Dynasty Awakening: Building My Own Football Empire

Chapter 301 301: Birth of the Egoist

The voice note from Pablo "The Butcher" Romero had ended ten minutes ago, but the echo of his growl still hung in the air like cigar smoke.Michael Sterling sat in his leather chair, spinning a pen between his fingers. He stared at the blank screen of the iPhone.

"So," Arthur Milton whispered from behind a cushion on the sofa. "Just to clarify, Boss. We are now taking orders from an Argentine cattle rancher who used to headbutt referees for a living?"

"We are not taking orders, Arthur," Michael said, though his voice lacked conviction. "We are... aligning our interests."

"Aligning interests?" Kenji Sato scoffed, pacing the room in his silk kimono. "He wants us to slaughter Dortmund! He wants blood! My insurance does not cover ritual sacrifice, Michael!"

"He doesn't literally mean blood, Kenji," Enzo Moretti chimed in from the desk, sipping a fresh espresso. "Well, maybe a little. Pablo is old school. He thinks passing sideways is a sin. He thinks possession stats are for cowards."

Michael stopped spinning the pen.

He thought about Julian Romero. The kid who hated robots. The kid who was terrified of becoming just another cog in the Manchester City machine.

Then he thought about Pablo. The father who wanted his son to have cojones.

And then he thought about himself.

Why had he rejected Real Madrid? Why had he built this team of Misfits?

Because he hated robots too.

"System," Michael whispered.

A gold holographic screen flickered into existence.

[CURRENT MANAGER STYLE: TACTICAL GENIUS (BALANCED)]

[SQUAD MORALE: HIGH]

[CURRENT OBJECTIVE: IMPRESS THE BUTCHER]

Michael frowned. "Balanced." He hated that word. It sounded like a breakfast cereal. It sounded like a sensible family sedan.

Barnsley wasn't a sedan. It was a monster truck with no brakes and a flamethrower on the roof.

"I've been doing it wrong," Michael murmured.

"Doing what wrong?" Arthur asked, peeking out. "You beat Real Madrid, Boss. You're doing everything right."

"No," Michael stood up. He walked to the whiteboard, which was covered in arrows and xG diagrams for the Dortmund game.

He picked up an eraser.

"Hey!" Arthur yelped. "I spent three hours drawing those defensive zones!"

Michael wiped the board clean. White dust fell to the floor like snow.

"Fuck the zones," Michael said.

He picked up a black marker. He wrote one word in the center of the board, in capital letters.

EGO.

He turned to the room.

"We beat Madrid because we survived," Michael said, his eyes burning with a new intensity. "We parked the bus. We got lucky. We played like underdogs."

He pointed at the word on the board.

" But Julian doesn't want to join an underdog. And Pablo doesn't want to send his son to a team that hides in its own box."

He looked at Enzo.

"Enzo, what does a striker want?"

"To score," Enzo shrugged.

"No," Michael shook his head. "That's what a player wants. What does a monster want?"

Enzo paused. A slow smile spread across his bearded face. "To destroy. To be the main character. To be... God."

"Exactly," Michael grinned. "We aren't building a team anymore, gentlemen. We are building a kingdom of monsters."

He tapped his chest.

"I'm not a tactical manager. I'm not Pep. I'm not Klopp."

He looked at Kenji.

"I'm an Ego Coach."

The Auditorium

The next morning, the entire squad was gathered in the video analysis room.

Usually, these sessions were boring. Arthur would play clips of the opponent, point out their weaknesses, and hand out jelly babies to keep everyone awake.

Today, there were no clips. The screen was black.

Michael stood at the front. He wasn't wearing his training tracksuit. He was wearing his best suit—the black one—with the purple tie. He looked like he was about to sell them a pyramid scheme or start a cult.

"Turn off the lights, Arthur," Michael ordered.

The room plunged into darkness.

"Dortmund," Michael's voice cut through the silence. "The Yellow Wall. They run. They press. They are a machine."

He paced back and forth, the only sound the click of his shoes on the floor.

"Every pundit in the world says we should defend. They say we should protect our lead. They say we should be humble."

He stopped in front of Diego Nunez.

"Diego. Are you humble?"

Diego, who was wearing his new 'Bald Cap' (signed by himself), looked confused. "Humble? Is that a type of ham?"

Laughter rippled through the room.

"No, Diego. Humble means you make yourself small so others feel big."

Diego scowled. "Fuck that. I am big. They are small."

"Exactly," Michael roared.

The screen behind him flashed on. It wasn't a football clip.

It was a scene from an anime. Blue Lock. A character with crazy eyes was screaming about devouring everyone else on the pitch.

Kaito Tanaka gasped. He literally jumped out of his seat.

"ISAGI!" Kaito screamed. "BOSS! YOU WATCH BLUE LOCK?!"

"Sit down, Samurai," Michael smirked. "I watch everything."

He turned to the squad.

"This is the new philosophy. I don't care about possession. I don't care about pass completion percentage. I don't care if you run 12 kilometers or 2 kilometers."

He pointed at Victor Osimhen.

"Victor. When you get the ball near the box, what do you look for?"

"My teammates, Boss," Victor recited the standard answer. "I look for the open man."

"Wrong!" Michael slammed his hand on the podium.

The squad jumped.

"From today, that is the wrong answer. If you are in the box, you are the King. You are the only person in the world. You don't look for a pass. You look to kill."

He pointed at Jax.

"Jax. If you have a choice between a safe pass and dribbling past three defenders to make a TikTok clip... what do you do?"

Jax grinned, his braces sparkling in the projector light. "I cook them, Boss. I make them famous."

"Good," Michael nodded. "Cook them."

He looked at Lars Jensen (The Wall).

"Lars. If an attacker runs at you, do you delay him? Do you wait for cover?"

Lars cracked his knuckles. "No. I break him."

"Yes," Michael whispered. "You break him."

He walked into the middle of the players. The atmosphere in the room had shifted. It wasn't a tactical briefing anymore. It was an awakening.

"We are Misfits," Michael said softly. "Society tells Misfits to fit in. To behave. To follow the rules."

He looked at every single one of them.

"But in this room? We don't fit in. We take over."

He pulled up the tactical board on the screen. It didn't show a formation. It just showed eleven red dots scattered across the pitch in aggressive positions.

"Against Dortmund, we don't play football. We play Ego. We attack. We press. We bite. We make them wish they stayed in Germany."

He looked at Kaito.

"Kaito. I want you to be selfish. I want you to think you are the best winger in the world."

Kaito's eyes were shining. "I am the Titanium God, Boss."

"Yes you are."

He looked at Diego.

"Diego. I want you to think the ball belongs to you. And anyone who touches it is stealing from your house."

Diego stood up. He ripped his training bib in half.

"THEY ARE THIEVES!" Diego roared. "I CALL THE POLICE! NO, I AM THE POLICE!"

Michael smiled. It was working.

"This is the deal," Michael said, walking back to the front. "If we play safe, we might win. But we will be boring. And nobody remembers boring."

He leaned into the microphone.

"But if we play with Ego? If we play like monsters? Then we build a Dynasty."

He turned off the screen.

"Training starts in ten minutes. No passing drills today. 1v1s only. Winner stays on. Loser buys lunch."

"Let's go!" Jax shouted, sprinting out of the room.

"I eat everyone!" Diego yelled, chasing him.

The room emptied in seconds, leaving a trail of chaos and testosterone.

The Aftermath

Arthur Milton remained in his seat. He was pale. He was trembling. He was clutching his bag of jelly babies like it was the only anchor to reality.

"Boss," Arthur whispered. "You just told a room full of unstable millionaires to stop passing the ball. Are you insane?"

"Maybe, Arthur," Michael loosened his tie. "But sanity doesn't win Champions Leagues."

Kenji Sato walked up to Michael. The owner had tears in his eyes.

"That was beautiful, Michael," Kenji sniffed. "I feel like buying a tank. Can I buy a tank?"

"No tanks, Kenji."

"A small tank? For the parade?"

"We'll talk about it."

Enzo Moretti walked past them, heading for the door. The Italian stopped. He looked at Michael.

"You know, Boss," Enzo said, stroking his beard. "You sounded like him."

"Like who?"

"Like Pablo. The Butcher."

Michael felt a chill run down his spine.

"Is that a good thing?"

Enzo smirked. "For winning? Yes. For our insurance premiums? No."