The three days the club was "closed for maintenance" were a blur of construction, logistics, and a truly terrifying amount of spending.

Michael, running on pure adrenaline and the giddy high of his 1000-point reward, had poured his prize money and his system points into his new 'Legacy.'

When the players returned, they didn't just walk into a training ground. They walked into a statement.

"Whoa..." was the only thing Jamie Weston could say.

The old, bumpy, rain-soaked practice pitch was gone. In its place was a "carpet," a pristine, hybrid-grass surface that looked like it had been stolen from a Premier League stadium.

The old, damp, high-school-level locker room?

It was now a futuristic, oak-paneled command center, with individual digital displays and ventilated boot lockers.

The physio's room, which had previously consisted of one wobbly table and a bucket of ice, now contained three gleaming, high-tech cryotherapy chambers that hissed steam like something from a sci-fi movie.

The 'Barnsley Braves' had, overnight, gone from a humble League One side to an elite, high-performance unit.

And the effect was immediate.

"The passing is... cleaner," Arthur noted from the touchline, his arms folded over his crutch. He was watching a possession drill, his eyes sharp.

"The pitch... it's doing the work for them. No bad bounces. No excuses. Their technique has to be perfect."

"They're recovering faster, too," Michael said, standing beside him. He pointed to the captain, Dave Bishop, who was emerging from a cryo-chamber, his 33-year-old legs looking ten years younger.

But Michael wasn't just seeing the effect. He was measuring it.

He stood on the sideline, his eyes half-closed, a satisfied, almost smug smile on his face as he scanned his prize assets.

He looked at Jamie Weston. The kid from the cage. His pace and his [Power Shot] were legendary, but he was still raw. Or... he had been.

[Jamie Weston (RW): CA 67 / PA 89]

Michael's eyes widened. 67! He'd jumped two full points in a week.

"He's gotten stronger," Michael murmured. The new, high-tech gym equipment was already paying dividends. His physicals were catching up to his raw talent.

He scanned the "Wild Fox," Finn Riley.

[Finn Riley (LW): CA 58 / PA 90]. A three-point jump. His [CA] was exploding. He was learning to harness his chaos.

He looked at his crown jewel, the "Prince" who had stared down his father's captain.

[Danny Fletcher (ST): CA 70 / PA 91]

Seventy! Michael almost choked. A 70 CA. That wasn't just a League One star. That was, right now, one of the best players in the entire division. His finishing, his composure... his stats were becoming lethal.

And finally, he looked at his secret weapon.

The "Glass Diamond," Raphael Santos. The kid was still in the gym, on a personalized, high-protein diet, but the change was visible.

[Raphael Santos (CAM): CA 55 / PA 93]

He'd jumped three points. He was still rail-thin. He still looked like a stiff breeze would snap him. But his stamina was improving. His core strength was developing. He was no longer a [CA 48] liability. He was a [CA 55] project. A very, very exciting project.

It was a cold, sharp, beautiful hunger. He looked at his team, this collection of future kings. He looked at his manager, a [PA 91] genius. He looked at his pristine, Premier-League-level facilities.

He opened his phone and looked at the league table.

1- Portsmouth

2- Derby County

3- Barnsley FC

Third place. Just three points off the top.

A small, dangerous thought entered his mind. Why are we aiming for the playoffs?

They had humiliated two Premier League teams. They had just demolished his father's "machine." They had beaten the #1 team in their own league.

Promotion wasn't the goal anymore. It was just the first step.

"You wanted to see us, Boss?"

Michael turned. Arthur had click-clacked his way into the office, leaning heavily on his crutch. Steve, the now-relegated but still-loyal assistant, followed him in, holding a notepad, a look of happy deference on his face.

"Gaffer, Steve. Sit down," Michael said, his voice quiet, his back to them as he stared out the window at his perfect, green pitch.

"What's on your mind, Michael?" Arthur asked, sinking into a chair and propping his braced leg up. "You've got that 'I'm-about-to-do-something-insane' look on your face. I'm starting to recognize it."

Michael turned, a slow, cold, ambitious smile on his face.

"The plan has changed," he said simply.

Arthur and Steve exchanged a look. "The plan?" Arthur asked. "The plan is working. We're in third. We're on track for the playoffs. We're developing the kids. The board is happy. The fans are happy. I'm happy."

"It's not enough," Michael said. "It's not fast enough."

He pointed out the window. "Look at them. Jamie. Finn. Danny. Raphael. They're not just 'good.' They're evolving. They're getting better, every single day, faster than we could have ever imagined. That new training ground... it's a supercharger."

He tapped the league table, which he'd pinned to his wall. "We are in third place. We are two points off first. We are, right now, the most in-form, most dangerous, and most talented team in this entire division."

He looked at his two coaches, his eyes glittering with a new, cold fire.

"So, I ask you," he said, "Why are we aiming for promotion... when we could be aiming for the title?"

Steve's jaw dropped. He actually gasped.

"The... the title? Boss, this... this season?"

Michael's gaze was locked on Arthur.

Arthur just stared at him. The Gaffer. The pragmatist. The man who had been through hell and back. He looked at Michael's insane, arrogant, 18-year-old face.

And he smiled. A slow, shark-like, beautiful grin.

"The title," Arthur breathed, the words tasting like wine. He sat up, his pain forgotten, his eyes alight with a new, shared, glorious ambition.

"I like it. I like it very much."

He nodded, his mind already spinning, the tactical genius taking over.

"But, Michael. If you want the title... if you want to go from 'plucky underdog' to 'runaway champion'... then you have to beat them."

He pointed to the fixture list on the wall. The next match.

"Bristol City," Arthur said.

"They're in fifth place. They're right on our tail. And they are, pound-for-pound, the single most frustrating, cynical, and effective team in this entire league."

"How so?" Michael asked, the familiar pre-battle adrenaline beginning to flow. "Are they physical? Dirty?"

"No," Arthur said, his smile vanishing, replaced by a look of deep, professional respect. "They're just... perfect. Defensively. They don't score a lot of goals. But they don't have to. They haven't let in a goal in their last ten games."

He hobbled over to the board, his crutch thumping on the floor.

"They're not a team, Michael," he said, his voice a low, grim, warning. "They're a block of pure, reinforced concrete. They call them... 'The Wall.'"

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