Dynasty Awakening: Building My Own Football Empire

Chapter 295 295: Diplomacy

The mixed zone of the Santiago Bernabéu was usually a place where dreams went to die.It was a narrow, claustrophobic corridor lined with sponsors' logos, where millionaires with perfect haircuts explained why they lost to other millionaires with slightly better haircuts.

But tonight, it smelled of sweat, cheap adrenaline, and the distinct, sugary aroma of Arthur Milton's fear.

Michael Sterling leaned against the barrier, his purple tie undone and hanging around his neck like a dead snake. He felt lightheaded. The A-Grade Voice Projection Elixir had worn off, leaving his throat feeling like he'd swallowed a bag of razor blades.

"Boss," Arthur squeaked from beside him. The assistant manager was clutching a half-eaten bag of jelly babies like it was an oxygen mask. "Why are they looking at us like that? Did we commit a crime? I feel like we robbed a bank."

"We did rob a bank, Arthur," Michael rasped, grinning at the sea of cameras. "We walked into the Royal Mint of football, stole three points, and slapped the security guard on the way out."

"The security guard was Rudiger," Arthur whimpered. "He looked at me, Boss. He looked at my soul."

"He was just admiring your suit, Arthur. It's purple. It's bold."

The flashbulbs erupted. A wall of light.

CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.

A reporter from Marca—a man who looked like he'd personally fired three managers this season—thrust a microphone into Michael's face.

"Mister Sterling," the reporter said, his accent thick and skeptical. "You parked the bus. You played anti-football. You have stolen this victory. Do you feel... shame?"

The corridor went quiet. Even Vinicius Junior, who was walking past with a face like thunder, stopped to listen.

Michael looked at the camera. He activated his Media Darling (S+) skill. He didn't look defensive. He looked like a man who had just won the lottery and lost the ticket, but didn't care because he was already rich in vibes.

"Shame?" Michael repeated, chuckling. "My friend, have you seen the price of admission here? We gave you a show. We gave you drama. We gave you a bald man saving a penalty with his face."

He pointed down the hall towards the away dressing room, where muffled Reggaeton music was vibrating the walls.

"Real Madrid plays the piano," Michael continued, leaning in. "Beautiful music. Mozart. Beethoven. But Barnsley? We play the drums. We are loud. We are messy. And tonight, the drums were louder than the piano."

"But the red card," the reporter pressed. "Diego Nunez. He is a... barbarian."

"He is a passionate young man," Michael corrected smoothly. "He just wanted to hug the ball. Aggressively. On the goal line."

"He handled it!"

"He caressed it," Michael winked. "Next question."

The press pack laughed. It was a nervous laugh, the kind you give to a lunatic who is holding a grenade, but it was laughter nonetheless.

Michael pushed away from the barrier. He grabbed Arthur by the collar of his suit.

"Come on," Michael whispered. "Before they ask about the time-wasting. I don't think 'Tactical Napping' is a valid FIFA strategy."

The Dressing Room

If the tunnel was intense, the dressing room was a war zone of joy.

The moment Michael opened the door, he was hit by a wave of humidity and the smell of pepperoni.

"CAMPEONES! CAMPEONES! OLE! OLE! OLE!"

The scene was absolute carnage.

Kaito Tanaka was standing on a bench, conducting the chant with a corner flag he had somehow smuggled inside. His nose was bandaged, giving him the look of a very happy, very rich pirate.

Victor Osimhen was dancing with Jax. The Brazilian prodigy was live-streaming, shouting "NO CAP! WE COOKED THE KINGS!" into his phone.

And in the corner, sitting on a throne made of kit bags, was Diego Nunez.

The bald defender was shirtless. He had a bandage wrapped around his head (from the collision with the post). He was holding a slice of pizza in one hand and a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne in the other.

But the most shocking thing wasn't the pizza. It was the shirt draped over his knees.

It was Luka Modric's shirt. The number 10. The holy grail.

"Diego," Michael said, walking over to him. "How the fuck did you get that?"

Diego looked up, his eyes wild and bloodshot. He took a bite of the pizza, chewing aggressively.

"I ask him," Diego grunted.

"You asked Luka Modric?"

"Yes. In tunnel."

"And what did you say?"

Diego swallowed the pizza crust whole. "I say, 'Give me shirt, or I eat your family.'"

Michael stared at him. The room went silent for a split second.

"You threatened to eat Modric's family?" Arthur whispered, looking ready to faint again.

"No, no," Diego waved a hand dismissively. "Is joke. Spanish humor. He laugh. He cry a little. Then he give shirt. Very nice man. Small. Like appetizer."

Michael rubbed his temples. "Okay. Good. As long as it was consensual."

He walked to the center of the room. The players quieted down. They looked at him—bruised, battered, exhausted, but alive.

Jan Visser, the goalkeeper who had saved the penalty, was sitting calmly in his locker, reading a comic book. He looked up.

"Boss," Jan said slowly. "Can we go home? I am hungry. Spanish pizza is... too thin."

"We're going home, Jan," Michael smiled. "But first..."

He looked at everyone. At Lars Jensen, who was icing a bruise the size of a melon on his thigh. At Enzo Moretti, who was meticulously cleaning his boots with a toothbrush. At Sergio Ramos, who was sitting with his head in his hands, emotionally drained from returning to his old home.

"You guys," Michael said, his voice soft. "You have no idea what you just did."

"We won three points, Boss," Kaito beamed.

"No," Michael shook his head. "You didn't just win three points. You broke the simulation."

He pointed at the tactical board, which currently had a drawing of a smiley face eating a crown (drawn by Jax).

"Real Madrid is inevitable. They are the final boss. And we just beat the final boss on Level 1 with a wooden stick."

"And a bald head!" Diego shouted, pointing to his own skull.

"And a bald head," Michael agreed. "Enjoy this. Drink the fake champagne. Eat the pizza. Because tomorrow, the whole world is going to want a piece of us. And we are going to charge them double."

"Triple!" Kenji Sato shouted from the doorway.

The owner walked in. He looked disheveled. His expensive suit was soaked in rain (he had run onto the pitch at full time), and he was holding a Spanish newspaper.

"Look!" Kenji waved the paper. "The headline! EL ROBO DEL SIGLO."

"The Robbery of the Century," Enzo translated, sipping an espresso. "Nice title. Catchy."

Kenji walked over to Michael and hugged him. It was a fierce, desperate hug.

"Michael," Kenji whispered in his ear. "I love you. I love this bald maniac. I love the jelly baby man. I am going to buy you a castle."

"Just buy us a new bus, Kenji," Michael laughed, patting the billionaire's back. "The current one smells like damp dog and Diego."

The Bus Ride

An hour later, the adrenaline crash hit.

The team bus rolled out of the Bernabéu underground car park. The streets of Madrid were still full of fans, but the bus was quiet inside.

The lights were dimmed. The players were slumped in their seats, wrapped in blankets and hoodies.

Michael sat at the front, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. The rain had started again, streaking the glass.

Arthur sat next to him. He was asleep, snoring softly, clutching the bag of jelly babies like a teddy bear.

Michael pulled out his phone. He didn't check Twitter. He didn't check the news.

He opened the System Interface.

It hovered in the darkened bus, glowing with a soft, gold light.

[MATCH REPORT COMPLETE]

Result: Real Madrid 0 - 1 Barnsley

xG (Expected Goals): Real Madrid 4.2 - Barnsley 0.1

Tactical Rating: S (Chaos Masterclass)

Manager Reputation: GLOBAL ICON

[REWARDS]

Influence Points: +50,000

New Skill Unlocked: The Fortress Mindset (Defensive stats +10% when away from home).

Hidden Achievement: The King Slayer (Beat Real Madrid at the Bernabéu).

Michael smiled. The numbers were ridiculous. They shouldn't have won. By all logic, they should have been destroyed.

But football isn't logic. Football is a feeling.

"Boss?"

A whisper from the seat behind him.

Michael turned. It was Kaito.

The winger was awake, his eyes bright in the dark. He was holding an ice pack to his nose.

"You okay, Samurai?" Michael whispered back.

"I am good," Kaito said. "My nose is broken. But my heart is full."

"That's poetic," Michael chuckled. "But we'll get the nose fixed. Can't have our poster boy looking crooked."

Kaito shifted in his seat. "Boss... Diego is suspended for the next game. Against Dortmund."

"I know," Michael sighed. "Three games, probably. Assaulting a goal line is frowned upon."

"What do we do?" Kaito asked. "Without the chaos?"

Michael looked at the sleeping form of Lars Jensen across the aisle. The giant Dane was snoring so loudly it sounded like a chainsaw.