing manager.

And in the tunnel, Michael had seen it. The contempt.

Marcus 'The Butcher' Riley, all 6'5" of him, had looked at Barnsley's designated defensive midfielder, the rail-thin, 18-year-old Tom Harrison, and he had laughed.

A short, sharp, ugly bark of pure mockery. He had said something to his teammate, and they had both laughed, looking at Tom like he was a small child who had accidentally wandered onto the pitch.

Michael had felt a cold fury. Now, he just felt a cold dread. He had bet 400 System Points—almost everything he had—on a plan that hinged on this terrified, [CA 55] kid.

The referee's whistle shrieked. The match kicked off.

The first twenty minutes were not a hurricane.

Sheffield Wednesday were the best team in the league for a reason. They were a machine.

They passed the ball with a crisp, arrogant confidence. Barnsley's young stars, so dominant in other games, couldn't get a touch. They were chasing shadows, their frustration growing with every pass.

The possession stat flashed on the big screen: 78% - 22%.

And at the heart of it all was 'The Butcher.'

He'd shrug off Dave Bishop's tackle like it was a fly. He'd win every single high ball, cushioning it perfectly on his chest for his teammates.

Michael watched Tom Harrison. The kid was terrified. He was just... running. He was trying to keep up, his eyes wide, his movements small and panicked. He looked like a tiny rowboat being tossed around in the wake of a battleship.

In the 21st minute, the Wednesday midfielder looked up. He saw 'The Butcher' make his first real, dangerous run, peeling off the shoulder of the defender.

This was it. The pass that would lead to the first goal. He pinged a hard, low, driven pass straight to his star man's feet.

[Interceptor (Level 2): ACTIVATED!]

Tom Harrison, who had been five yards away, his body angled all wrong, suddenly... moved.

It wasn't a sprint. It was a shift. A supernatural, predictive glide. His brain, supercharged by the 'Epic' skill, had read the pass before the midfielder had even decided to make it.

Tom's leg shot out, his body low, and he didn't just block the pass—he stole it. He intercepted it so cleanly, so perfectly, that the ball was instantly at his feet, under his control.

He didn't panic. He just laid off a simple, five-yard pass to his captain and slotted back into his defensive shape, his face still a mask of terror.

The 30,000-strong crowd, which had been rising to celebrate, let out a collective, confused groan.

On the pitch, 'The Butcher' Riley stopped dead. He turned, his huge, bullish head looking for the person who had stolen his meal. He glared at Tom, his expression one of pure, baffled annoyance.

A minute later, they tried again.

A cross-field ball, aimed at Riley's chest. Tom, running backwards, just appeared.

He leaped, just high enough, and headed the ball cleanly to his fullback.

Riley screamed in frustration, throwing his hands up at his teammate.

Three minutes later. A clever, disguised through-ball. Tom was already there. He'd seen it coming. He just stepped across the line, took the ball, and passed it, simple, simple, simple.

The 'Shadow' plan was working...

Marcus 'The Butcher' Riley, the most feared, dominant, [CA 71] striker in the league, had not touched the ball in a dangerous position for thirty minutes.

He was being completely, totally, and utterly erased from the game by a [CA 55] kid who looked like he should be in high school.

And 'The Butcher' was furious.

In the 30th minute, it finally happened. The ball was played into a neutral area.

Tom, his confidence now surging, stepped in front of Riley to claim it.

[Short Fuse: ACTIVATED!]

Riley lost his mind. He'd been laughed at in the tunnel, and now this child was making him look invisible.

He forgot the ball. He just ran, at full speed, and with a grunt of pure, malicious rage, he smashed his 200-pound frame, shoulder-first, straight into Tom's back. It was a violent, intentional, off-the-ball foul.

Tom went flying, crumpling to the turf in a heap.

The referee's whistle shrieked. The crowd, sensing the injustice, roared. The ref sprinted over and, without hesitation, flashed a bright yellow card right in the face of the stunned, snarling Butcher.

Michael sat back in his chair, a cold, satisfied, villainous smirk on his face. Got him.

While 'The Butcher' was screaming at the referee, his face purple, his entire team's defensive shape was in chaos. They were distracted. They were angry.

Barnsley took the free kick. Quickly.

The ball was played to Raphael Santos.

The Brazilian magician, who had been a quiet ghost, suddenly found himself with an acre of space.

A confused defender, the one who should have been marking him, was still arguing about the foul.

Raphael glided forward. He drew in two, then three, panicked blue-and-white shirts. He looked like he was trapped.

But he wasn't. He had seen Danny Fletcher.

With a silky-smooth, almost arrogant "no-look" pass, he threaded the ball through an impossible gap.

Danny Fletcher [PA 91] was free. The 'brain' of the operation.

He was in the box. He took one touch to settle his feet. He looked the goalkeeper in the eye.

The keeper dived left. Danny calmly, coolly, slotted the ball into the bottom-right corner.

1-0 TO BARNSLEY!

The stadium was plunged into a stunned, horrified silence. The only sound was the tiny, distant, insane roar from the 3,000 Barnsley fans tucked away in the heavens.

Michael leaped from his seat, pumping his fist, a silent roar on his lips. "THE PLAN! THE PLAN! IT WORKED!"

Down on the pitch, Arthur Milton simply took a sip of his water, leaning on his crutch, as if he'd been expecting it all along.

The goal had enraged the beast. Sheffield Wednesday, the best team in the league, was now playing with a wounded, desperate fury. They threw everything forward.

The 45th minute. One last, desperate attack before halftime.

A high, looping cross was pumped into the box. It was hopeful. It was chaotic. This wasn't a pass for Tom to intercept. This was a physical battle.

'The Butcher' Riley, his face a mask of pure, concentrated rage from the yellow card and the goal, was in that box.

Tom Harrison, brave to a fault, was right there with him, trying to mark him.

It was not a fair fight.

'The Butcher' didn't even jump. He just used his raw, [CA 71] strength.

He planted his feet, put his arm out, and shoved the [CA 55] Tom to the ground like he was swatting a fly. The referee, his back turned, saw nothing.

Riley was free. The ball dropped perfectly. He leaped, a giant, and smashed an unstoppable, violent header into the back of the net.

1-1.

The stadium exploded, a sound of pure, cathartic relief. 'The Butcher' just turned, found Tom, who was still on the grass, and stood over him, glaring, a silent, terrifying message.

"You can't stop me, child."

The referee blew the halftime whistle.

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