Dynasty Awakening: Building My Own Football Empire

Chapter 294 294: Siege of the Bernabéu

As the second half began, the stadium felt like a living, angry organism. The 80,000 fans weren't cheering anymore. They were whistling. A high-pitched, piercing sound that drilled into your skull and vibrated in your teeth.Michael Sterling stood on the touchline, his arms crossed, his purple tie now shoved into his pocket. He looked calm, but inside, his internal organs were doing gymnastics.

"Boss," Arthur Milton whispered from the bench. He was currently holding a rosary beads necklace he had bought at the airport gift shop. "Why is the air vibrating? Is that normal? Are we in an earthquake?"

"It's the Remontada spirit, Arthur," Michael replied, his eyes glued to the pitch. "Real Madrid doesn't lose at home. They just wait until the 90th minute to ruin your life."

"That sounds illegal," Arthur whimpered. "Can we file a complaint?"

On the pitch, the game had shifted. It wasn't football anymore. It was a siege.

55th Minute.

Barnsley had touched the ball exactly three times in ten minutes. And two of those were clearances by Lars Jensen that landed in the upper tier.

Real Madrid was suffocating them. Modric was pulling strings, Valverde was running like a marathon runner on steroids, and Vinicius was dancing.

"Stay compact!" Michael screamed, his voice cracking. "Don't chase the ball! Chase the space!"

Enzo Moretti, the Italian magician, was doing the dirty work. He was tracking back, intercepting passes, and looking furious about it. Every time he tackled someone, he muttered something about "ruining his boots."

But the real threat was warming up on the sideline.

Michael saw him first.

A figure in a bib. Fast. Powerful. The face of a generation.

Kylian Mbappé.

"Fuck," Michael breathed. "Here comes the Turtle."

The board went up.

SUBSTITUTION: REAL MADRID

OFF: RODRYGO

ON: KYLIAN MBAPPÉ

The stadium erupted. It wasn't a cheer; it was a roar of bloodlust. The King had entered the arena.

Diego Nunez looked over at the sideline. He saw Mbappé jogging on.

Diego didn't look scared. He licked his lips. He adjusted his shorts. He looked like a man who had just seen a buffet open.

"FRESH MEAT!" Diego shouted, pointing at the World Cup winner.

Mbappé looked confused. He probably wasn't used to bald defenders screaming culinary threats at him.

68th Minute.

The impact was immediate.

Mbappé received the ball on the left. He didn't do a step-over. He just ran.

He pushed the ball ten yards ahead.

"Catch him!" Victor Osimhen yelled from the halfway line.

Kaito Tanaka tried. His Titanium Hamstrings fired. But Mbappé... Mbappé was a glitch in the matrix. He was gone.

He drove into the box.

Lars Jensen stepped out. The Wall vs. The Speedster.

Mbappé dropped his shoulder to cut inside.

Lars didn't commit. He knew he couldn't race him. So he did the only thing a Viking could do.

He threw his body into the space where Mbappé wanted to go.

CRASH.

It wasn't a tackle. It was a collision of matter.

Mbappé bounced off Lars's chest like a tennis ball hitting a concrete wall.

"No pass!" Lars grunted, clearing the ball.

The referee blew the whistle.

FOUL.

"WHAT?!" Michael screamed, kicking a water bottle. "He just stood there! Being big isn't a crime!"

The referee gave Lars a yellow card. Lars looked at the card, then at the referee.

"Tiny card," Lars muttered. "For tiny man."

75th Minute.

The free kick came to nothing (Jan Visser caught it with one hand while yawning), but the pressure was relentless.

Michael looked at his System Interface.

[SYSTEM ALERT]

[TEAM STAMINA: CRITICAL]

[DEFENSIVE SHAPE: CRACKING]

[ANCELOTTI EYEBROW LEVEL: RAISED]

"We need fresh legs," Michael said. "Arthur, get the subs."

"Who, Boss? We used the good ones!"

"Bring on the grinders. Kalvin Phillips for Jax. We go 5-4-1. We park the bus, the plane, and the yacht."

Jax came off. The Brazilian prodigy was exhausted. He high-fived Michael.

"I am dead, Boss," Jax wheezed. "No vibes left. Only pain."

"You did good, kid," Michael patted his back. "Go make a TikTok about survival."

88th Minute.

It was agony.

Real Madrid had 24 shots. Barnsley had 1 (the goal).

Every pass Madrid made felt like a dagger. Every cross felt like a bomb.

Bellingham had the ball. He chipped it over the top.

Mbappé was there. He controlled it instantly. He was six yards out.

"This is it," Michael thought, his heart stopping. "The heartbreak."

Mbappé shot.

It was destined for the bottom corner.

But suddenly, a hand appeared.

Not Jan Visser's hand.

It was Diego Nunez.

The bald maniac had thrown himself across the goal line. The ball hit his arm.

WHISTLE.

The referee pointed to the spot.

PENALTY TO REAL MADRID.

And then, the red card.

Diego Nunez looked at the red card. He didn't argue. He didn't cry.

He smiled.

He walked over to Mbappé, winked, and patted him on the head.

"I saved it," Diego said in broken English. "Now you miss."

Diego walked off the pitch. The Bernabéu booed him with the fury of a thousand suns. Diego raised his arms, conducting the boos like an orchestra. He kissed the Barnsley badge.

"He's a psychopath," Michael whispered, watching his defender leave. "But he's our psychopath."

The Penalty.

90th Minute.

Kylian Mbappé vs. Jan Visser.

The best striker in the world vs. a goalkeeper who looked like he had just woken up from a nap.

The stadium was silent.

Mbappé ran up.

He went right. Low and hard.

Jan Visser went right.

SAVE!

Jan Visser didn't just save it. He caught it. He literally caught the penalty.

The silence in the Bernabéu was deafening. It was heavier than the noise.

Jan stood up. He looked at the ball. He looked at Mbappé. He shrugged.

Then he drop-kicked the ball into the stratosphere.

"OH MY GOD!" Arthur Milton fainted. He didn't slide down the wall this time; he just fell face-first into the turf.

Michael didn't faint. He felt like his heart was going to explode, but he didn't faint.

"HOLD ON!" Michael screamed, his throat tearing. "TWO MORE MINUTES!"

90+5 Minute.

The board showed 5 minutes of added time. The referee had found 7.

It was pure chaos. Real Madrid threw everyone forward. Rudiger was playing striker. Courtois was in the midfield.

Cross after cross. Block after block.

Lars Jensen headed one away. Sergio Ramos bicycle-kicked another. Kalvin Phillips tackled the air just to look busy.

And then... the final chance.

Modric corner.

The ball floated in. It hung in the night sky for what felt like an hour.

Rudiger rose. He headed it.

It was going in. Top corner.

But Kaito Tanaka—the winger, the speedster, the boy with the Titanium Hamstrings—was on the post.

He jumped. He stretched his neck.

THUD.

He headed it off the line.

The ball flew out of the box.

The referee looked at his watch.

He put the whistle to his lips.

PEEEP. PEEEP. PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

The sound cut through the Madrid night.

FULL TIME.

REAL MADRID 0 - 1 BARNSLEY.

Michael Sterling didn't celebrate. He couldn't. His legs gave way.

He sat down on the wet grass of the technical area. He buried his face in his hands.

"We did it," he whispered. "We actually fucking did it."

Around him, the world was ending.

Kaito Tanaka collapsed, crying. Victor Osimhen was sprinting around the pitch with his shirt off. Jan Visser was calmly drinking water.

Arthur Milton woke up from his faint, saw the scoreboard, and immediately started hugging the fourth official.

"WE BEAT THE KINGS!" Arthur screamed. "WE ARE THE KINGS NOW!"

Michael looked up.

He saw Carlo Ancelotti walking towards him. The Don looked tired. He looked old.

But he extended a hand.

Michael stood up, his suit ruined, his tie gone, his hair a mess.

"Michael," Ancelotti said. "You park the bus very well."

"It wasn't a bus, Carlo," Michael grinned, tears pricking his eyes. "It was a tank."

Ancelotti chuckled. "Enjoy the night. The Bernabéu remembers those who survive it."

He walked away.

Michael turned to the away end. The 3,000 Barnsley fans were going berserk. They were singing Blue Moon—mocking City—but changing the lyrics to Purple Moon.

The System Interface flashed in Michael's vision, gold and bright.

[MISSION COMPLETE: THE GIANT SLAYER]

[REWARD: 50,000 INFLUENCE POINTS]

[REPUTATION: GOD-TIER (RISING)]

[UNLOCKING: 'THE TREBLE' PATHWAY]

Michael wiped his eyes. He looked at his Misfits celebrating in the center circle.

Diego Nunez ran back onto the pitch from the tunnel (illegal, but nobody stopped him). He was wearing a Real Madrid shirt he had stolen. He slid into Lars Jensen.

"WE EAT!" Diego roared. "TONIGHT WE EAT PAELLA!"