Dynasty Awakening: Building My Own Football Empire

Chapter 304 304: Flying Purple Palace

It was Friday morning. The Barnsley training complex was usually a place of high-tech sports science and carefully calibrated nutrition.Today, it felt like a prison yard where the warden had just been replaced by a grizzly bear.

Bastion King sat in the canteen. He was wearing a tracksuit that looked three sizes too small for his massive frame, and he was eating a bowl of raw eggs. Just eggs. No toast. No salt. Just six raw eggs cracked into a bowl.

The entire squad was huddled at the other end of the room, terrified.

"Is he... drinking them?" Jax whispered, zooming in with his phone camera. "That is disgusting. No vibes. Negative vibes."

"It is protein," Diego Nunez grunted approvingly. "I try this tomorrow. Maybe with shell. For texture."

"Please don't eat the shell, Diego," Arthur Milton squeaked, hiding behind a potted plant. "The insurance premium is already high enough."

Michael Sterling watched the scene from the doorway, sipping his coffee. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Kenji Sato. The billionaire owner was vibrating with excitement. He was wearing a flight suit. An actual Top Gun-style flight suit with "MAVERICK" stitched on the chest.

"Kenji," Michael sighed. "Why are you dressed like Tom Cruise?"

"Because today, Michael, we fly!" Kenji beamed. "Come. The shopping spree is not over. You scrapped the Toyota. Now we upgrade the Empire."

The Airfield

Half an hour later, a convoy of black SUVs pulled up to a private airfield just outside Leeds.

The rain had stopped, leaving the tarmac glistening under the grey sky. And sitting there, shining like a majestic, metallic bruise, was a plane.

It wasn't a Cessna. It wasn't a small private jet. It was a Boeing 757, painted entirely in deep, matte purple with the Barnsley crest on the tail fin in gold.

"Holy shit," Michael breathed.

"I call her 'The Purple Arrow'," Kenji announced, spreading his arms. "Or 'Air Force Barnsley'. I haven't decided. What do you think?"

"I think it looks like Barney the Dinosaur joined the mafia," Michael said, walking towards the stairs. "But I love it."

They walked up the steps. The interior was insane.

The seats weren't seats. They were recliners made of Italian leather. There was a bar (stocked with non-alcoholic champagne and Gatorade). There was a cinema screen.

"Look at this," Kenji pointed to a special section at the back. "The Recovery Zone."

It had massage tables. It had cryotherapy chambers. It had a special, reinforced seat with extra legroom.

"For Lars?" Michael guessed.

"For Lars," Kenji nodded. "And for Diego, if he needs to be strapped down."

Arthur Milton walked in, his eyes wide. He touched the leather seats tentatively.

"Boss," Arthur whispered. "Does this plane have turbulence?"

"All planes have turbulence, Arthur."

"But does this one?" Arthur persisted. "Can we pay the sky to be smooth?"

"I tried," Kenji admitted. "God did not accept American Express."

Michael sat in the Manager's seat at the front. It swiveled. It had a desk. It had a direct line to the cockpit.

He looked out the window at the rainy Yorkshire landscape.

A year ago, they were taking a bus to away games. A bus that smelled of damp socks and despair. Now, they were going to fly to Dortmund in a flying palace.

"It's too much," Michael murmured.

"It is necessary," Kenji sat opposite him, opening a bottle of water. "We are hunting Julian Romero, Michael. We are hunting Champions Leagues. You cannot hunt lions in a Fiat Punto. You need a tank."

"Speaking of Fiats," Michael turned the chair. "I still don't have a car. I threw my keys in the bin."

Kenji grinned. A slow, mischievous grin.

"Follow me."

The Hangar

They walked down the steps of the plane and into a private hangar.

The lights flickered on, one by one. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

In the center of the vast, empty space, sat a car. Under a black sheet.

"You said you wanted something fast," Kenji's voice echoed. "You said you wanted something purple."

"I was joking about the purple, Kenji."

"Too late."

Kenji pulled the sheet off.

WHOOSH.

It was an Aston Martin Valkyrie.

But not just any Valkyrie. It was customized. The bodywork was a deep, midnight purple that looked black until the light hit it. The rims were gold. The interior was cream leather.

It didn't look like a car. It looked like a spaceship that wanted to murder the speed limit.

"Fuck me," Michael whispered. He walked around it. He touched the bonnet. It was cold and smooth.

"700 horsepower," Kenji recited the specs. "0 to 60 in 2.5 seconds. Top speed: 'Go to Jail'."

"It's... it's ridiculous."

"It is the Batmobile," Arthur noted, peeking from behind Michael. "But for a villain. Are we the villains, Boss?"

"We're the Misfits, Arthur," Michael opened the door. It swung up like a wing. "Villains have more fun."

He sat in the driver's seat. It hugged him. The steering wheel looked like it belonged in a Formula 1 car.

He pressed the 'Start' button.

VROOOOM.

The engine didn't start; it exploded into life. The sound was a guttural roar that shook the dust off the hangar rafters.

"Do you like it?" Kenji shouted over the noise.

Michael revved the engine. A smile spread across his face—the kind of smile a kid gets on Christmas morning, if Christmas morning involved a three-million-pound hypercar.

"I think," Michael shouted back, "that the Toyota Yaris can go fuck itself!"

The Blueprint

Back at the office, the adrenaline had faded into a comfortable buzz.

Michael sat at his desk, spinning the keys to the Aston Martin. Bastion King was in the corner, cleaning his fingernails with a hunting knife.

"Nice car," Bastion grunted. "Flashy. But can it carry pigeon feed?"

"Probably not, Bastion. I think pigeon feed voids the warranty."

Kenji walked in, carrying a large roll of paper. He cleared the tactical board (erasing Arthur's hard work again) and pinned the paper up.

"Plane? Check," Kenji ticked off a list. "Car? Check. House? Check. Now... the final piece."

He unrolled the blueprint.

It was a drawing of a stadium.

But it wasn't Oakwell.

"What is this?" Michael asked, standing up.

"Oakwell 2.0," Kenji announced. "The Fortress. Capacity: 60,000. Retractable roof. Heated seats. A statue of you outside doing the 'Chicken Signal'."

Michael stared at the drawing. It was beautiful. Glass, steel, lights. It looked like the Allianz Arena had a baby with a spaceship.

"Kenji," Michael said softly. "Where is the old stand? The one with the wooden seats that give you splinters?"

"Gone," Kenji waved a hand. "Demolished. We need luxury boxes, Michael. We need corporate revenue."

Michael walked up to the blueprint. He traced the lines of the sleek, modern stands.

Then he turned around.

"No."

Kenji blinked. "No?"

"No," Michael repeated firmly. "This isn't Barnsley. This is... generic. This is City. This is Arsenal."

He grabbed a marker pen. He drew a line through the luxury boxes.

"We keep the West Stand," Michael said. "The wooden one. We reinforce it, we paint it, but we keep it."

"But Michael! The splinters!"

"The splinters are the point, Kenji!" Michael slammed the pen down. "The splinters are why the fans sing! If you give them heated seats, they fall asleep. If you give them wooden benches, they stand up and scream."

He looked at Bastion King.

"Bastion. Tell him."

Bastion looked up. "He's right. Comfort kills atmosphere. You want a library or a coliseum?"

"Coliseum," Kenji muttered.

"Then keep the wood," Bastion grunted. "And make the away dressing room smaller. Turn off the hot water in their showers."

"We can do that?" Arthur asked, horrified.

"It's called home advantage, boy," Bastion growled.

Michael looked at the blueprint again.

"Expand the corners," Michael instructed Kenji. "Make the South Stand steeper. Like the Yellow Wall in Dortmund. I want the fans to be on top of the pitch. I want the opposition goalkeeper to feel their breath on his neck."

Kenji looked at the drawing. He imagined 60,000 fanatics looming over the pitch.

"A Purple Wall," Kenji whispered. "I like it. It is intimidating."

"Exactly," Michael nodded. "We don't build a shopping mall, Kenji. We build a cauldron."

The Sunset

Later that evening, Michael drove the Aston Martin back to his new house. The drive was smooth, powerful, and terrified every sheep he passed.

He parked it in the driveway next to the lake. The purple paint shimmered in the twilight.

He walked out onto the terrace. The air was cold.

He had the plane. He had the car. He had the house. He had the stadium plans.

He had everything a manager could dream of.

But as he looked out at the water, he felt a knot in his stomach.

"What else do I want?" he whispered to himself.

He pulled out his phone. He opened the folder marked 'THE PRINCE'.

He looked at the photo of Julian Romero.

The car was a toy. The plane was a convenience. The house was a shelter.

But Julian? Julian was the legacy.

If he could bring that kid here... if he could turn this chaotic, messy, beautiful club into a home for the greatest talent in the world...

That was worth more than any hypercar.

His phone buzzed.

MESSAGE FROM: BASTION KING

"Training tomorrow at 6 AM. Tell the bald one to bring his running shoes. I'm going to make them vomit."