Michael Sterling sat in the brand-new canteen of his £1.5 million training ground, a mug of tea in his hand, his eyes glued to the giant TV on the wall.

The TV screen was split into four boxes, showing four angry, suited pundits, all shouting over each other.

"It's the 'Battle of the Firsts'!" the host, a man with teeth too white to be real, was yelling. "It's the feel-good story of the decade! In the blue corner, Manchester City... first in the Premier League, the reigning, treble-winning, unstoppable champions of the world!"

The screen cut to a highlight of a slick, masterful goal.

"And in the red corner," the host continued, his voice full of fake, patronizing warmth, "Barnsley FC! First in League One! The giant-killers! The 'Lucky Mascots'! The 'Kids' who are this close to winning promotion to the Championship! Isn't that just... lovely?"

A grumpy-looking ex-player, who looked like he'd been sucking on a lemon, just snorted.

"Lovely?" he growled. "It's not 'lovely.' It's a joke. It's an execution. Let's be honest. Being 'first in League One' is like being the tallest kid in kindergarten. Who cares? This is the real world, son. This is Manchester City."

"Oh, come on, Gary!" another pundit, a sharp, fast-talking woman, jumped in. "Did you watch the Chelsea game? Did you see the Danny Fletcher goal? This Barnsley team has magic! They have a belief! They have a system!"

"They have nothing!" Gary shot back. "And everyone is scared of the wrong guy! You're all talking about Haaland! Haaland! Haaland! The real story, the real monster, is Jérémy Doku!"

The screen changed, cutting to a highlight reel of a player Michael hadn't even thought about. A fast, small, Belgian winger.

But... the highlights...

Michael's mug stopped, halfway to his mouth.

He... he just... blew past a defender. Like he was a statue.

And another.

And another.

Then, BOOM. A rocket of a shot into the top corner.

"Let's be clear!" the host said, his voice full of sudden, genuine awe.

"This is not the Jérémy Doku from last year. This is a miracle season! 45 goals! He is, right now, the top scorer in the world! He has come from nowhere and has benched Haaland for the last three weeks! He is faster, he is trickier, and he is un-markable!"

"So what's the plan, eh?" Gary sneered, pointing at the camera. "What's the 'Kid Genius' in Barnsley going to do? Put his little League One left-back, against the fastest human being on Earth? It's not a 'fairy tale,' Karen. It's a horror movie. And Doku... is the monster."

Michael just... clicked the TV off.

The canteen was silent.

His "kids" were all just... sitting there, their breakfast untouched.

"Forty... five... goals?" Jamie Weston whispered, his face pale.

"He's... he's scored 45 goals? From the wing?"

"I... I thought we just had to stop the giant blond robot," Finn Riley said, his 'Wild Fox' energy completely gone. He just looked... small. "Who is this guy?!"

"He's..." Danny Fletcher said, his 'Brain' whirring, "he's... a problem. I saw his stats. He completes... 14 dribbles... per game. That's... that's not possible. That's a video game number."

The confidence, the buzz from the Chelsea game... it was gone.

Michael felt the cold, familiar, acidic knot of dread in his stomach.

The pundit was right. This was a horror movie.

"Right," a low, gravelly rasp cut through the silence.

Arthur Milton click-clacked his cane on the canteen floor. He was standing by the door, his face a mask of bored, beautiful, indifference.

"So," he said.

"He's fast."

The players just... stared at him.

"We... we knew he was fast, Gaffer," Michael said, finding his voice. "But... 45 goals..."

"Goals. Dribbles. Numbers," Arthur scoffed. "It's just 'noise.' All of it. He's a man. He's got two legs. Just like our Finn. Right, Finn?"

Finn Riley looked up, his eyes wide.

"What? Yeah, Gaffer. Two legs!"

"Good," Arthur said. "So, he's just... a very, very fast Finn. We can handle that."

"OI!" Finn yelled, his pride suddenly stung.

"He's not... me!"

Arthur just smirked. "Good to know. Now, finish your toast. We're going to Wembley."

The bus ride was... quiet.

But when they pulled up to the stadium... Michael's heart just... stopped.

This wasn't Old Trafford. This wasn't Stamford Bridge.

This was Wembley.

The giant, white arch was like a halo, a gateway to heaven. It was massive. It was beautiful.

"Whoa," Raph, the 'Magician,' just whispered, his face pressed against the glass. "It's... it's... real."

The press conference room was... insane.

Michael had thought the Chelsea room was a "spaceship." This was... the flagship of the whole fleet. There were hundreds of reporters. From all over the world. The flashbulbs weren't just "flashing"; they were a solid, blinding, white wall of light.

Michael sat at the podium, his heart pounding. Arthur, next to him, was... actually... asleep.

His eyes were closed, his chin on his chest. He was snoring, softly.

Michael couldn't believe it.

"We'll... uh... we'll start with questions," the press officer said, looking at Arthur with a mixture of terror and awe.

A slick, sharp-dressed reporter from the biggest sports network in the world, the same one from Chelsea, stood up. He had a shark-like grin.

"Michael," he said, his voice oozing with fake charm. "A truly historic day. The 'Battle of the Firsts.' Manchester City, first in the Premier League, the best team in the world. And... Barnsley."

He paused, for effect. "First in League One. You must be so, so proud of... of your team. For... winning their league."

The room chuckled. It was patronizing. It was a trap.

Michael just smiled. A calm, easy, "I've-done-this-before" smile.

"We are," he said, his voice clear. "We're incredibly proud. Winning our league is, and always has been, our only goal. This... this is just a wonderful, terrifying, beautiful bonus."

"Terrifying' is the right word!" the reporter pounced. "You've seen the reports. The world is talking about Jérémy Doku. 45 goals. The 'Belgian Bullet.' The fastest man in football. A man who has, seemingly, come from nowhere... a bit like your own team."

He turned to Arthur, who was still "asleep."

"Mr. Milton?" the reporter said, loudly.

Arthur... snorted. He snapped awake, blinking, his face a mask of pure, grumpy confusion. "What? Is it over? Did we win?"

The room erupted in laughter. Even the shark-reporter had to hide a smirk.

"Mr. Milton," he tried again. "The question... is about Doku. The 45-goal monster. Your team... they've never seen speed like this. You've got one League One left-back. What's the plan? Are you... are you just going to pray?"

Arthur just... stared at him. He leaned into the microphone.

"Pray?" he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly growl. "Son... I told you last time... I'm not a priest."

He paused. "We've... taken note."

The reporter, frustrated, turned back to Michael. He was going for the kill.

"Michael, let's be honest. You're 18. You're at Wembley. You're facing a team of gods. Your 'kids,' as you call them... they're about to get a very, very harsh, very public lesson in front of 90,000 people, aren't they?"

Michael felt the old, acidic knot of fear. But then... he thought of his "kids."

He thought of Danny's 50-yard chip. He thought of Raph's magic free kick. He thought of Jamie's rocket, and Finn's "winks." He leaned into the microphone. The room went dead silent.

"A lesson?" Michael said, his voice soft. "Yeah... I think we are."

The reporter's shark-like grin widened. He had his headline. "Barnsley Owner Admits Defeat Before Kickoff!"

"I... I think we're all going to get a lesson," Michael continued, his eyes, suddenly cold as ice, locking with the reporter's.

"Because... I've seen 'gods' before. I saw them at Old Trafford. I saw them at Stamford Bridge. They... they all looked very human to me, right after the final whistle."

"You're comparing Chelsea to this Manchester City team?!" the reporter scoffed.

"No," Michael said, and his voice was no longer soft. It was strong. It was the voice of the "Boss." "I'm not. You're right. They're the best in the world. We... we're just a little team from Barnsley."

He stood up. The press conference was over.

"You're right. You called it the 'Battle of the Firsts.' They're 'First in the Premier League.' We're 'First in League One.' But tomorrow... at 3 PM... none of that... none of those numbers... none of that 'noise'... matters."

He tapped the red, shining, Barnsley crest on his suit jacket.

"Tomorrow, we're not 'League One.' They're not 'The Premier League.' We're just... Barnsley. And they..."

He gave the reporter a cold, beautiful, confident smile.

"They're just... the next team in our way."

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