naaapseattle Chapter 303 303: Impossible Hunt!
Chapter 303 303: Impossible Hunt!
Michael stood in his office, staring at a whiteboard that was currently blank except for the word HELP written in red marker.Arthur Milton was sitting on the floor, sorting a bag of jelly babies by color. "Boss," Arthur said, holding up a green one. "If we hire a new coach, do I have to share my snacks? Because that's a dealbreaker."
"Arthur," Michael sighed, rubbing his temples. "We are trying to find an Attacking Coach. Someone who has scored 500 goals. Someone who understands the soul of a striker. I don't think they'll be interested in your gummy bears."
"You never know," Arthur muttered. "Sugar is a universal language."
Kenji Sato was pacing the room, holding a gold-plated iPhone. He looked furious.
"Zidane hung up on me!" Kenji shouted. "In French! It sounded very elegant, but I am sure he told me to go fuck myself!"
"Zidane isn't coming to Barnsley to be an assistant, Kenji," Michael said. "He's won three Champions Leagues. He's not going to put out cones for Jax."
"I offered him a vineyard!" Kenji roared. "A whole vineyard in Napa Valley! Who refuses wine?!"
Michael walked to the window. The rain was lashing down on the training pitch below. He could see Diego Nunez chasing a plastic bag that was blowing in the wind.
"We need a legend," Michael whispered. "But finding one who isn't retired, dead, or an egomaniac is hard as fuck."
They had spent the last 48 hours cold-calling every famous striker from the last two decades.
Thierry Henry: "I am analyzing VAR. It is more confusing than Barnsley. No."
Zlatan: "Zlatan does not coach. Zlatan is the lesson." (Then he hung up).
Roy Keane: "Piss off." (Short, sweet, expected).
"We are running out of names," Michael admitted. "Maybe I just do it myself. I scored a goal in Sunday League once."
"You tripped over the ball and it rolled in," Arthur reminded him.
"It still counts, Arthur."
Just then, the office door creaked open.
Enzo Moretti walked in. The Italian maestro was wearing a silk scarf (indoors) and holding his tiny espresso cup. He looked at the stressed faces of the management team.
"You are looking for a killer," Enzo stated calmly.
"We are looking for a coach, Enzo," Michael corrected.
"Same thing," Enzo shrugged. "If you want to teach Julian Romero—if he comes—and if you want to teach Kaito to be a god... you need someone who has walked the path of fire."
Enzo took a sip of coffee.
"I know a guy."
Michael perked up. "Who? Is he available?"
"He is... complicated," Enzo said. "He was the best. A true Number 9. But he hated the media. He hated the fame. He retired ten years ago and vanished."
"Who is it?" Kenji asked, pulling out his checkbook.
Enzo lowered his voice.
"Bastion King."
The room went silent.
Bastion King. The name was a myth. An English striker from the 90s who played with the elegance of a ballerina and the temper of a nightclub bouncer. He had scored 300 goals, headbutted two referees, and then retired at the age of 30 to "find silence."
"Bastion King?" Arthur whispered, looking terrified. "My dad told me stories about him. He said he once caught a fish with his bare hands during a match."
"That's a lie, Arthur," Michael said, though his heart was racing. "But... he's impossible. Nobody has seen him in a decade. Rumor has it he lives in a cave in Scotland."
"Not Scotland," Enzo corrected. "Manchester. He lives in a shed."
"A shed?" Kenji blinked. "Like... for tools?"
"For pigeons," Enzo smiled. "He likes birds. He says they are better than people. They don't ask stupid questions."
Michael looked at Enzo. Then he looked at Kenji.
"Get the car," Michael ordered.
The Pigeon Shed
Two hours later, Michael's new purple Aston Martin (a gift from Kenji) pulled up to a muddy allotment on the outskirts of Manchester.
It was a bleak place. Grey skies. Wet grass. And rows of wooden sheds where old men grew giant vegetables.
"This is it?" Kenji asked, stepping out in his £5,000 Italian shoes. "This is where a legend lives? It smells like wet dog."
"It smells like obscurity," Michael said, buttoning his coat. "Come on. Arthur, stay in the car. If he gets violent, drive away and save yourself."
"Way ahead of you, Boss," Arthur said, locking the doors from the inside.
Michael and Kenji walked down the muddy path. At the very end, there was a shed painted—ironically—black.
A man was sitting on a wooden crate outside. He was wearing a flat cap and a thick wool coat. He was throwing seeds to a flock of pigeons.
He didn't look up as they approached.
"Bastion?" Michael asked softly.
The man stopped throwing seeds. He turned his head.
It was him. Older, greyer, with a beard that looked like a bird's nest, but the eyes were the same. Ice blue. Piercing. The eyes of a man who had terrified goalkeepers for a living.
"You're standing on my worms," Bastion King growled. His voice sounded like gravel being crushed.
"Sorry," Michael stepped back. "I'm Michael Sterling. This is Kenji Sato. We're from Barnsley."
"I know who you are," Bastion turned back to the birds. "The Purple Clown and the Money Man."
"Hey!" Kenji shouted. "I am not just a Money Man! I am a Visionary!"
Bastion threw a handful of seeds at Kenji. "Quiet. You'll scare the racers."
Michael took a deep breath. This was going to be harder than the Bernabeu.
"Bastion," Michael said. "We need help. We have a team of kids. Talented kids. But they're soft. They need... an edge."
"Buy a knife sharpener," Bastion grunted.
"We don't need knives," Michael stepped closer, ignoring the mud ruining his shoes. "We need Ego. We have a winger who runs fast but apologizes when he scores. We have a striker who is too nice. We are trying to sign the son of Pablo Romero."
Bastion paused. His hand hovered over the seed bag.
"The Butcher's son?" Bastion asked.
"Yes. Julian. He's coming if we beat Dortmund."
Bastion snorted. "Dortmund. Robots. German efficiency. Boring."
"Exactly," Michael seized the opening. "We want to break the robots. But I can't teach them how to be monsters. I'm a manager. I stand on the sideline. You... you were the monster."
Bastion stood up. He was huge. Even in his old age, he had the presence of a mountain. He loomed over Michael.
"You want me to come to Barnsley," Bastion said, his eyes narrowing. "To a town that smells of coal? To coach a bunch of TikTok generation brats who care more about their hairstyles than their first touch?"
"Yes," Michael said firmly.
"And why the fuck would I do that?"
"Because," Michael looked him in the eye. "You're bored."
Bastion blinked.
"You're sitting here, feeding pigeons, pretending you don't miss the roar," Michael continued, his voice rising. "You tell yourself you hate the game. But I bet you watch it. I bet you scream at the TV when you see a striker pass instead of shoot. I bet your foot itches every time you see a ball."
Bastion stayed silent. The wind whistled through the sheds.
"You're rotting here, Bastion," Michael whispered. "Come to Barnsley. We don't have rules. We don't have media training. We have a bald psychopath who eats corner flags and a billionaire who buys swan pedalos."
Michael extended his hand.
"Come and teach them how to be Kings."
Bastion looked at Michael's hand. He looked at Kenji, who was trying to clean birdseed off his suit.
He looked at the pigeons.
"They are racing tomorrow," Bastion muttered. "I can't leave the birds."
"I will buy the birds a hotel!" Kenji shouted. "A luxury coop! With heating! And a personal chef!"
Bastion looked at Kenji. A small, terrifying smile cracked his bearded face.
"You're an idiot," Bastion said.
"I am a rich idiot," Kenji corrected.
Bastion sighed. He brushed the seeds off his hands.
"One condition," Bastion said.
"Anything," Michael nodded.
"I don't wear the tracksuit. Purple makes me look like a bruised plum. I wear what I want."
"Done."
"And no interviews. If a journalist talks to me, I headbutt them."
"We prefer you didn't," Michael grimaced. "But... okay. We can work around that."
Bastion nodded. He walked to the shed door, locked it with a heavy padlock, and put the key in his pocket.
"Well?" Bastion barked, walking past them towards the car. "Are we going? I haven't shouted at a teenager in ten years. I have a lot of rage to let out."
Michael grinned. He looked at Kenji.
"We got him," Michael whispered.
"He smells terrible," Kenji whispered back. "But he has an aura. I like it."
They walked back to the car. Arthur unlocked the doors, saw the giant bearded man approaching, and immediately locked them again.
"Unlock the door, Arthur!" Michael shouted, banging on the window. "It's the new coach!"
"He looks like a bear!" Arthur screamed through the glass. "He's going to eat the jelly babies!"
"Open the door or you're fired!"
Arthur reluctantly opened the door. Bastion King squeezed into the back seat of the Aston Martin, instantly making the luxury interior feel small and dangerous.
He looked at Arthur. He looked at the bag of jelly babies.
"Give me a red one," Bastion growled.
Arthur, trembling, handed over a red sweet.
Bastion ate it. He chewed slowly.
"Acceptable," Bastion grunted. "Drive."
As Michael pulled away from the allotment, his phone buzzed.
[SYSTEM ALERT]
[NEW STAFF MEMBER ACQUIRED]
[NAME: BASTION KING]
[ROLE: OFFENSIVE COACH / EGO MENTOR]
[ATTRIBUTES: FINISHING (S+), AGGRESSION (S+), PIGEON KNOWLEDGE (A)]
[PASSIVE EFFECT: 'THE KING'S AURA' - Strikers gain +20% Finishing, -50% Fear]
Michael smiled as he accelerated onto the highway.
Finding a legend was hard as fuck!