Michael stood in the director's box, but the electric, chaotic, joyful energy of the Northwood game was a distant memory.

The atmosphere at Oakwell today was different. It was heavy, tense, and suffocating.

The opponent was Bristol City, the team in 5th place. "The Wall."

Michael had watched the tapes, and he'd understood Arthur's grim respect.

This team was the anti-Barnsley. They weren't "hungry." They weren't "fast." They were just... perfect.

Today was a test of philosophy. It was Michael's "Butterflies with Switchblades" vs. a 10-foot-thick, steel-reinforced brick wall.

The whistle blew.

The first seventy minutes were, for Michael, the most frustrating, agonizing, and boring moments of his entire ownership.

It was a chess match. A brutal, grinding, midfield war. Barnsley, high on their "title-contending" ambition, attacked. And Bristol City... just... stood there.

They played in a low, tight, impossibly organized defensive block. They had two, sometimes three men surrounding Raphael Santos at all times.

The 'Magician' had no space to dance.

His [Evasive Dribbler] skill was useless... he couldn't evade a man who was just... standing in his way. He was being completely, totally, suffocated.

It was the same for Danny Fletcher. The Brain of the operation had no space to think.

He was being man-marked by a 30-year-old veteran who followed him everywhere he went, like a vicious, annoying shadow.

And Jamie and Finn? The 'Wild Fox' and the 'Power Shot'? They were non-existent. The Wall just... denied them the ball. Every passing lane was cut off. Every run was tracked.

The crowd in the stadium was groaning, a low, frustrated, 20,000-person sigh.

In the 60th minute, Barnsley finally had a breakthrough. A moment of chaos. The ball bounced loose to Jamie Weston, 30 yards out. The crowd, in a single, desperate voice, roared.

"SHOOOOOT!"

Jamie, channeling the frustration of the entire stadium, unleashed the [Power Shot].

A Bristol City defender, a man who had clearly been briefed, didn't even flinch.

He just... threw his entire body in front of the ball. It thwacked into his chest with a sound like a side of beef being hit with a sledgehammer.

The defender collapsed, gasping for air, but his teammates just patted him on the back. A job well done.

Ten minutes later, Finn Riley, in a blur of rage, finally got the ball and skinned his man.

He was in! He smashed a shot... and another defender, appearing from nowhere, launched himself sideways, blocking the shot with his head.

It was infuriating. They weren't just a wall; they were a wall of heroes, willing to sacrifice their bodies.

Michael sat in his box, his leg bouncing with a nervous, angry energy.

His system-fueled superstars, his [PA 90+] kings, were being completely, totally neutralized.

Not by superior talent. But by pure, boring, disciplined, old-fashioned organization.

He looked down at the touchline. Arthur was just standing there, leaning on his crutch, his face a mask of calm, analytical focus. He was just... watching.

Then, in the 75th minute, Michael saw it.

Arthur smirked.

It was a tiny, barely-perceptible twitch of his lips. But it was there. He had seen something.

He had solved the puzzle.

He turned, his back to the pitch, and barked a name.

"Tom! Get over here!"

Tom Harrison, the "Interceptor," the kid who had been having a quiet, efficient, but unremarkable game, jogged over, his face a mask of focus.

"Gaffer?"

"Look at them, Tom," Arthur said, his voice a low, excited growl, pointing at the Bristol City defense.

"What do you see?"

Tom looked. "They're... they're tight, Gaffer. They're... not moving."

"Exactly!" Arthur said, a manic glint in his eye.

"They're not moving. They're terrified. They are so hyper-focused on our stars... on Danny, on Jamie, on Finn, on Raphael... that they've completely, totally, forgotten about everyone else. They've forgotten about you, Tom."

Tom looked confused.

"Me, Gaffer?"

"You're invisible to them," Arthur said, his voice dropping. "You're just the 'defensive kid.' You're the 'shadow.' They don't even see you as a threat."

He grabbed Tom by the shoulders, his eyes burning with a sudden, brilliant, insane idea. "So... we're going to use that. The next corner kick we get... you are not the 'safety' at the back. You are not to 'wait for the rebound.' The second that ball is kicked, I want you to forget you're a defender. You are a striker. You sprint. You crash that near post. They will be so busy wrestling with Danny and Bishop, they won't even see you coming. You are the key, Tom. You are the one they can't see."

Tom Harrison, the [CA 55] kid who had become a wall, now looked at his manager. He nodded, his eyes full of a new, dangerous, and utterly terrified understanding.

"Yes, Gaffer. I... I crash the near post."

"Good lad," Arthur said, patting him on the back. "Now, go and win us the league."

The game was dying. The clock ticked over. 88th minute. 0-0.

The crowd was flat. The players were exhausted. A draw. A soul-crushing, ambition-killing 0-0 draw.

Michael felt the title slipping away.

A tired Barnsley attack. A hopeful cross from Finn.

A bored, cynical clearance from a defender. Corner.

The crowd let out a polite, almost pathetic, clap. A corner. Big deal. They hadn't won a corner all day.

Michael sat up. This was it.

He watched. His eyes were not on the ball. He was watching the box. And he saw exactly what Arthur had seen.

Raphael Santos, the magician, walked slowly over to take the corner.

As he did, two Bristol City defenders followed him, yelling at him, trying to put him off.

In the box, Danny Fletcher was being held, wrestled, and practically put in a headlock by the Bristol captain. Dave Bishop, Barnsley's own captain, was being marked by two other giants.

All the defenders were glued to the stars.

And standing all alone, 30 yards out, completely, totally, insultingly unmarked, was Tom Harrison.

Raphael looked up. He looked at the chaos in the box. And then, his eyes, for a split second, met Tom's. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Tom didn't move. He waited. Raphael began his run-up. He whipped the ball in.

But it wasn't a high, looping, hopeful cross into the mess.

It was a low, fast, vicious, drilled ball, aimed at the near post. It was a pass, not a cross. And Tom Harrison was moving.

He wasn't jogging. He was sprinting. He was a red blur, exploding from his invisible position, just as his Gaffer had told him.

The Bristol City defenders... they didn't even see him. They were flat-footed, ball-watching, their eyes on the stars in the box.

Tom didn't slow down. He didn't think. He just ran, launching his entire, skinny, [CA 55] body at the ball, a missile of pure, unadulterated faith.

He got his head on it.

A sharp, glancing, beautiful, perfect flick.

The goalkeeper, who had been expecting a high ball, was frozen. He was on the wrong foot. He was helpless.

The ball, in a beautiful, slow-motion arc, sailed past his outstretched, useless hand...

...and hit the back... of the net.

1-0. BARNSLEY. 88TH MINUTE.

The stadium... was silent. For a full, two-second, stunned, disbelieving beat.

Michael was on his feet, screaming, his arms in the air, a sound of pure, agonized, triumphant release tearing from his throat.

Tom Harrison was already at the corner flag, his shirt off, his face a mask of pure, disbelieving shock, as the entire Barnsley team, the bench, the physios, everyone, piled on top of him.

Michael just stood there, laughing, his heart pounding, as the final whistle blew.

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.