This was not Oakwell.

Michael Sterling stood in a room that looked less like a press-conference room and more like the command center of a spaceship.

It was at Stamford Bridge, the home of Chelsea FC.

The walls were a sleek, corporate blue, the lighting was a soft, expensive white, and the room was packed with international media. The cameras weren't just "press"; they were broadcast quality.

This was the FA Cup Quarter-Final. This was the big time.

Michael sat at the podium, a bottle of sparkling, ridiculously expensive Italian water in front of him. He felt like he was in a movie. Next to him, leaning on his cane, Arthur Milton looked utterly, beautifully, bored.

"Gentlemen, we'll start with questions for the away team," the press officer said.

A dozen hands shot up. A sharp-dressed reporter from a major network got the nod.

"Mr. Sterling," the reporter said, his voice slick and polished, "An 18-year-old owner, a one-legged manager, and a team of kids. You're in the Quarter-Final of the FA Cup, at Stamford Bridge, about to face a billion-pound squad of European champions. Be honest... surely, this is where the fairy tale ends?"

Michael smiled, a calm, easy, practiced grin. He leaned into the microphone.

"Well, I just drew the balls from the bag, I didn't pick the opponents," he said, and the room chuckled. It was a callback to his "Lucky Mascot" TV spot. "If I could, I'd have us play our own Under-12s. But, as for the 'fairy tale'..." He gestured, with an almost theatrical flourish, to the man next to him.

"That's a question for the Gaffer. He's the one who has to work the miracle. I just sign the checks."

Every camera, every eye, swiveled to Arthur.

Another reporter pounced. "Mr. Milton. Chelsea's wage bill is rumored to be ten times the entire value of your football club. Their substitutes are worth more than your stadium. How do you even prepare for that? Do you just... pray?"

Arthur, who had been looking at his fingernails with mild disinterest, slowly leaned forward.

He click-clacked his cane once on the floor for emphasis.

"Pray?" he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly growl that the microphones loved.

"No, son. I'm not a priest. I'm a football manager."

He paused, a tiny, almost invisible, shark-like smirk on his face. "We've prepared. We've watched the tapes. We've identified their weaknesses. Their £100-million-pound left-back... he's very good, isn't he? Very fast. Very... attacking." He let that word hang in the air. "We've... taken note."

A third reporter, smelling blood, turned back to Michael. He was going for the kill. "Michael, let's be blunt. You're 18. You're at Stamford Bridge. Your father's team is in freefall, and yours is on a 'magic carpet ride.' Isn't this all just... a fun day out for you? A nice 'hobby' that's gotten a bit out of hand?"

Michael's smile never wavered.

"Oh, absolutely," he said, and the room gasped. "It's a wonderful day out. We've brought 3,000 fans. We're going to see the sights. We're just... we're just here for the experience. We're honored to be on the same pitch as a team that expensive."

He held the beat. He let them all lean in. And then, his eyes went cold.

"And we're also here to win," he said, his voice suddenly a flat, cold, sheet of ice.

"We find that winning... is the most fun. We plan on having an awful lot of fun today."

The away dressing room at Stamford Bridge was, Michael noted, designed to be insulting. It was, he thought, exactly like the one at Millwall. It was a psychological tactic.

You are small. We are big.

He stood in the corner, his heart a frantic, pounding drum. His team was filing in, one by one. But they weren't intimidated. They were laughing.

"Ugh, what is this color?" Finn Riley said, waving his hand in front of his face.

"It's like... 'hospital-waiting-room' green! They're trying to make us sad!"

"And it's tiny!" Jamie Weston cackled. "My old locker room at the academy was bigger than this! They're scared of us, lads! They're trying to play mind games!"

The room was not tense. It was not nervous. It was electric. This was a team that had been to Old Trafford. This was a team that had beaten Northwood 5-0. This was a team that had survived The Den. A small, ugly, green room didn't scare them.

Arthur had already given his speech.

Jamie Weston, his face a mask of pure, joyous focus, was methodically lacing his boots, his leg bouncing, his lips moving, muttering to himself.

Run. Shoot. Run. Shoot.

Finn Riley, the 'Wild Fox,' was leaning against a locker, his headphones on, his eyes closed, a chaotic jazz beat thumping just loud enough for Michael to hear. He was asleep before the hunt.

Danny Fletcher, the 'Brain,' was staring at the tactics board, his eyes tracing the runs Arthur had drawn, the 'Prince' already playing the game in his head.

Raphael Santos, the 'Magician' (back from his [Intensive Training Camp], his [CA] now a solid [58]), was just... smiling.

He was sitting on the floor, juggling a ball between his feet, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on his face. He wasn't nervous. He was excited. He was a kid who had been given the keys to the world's biggest toy store.

And on the bench, his headphones on, his face buried in a thick, worn-out-looking textbook—Advanced Theoretical Physics—was Kai Sora, the [PA 97] 'Bouncer.' He wasn't even on the substitute's list. He was just... here. He was here to "analyze."

Arthur click-clacked his cane on the tiled floor.

The room went dead silent.

Finn's music stopped. Jamie's leg stopped bouncing.

Danny turned from the board.

Every player, in unison, stood up.

Arthur looked at them, his eyes full of a fire that burned hotter than any stadium. He didn't need to give a speech. He didn't need to yell.

"It's time," he rasped.

The tunnel at Stamford Bridge was a sleek, modern, blue-tiled corridor, and it was loud. The noise from the 40,000 fans above was a physical, thundering roar.

Michael walked out of the tunnel, his suit sharp, his face a mask of calm, and took his seat in the director's box. This was it.

In his ear, the radio feed crackled to life, the commentator already screaming.

"IT IS A CAULDRON! STAMFORD BRIDGE IS ABSOLUTELY ROCKING FOR THIS FA CUP QUARTER-FINAL! The multi-billion-pound, European Champions, Chelsea, versus... the 'Barnsley Braves,' the 'Kid Genius' Michael Sterling's team of giant-killers!"

The teams were walking out. The camera panned to the Chelsea lineup. It was a "who's who" of world football. World Cup winners. Champions League winners. £100-million-pound signings. They were giants. They looked bored, arrogant, professional.

And then, the camera panned to the Barnsley kids. They looked young. They looked... hungry.

"The 'Lucky Mascot' is in the building, folks!" the commentator yelled.

"But I have to say, looking at this Chelsea lineup... I think he's going to need more than just luck today! This is David vs. Goliath! This is the 'Kid's Circus' vs. the 'Kings of Europe'!"

Michael just smiled, a cold, secret, satisfied smile. He watched his [PA 90+] take their positions on the pristine, billionaire-funded turf.

He looked at the bored, arrogant, £100-million-pound left-back that Arthur had "taken note of."

No, Michael thought, his heart a steady, deadly, drumbeat. They're the ones who are going to need the luck!

The referee put the whistle to his lips.

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