Match day.

Oakwell was a different beast today, a creature Michael had never seen before.

Every single fan who walked through the turnstiles was a soldier in their army.

Michael stood in the home dressing room, his heart a frantic, pounding drum. He looked at his players. They were vibrating. The usual pre-match music was off.

There was no laughing, no casual jokes. There was just a low, humming, unified anger.

They had all seen it. They had all read the papers. They had all watched Richard Sterling, Michael's father, sit in his gilded press room and call them a "hobby."

A "pretty, exciting toy."

Finn Riley, the "Wild Fox," was not being chaotic.

He was sitting on the bench, methodically, silently, taping his wrists, his eyes a cold, hard, green.

Jamie Weston was staring at the wall, his jaw tight, his leg bouncing with a furious, kinetic energy. Danny Fletcher, the "Prince," looked the calmest, but it was a cold, dangerous calm, the stillness at the center of a hurricane.

This was personal for everyone.

The door click-clacked open, the sound of Arthur Milton's crutch on the tiled floor. The room, which had been buzzing with a low, angry hum, fell completely silent.

Arthur hobbled to the center of the room, his leg in its heavy brace, his face pale and drawn from the pain of just being here. He leaned on his crutch, a visible, breathing symbol of his sacrifice. He looked at his team, his "Braves," his "Butterflies with Switchblades."

"Right," he began, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

"The press out there," he pointed a thumb towards the door, "says we're facing 'giants.' They say we're facing 'experience.' They say we're facing 'world-class, proven winners.'"

He let out a short, sharp, ugly laugh. It was a sound of pure, dismissive contempt.

"I say," he growled, "we're facing a museum!"

A jolt of pure, rocket-fuel energy shot through the room.

Michael felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.

"They say 'experience'!" Arthur roared, his voice suddenly full of fire.

"I say 'geriatrics!' They're a team of overpaid, over-the-hill relics! They are a 'heavy tank,' yes. But a tank is slow. A tank is clumsy. A tank gets stuck in the mud!"

He looked around the room, his eyes burning with a tactical, furious light.

"They say we're just a 'League One side.' They seem to have a very short memory. They seem to forget what we do to these so-called giants."

He pointed a shaking finger at Jamie. "We went to Old Trafford! Did we lie down? Did we roll over and die? No! We put two goals past a World Cup winner! We embarrassed Manchester United on their own pitch! We showed them what hunger looks like!"

A low, animalistic growl rumbled through the players.

"We went to Wolves!" he continued, his voice rising, "Another Premier League titan! Did we get bullied? No! We played them off the park, and we knocked them out of this very competition!"

He slammed the tip of his crutch onto the floor.

"So you tell me!" he roared, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated passion. "How the hell... are we going to be afraid... how are we going to lose... to this... this team of... of aging, arrogant... dinosaurs?"

The room was on its feet. The players were roaring. This was it. The goosebumps were real.

"They are the past!" Arthur screamed, his face red, his whole body shaking with the effort. "They are the old way! They are the money! They are the arrogance! We are the future! We are the 'Barnsley Way!' Now, get out there... and make the dinosaurs extinct!"

The dressing room door exploded open as the players roared, a single, unified, unstoppable force, ready to run through a brick wall for this man.

As the noise began to die down and the players filed out, Michael stepped forward. The room went quiet again. This was different. This wasn't the Gaffer. This was the reason.

Michael looked at the remaining few, at Danny, at Jamie, at his captain, Dave Bishop. His voice was not a roar. It was a quiet, cold, sharp-edged promise.

"Arthur is right," he said.

"Tactically, we are better. But I need you to know... this isn't just another game. This isn't just about the cup."

He took a deep breath, the confession, the plea, raw in his throat. "That man in the other dugout... the one who called you a 'hobby'... who called this club, your home, a 'pretty toy'... he's my father."

He saw the look in their eyes. The anger on his behalf. The new, deeper, more personal layer of motivation.

"He represents everything we are fighting against," Michael continued, his voice low and steady.

"The old money. The old ideas. The belief that you can buy success, and that passion and hard work are just 'lovely' hobbies. He thinks I'm a joke. He thinks you're a joke."

He looked at each of them, one by one. "Today, we aren't playing for the cup. We're not even playing for the win."

He paused, letting the words land.

"We're playing for respect."

He nodded towards the tunnel.

"Go out there. And show my father... show my family... show the entire world... what we have started here. Show them we are not a 'hobby.' We are an empire."

The tunnel at Oakwell was a suffocating, glorious wall of sound. The home fans were screaming, a unified, defiant roar. Michael stood at the entrance, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. This was it. The "Sterling Judgement."

His "Braves" filed past him, their faces a mask of cold, hard focus. Jamie, Finn, Danny, Raphael... his "butterflies with switchblades." They looked young. They looked fast. They looked hungry.

Then, the Northwood players filed in.

Michael just... stared. His system was screaming at him. He was looking at a lineup of living legends.

[Kieran Shaw: CA 72 / PA 72], the 35-year-old ex-England captain.

[Thiago Velasco: CA 74 / PA 74], the 34-year-old World Cup-winning midfielder.

[Marco Bianchi: CA 70 / PA 70], the 36-year-old Italian striker who had won everything.

They were a team of [CA 70+] kings. And they were all... slow.

Their "pace" stats were a joke. They were, as Arthur had said, a museum.

But they were arrogant.

They looked at the Barnsley players, these kids, and they laughed. Michael saw it.

The £50 million defender, looked at Finn Riley's messy red hair and his skinny frame, and just openly, contemptuously, laughed.

The teams lined up. The Northwood captain, Kieran Shaw, the legend, the man whose posters had probably been on some of these kids' walls, walked past the Barnsley line.

His eyes landed on Danny Fletcher, the "Prince," the local hero, the [PA 91] superstar.

Shaw stopped. He smiled, that same, cold, paternal, patronizing smile that Michael's father had worn.

And then, he did it.

He reached out and patted Danny Fletcher on the head. A slow, condescending, "who's-a-good-boy" pat.

"Enjoy the lesson, son," Shaw said, his voice a low, dismissive drawl.

Michael watched Danny's face. He didn't react. He didn't flinch. His expression didn't change.

He just... stared at the captain, his eyes going as cold, as hard, and as dead as a winter sky.

The referee's whistle shrieked from the pitch. It was time to walk out.

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