Ficorpio
Chapter 1
“Leon, this World Cup qualifying disaster was always going to land on someone’s head. You’re just back from a serious injury, so why not put out a statement and admit you were the one who disrupted the team’s tactics?”
The greasy voice oozed into his ear, smug and patronizing, like it was offering him a favor.
Leon Hart’s eyes snapped open.
The first thing he saw was Victor Graves, team director for the Chinese National Team, his fleshy face sagging over his collar.
The conference room was hazy with cigarette smoke.
More than a dozen players in national-team training gear sat around the long table. Some were slumped over their phones. One was picking his teeth with a toothpick. A few had bowls of expensive tonic soup in front of them, eating like pigs, grease shining on their mouths.
Leon froze for half a second, and then his pupils shrank.
Blue World. This parallel world he’d crossed into in his last life.
Five years of pain and ruined knees. The humiliation of being cut loose by his club. The lonely, bitter years in Europe that had ended with his ambition rotting inside him. The memories flashed through his mind like a film reel set on fire.
He looked down at his hands, then at the brace still strapped over his knee.
He had been reborn.
He had really come back to the year he was twenty-four, to the afternoon after that crushing defeat in the World Cup qualifiers, when they had forced him to carry the blame.
In his last life, he had snapped his leg fighting on the pitch. These walking, coasting teammates of his hadn’t defended him once. Instead, they had teamed up with the Football Association and shoved him out as the scapegoat.
“Leon, what are you spacing out for?” Victor tapped the table and blew out a smoke ring. “As long as you hand over a five-hundred-thousand ‘good-faith deposit,’ your starting spot will still be there once the storm passes. We’re doing this for your protection.”
Protection?
Leon laughed coldly inside.
In his last life, he had believed that exact lie. He had paid the money, taken the blame, and what had he gotten in return? He’d been frozen out completely and torn apart online.
These parasites had gnawed through domestic football until there wasn’t even bone dust left.
Leon leaned back in his chair and let his gaze sweep across the teammates still spooning down their luxury soup.
“What, too much money for you?” the starting striker across from him said with a sneer. Nathan Cole. “Leon, I’m only saying this for your own good. You were too selfish out there. You never fit into the tactical system. Taking the fall is for the greater good.”
“Exactly,” another defender chimed in. “What’s wrong with a young guy suffering a little? We work hard for the national team too. We eat this stuff every day to keep our bodies up. We bleed and sweat for the country.”
Leon suddenly smiled.
Then he stood and kicked the chair in front of him over.
Bang.
The crash slammed through the room and dropped everything into dead silence.
Every face turned toward him in shock. Usually, the so-called genius kid only kept his head down and played.
“The greater good? Tactical system?” Leon planted both hands on the table, and there was something in his eyes that made people’s skin crawl. “You lot think you’re fit to talk tactics? You stroll through matches, your first touch bounces five yards away, and you call yourselves professionals?”
“The hell did you just say?” Nathan shot to his feet, face going green.
“I said you’re trash.” Leon jabbed a finger at him. “Your total running distance in a full match isn’t even better than the other keeper’s. The second there’s contact, you hide. Every time the ball gets to your feet, you play some cowardly little safety pass backward. You call that football? You’re serving the opposition dinner.”
Victor slammed his hand down on the table. “Leon Hart! Have you lost your mind? Do you still want a future with this team or not?”
“I stopped wanting one a long time ago.”
Leon tore the national-team crest off his chest and hurled it straight into Victor’s bloated face.
“If this garbage team still needs players, let someone else do it. I’m done. Effective immediately.”
Then he turned and strode for the conference room door.
Every bit of resentment from his last life burst free in that moment.
To hell with the national team. To hell with the Football Association.
Now that he had another chance, he would never waste one more shred of talent in this swamp. He was going to Europe—to the highest temple of football.
But not as a player.
He remembered every tactical revolution that would sweep through the sport over the next ten years. He remembered every future superstar who would blaze across the World Cup stage.
He was going to be a coach.
He would build an invincible football empire in Europe, gather those future world stars under him, and wring every last ounce of potential out of them.
“Leon! If you walk out that door, there won’t be a place left for you anywhere in domestic football!” Victor roared behind him, nearly hysterical. “I’ll have you blacklisted for life!”
Leon didn’t even look back. He shoved the conference room door open.
Outside, the hallway was packed wall to wall with sports reporters from every major outlet in the country. Cameras swung toward him in an instant. Flashbulbs exploded so bright it was like daylight.
“Leon Hart is out!”
“Leon, regarding this World Cup qualifying collapse, there are rumors that you wrecked the dressing-room atmosphere. Do you have anything to say?”
“Leon, internal sources say the Football Association is preparing an indefinite suspension. Is that true?”
They surged at him like sharks smelling blood.
Leon stopped walking.
He faced the forest of microphones and the countless cameras livestreaming to the entire country.
A wild, contemptuous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“An explanation?” he said. “I don’t owe anyone one.”
His voice carried through the microphones, crisp and clear, reaching every viewer watching the live feed online.
“Domestic football is rotten. Rotten from the roots up. The whole thing stinks. Sitting in that room are a bunch of useless leeches who know how to do two things—stuff themselves and take kickbacks.”
Every reporter on the scene sucked in a breath.
He was insane.
This was a full public livestream.
“And just now,” Leon went on, pointing back at the conference-room door behind him, “that director in there with the name Graves tried to make me pay a five-hundred-thousand ‘good-faith deposit’ to take the blame.”
He locked eyes with the cameras.
“So I’ve made a decision.”
Word by word, he announced it to the nation.
“As of today, I’m retiring. I quit. I’m done serving this joke of a national team. Tomorrow, I’m going to Europe to become a coach.”
The hallway went dead silent for two seconds.
Then came laughter.
A bespectacled reporter shoved his way to the front, his face full of mockery. “Leon, have you completely lost it? You’re a discarded player who can’t even survive in your own country. Who exactly are you going to coach in Europe? You planning to teach Europeans how to stroll around the pitch?”
Leon’s eyes only grew more scornful.
He raised three fingers.
And then he threw out a promise that hit the internet like a bomb.
“Three years.”
“At most three years, and I’ll build the most terrifying tactical system in Europe with my own hands. I’ll raise a new king of Asian football who’ll grind people like you into the dirt.”
“In three years, when Asian Cup qualification comes around, I’ll make sure this bunch of pampered frauds can’t even reach the final tournament.”
“Without me, you’re not even third-rate in Asia.”
Boom.
The hallway exploded.
Reporters hammered their shutters so hard their hands shook. This was front-page, headline, career-making news.
And amid the uproar, the cursing, and the chaos, a cold mechanical voice suddenly rang out deep inside Leon’s mind.
[Ding! Host has completed first full-spectrum public mass taunt, generating massive internet hostility.]
[Maverick Face-Off System officially activated!]
[As long as the host publicly provokes opponents on a mass scale or declares extreme do-or-die public wagers, then delivers a successful public clapback payoff on the pitch, the host will receive a tenfold rebound of player improvement attributes and chances to draw Legendary Loot Chests.]
[Ding! Starter Pack has been issued. Open now?]
Leon’s heart slammed in his chest.
His cheat ability had arrived.
And it was a perfect fit—a madman’s system built for him. The crazier he went, the stronger he became.
He shoved past the reporters blocking his way and, under security escort, strode out of the Football Association building.
Half an hour later, Leon was in the back of a taxi heading for the airport terminal.
He had severed his ties to everything behind him.
As the city blurred past outside the window, a cold smile touched his mouth.
“System. Show me the functions panel.”
A virtual screen unfolded in front of his eyes, visible to him alone.
[Hidden Flaw Insight]: Scan any player’s physical data, hidden talent, and critical injury risks.
[Tenfold Attribute Rebound]: Any improvement a player gains under the host’s guidance will rebound back to the host’s personal attributes at ten times the value.
Leon drew in a slow breath.
In his last life, injuries had kept him from reaching the summit of the world. In this life, he would not only become the strongest tyrant of a manager—he would also use that tenfold rebound to rebuild himself into a flawless, maxed-out human machine.
And when the day came that he stepped back onto the pitch in a shirt again, after leveling himself to the top—
He would show the whole world what true domination looked like.
“System. Open the Starter Pack.”
[Ding! Opening Starter Pack…]
Light flashed.
Inside the system space, a card glowing with dark-gold radiance appeared and hung there in silence.
“Give us our money back! Was this what we paid for? Refund us!”
“You’ve got no shame left! You lost to Myanmar—who’s left for you to lose to next?”
Online, it was absolute catastrophe.
The video of Leon Hart publicly cutting ties with the national team in the hallway of Football Association headquarters spread across every platform like a virus.
In less than two hours, the top ten spots on the trending list had practically been taken over by his name.
#LeonHartRetires#
#PamperedNationalTeam#
#500KThoughtDeposit#
#ThreeYearPromiseMadmanLeon#
Angry fans flooded the Football Association’s official pages and the social accounts of national team players, cursing them without mercy.
“I’ve watched football for twenty years. First time I’ve ever seen a player with this much backbone!”
“Leon was right! Those guys strolling around the pitch are useless!”
“Investigate Victor Graves! Five hundred grand to buy a starting spot? That’s why we can’t qualify!”
The outrage was explosive. Public fury was on the verge of setting the entire domestic football world on fire.
And at that very moment—
Inside a hidden luxury private club in the capital, the man responsible for all of it lay comfortably on a velvet sofa in a silk robe, lazily swirling a glass of eighty-two Lafite in one hand.
Victor Graves.
Beside him, two scantily dressed young women carefully massaged his legs.
Chapter 2
“Director Graves, online sentiment is getting out of control.” A bespectacled assistant rushed in, drenched in sweat. “The fans are calling for an official investigation.”
Victor let out a scornful laugh and took a sip of wine.
“What’s there to panic about? They’re just people on the internet. Attention spans of gnats. Give it a few days, toss out some celebrity cheating scandal, and who’s even going to remember who Leon Hart is?”
He set down the glass, his eyes turning cold.
“Call the PR firms and the paid troll farms we usually work with. I want him throttled everywhere. Pull that video off every platform. Then push out a few prepared articles—say Leon was building cliques inside the squad, that his career-ending injury twisted him up in the head, and now he’s maliciously smearing the national team.”
“But… the five hundred thousand deposit…”
“With no evidence, it’s just his word,” Victor snapped, slamming a hand onto the table. “I’ve sat in this chair for ten years. You think I haven’t weathered storms before? He’s just some brat who hasn’t even grown up yet, and he thinks he can flip my table over?”
He jabbed a finger toward the door.
“Go. Now. Get the heat off me.”
“Yes, Director Graves!”
The assistant wiped his forehead and hurried out.
Victor leaned back into the sofa again, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the massage with a vicious smile tugging at his mouth.
“Going to Europe to coach?” he muttered. “Fine. Let’s see how long a stray dog blacklisted across the whole country survives over there.”
…
At the same time, in the international departure lounge of the capital’s airport terminal, waiting for a flight to London—
Leon sat alone in a corner of the VIP lounge with a cup of black coffee in his hand, watching the trending topics vanish from his phone one after another.
Just moments ago, videos of his live break with the national team had started showing the same notice everywhere:
This video has been removed for policy violations.
The related topics on the trending list were disappearing at a speed visible to the naked eye.
In their place came a wave of fabricated hit pieces.
FORMER PRODIGY DESTROYS HIMSELF AFTER INJURY: THE TRUE FACE OF A LOCKER-ROOM CANCER
LEON HART’S RETIREMENT EXPOSED: UNABLE TO HANDLE HIGH-INTENSITY COMPETITION, HE TURNS TO PUBLICITY TO HIDE HIS DECLINE
Leon read them, and the smile at the corner of his mouth only grew colder.
“So that’s the game. Smother it quietly. Use your connections and cover the sky with one hand.”
He lowered his gaze.
“If I was willing to tear everything open on a nationwide livestream, why the hell would I leave any of you room to breathe?”
He closed his eyes and let his consciousness sink into the system space.
The dark-gold card he had just pulled from the Starter Pack hovered there, glowing faintly in the void.
[Forced Leak Hack Card: Legendary consumable item. After use, any hidden data, videos, or financial records designated by the host will be forcibly pinned to the homepage of every online platform within the target region. No technical method, PR operation, deletion attempt, throttling measure, or content block can remove it. Duration: 48 hours.]
Leon didn’t hesitate.
“System, use the Forced Leak Hack Card.”
“Target: every major domestic online platform.”
“Content: the bribery footage of Victor Graves I collected in my previous life, along with the original financial records of the national team’s internal cash-for-power deals.”
In his previous life, during the five years he’d been frozen out, Leon had spent a fortune secretly buying up the dirt that could bury Victor Graves and the rest of them for good.
He had just never gotten the chance to release it before dying in frustration.
But this time, everything was still in his memory.
The system’s terrifying materialization ability instantly converted those memories into crystal-clear video files and electronic documents.
[Ding! Forced Leak Hack Card activated! Infiltrating target networks… infiltration successful!]
The next second, the domestic internet was hit by an unprecedented digital earthquake.
Weibo. Short-video platforms. Major news portals. Even splash-screen ads on shopping apps and food delivery apps.
Every screen went black for one second.
Then a video with absurdly clear image quality was welded to the very top of every platform homepage—and began autoplaying.
On-screen was Victor Graves’s greedy face.
“Thirty grand isn’t enough, Little Liu. Do you know how tight roster spots are on the national team right now? Add another twenty, and next month’s starting lineup against Vietnam will definitely have your name on it.”
The footage cut.
A dense screenshot of account records filled the screen.
Kickback details from a sponsor’s overpriced luxury meal contracts. Transfer records showing a national team player paying his way back into consideration after being dropped. Split percentages for the so-called “thought deposit.”
Every line was there. Every amount. Every date. Every name.
Clear enough to make your scalp crawl.
The internet went dead silent for a heartbeat.
Then it detonated.
“Holy hell! Holy hell! HOLY HELL!”
“It’s real! You can see his pores on camera—there’s no way this is AI!”
“Five hundred grand to buy a start! Thirty grand just to make the squad! Animals!”
“No wonder we can’t beat Vietnam! The guys running around out there are rich boys who bought their spots!”
At the headquarters of a major tech company, the technical director was drenched in sweat, hammering at his keyboard.
“We can’t delete it! We literally can’t delete it! Backend permissions are completely locked! Even disconnecting the network doesn’t work—the servers are being hijacked!”
The CEO of Weibo stared at the frozen backend interface, his face gray.
“We’re finished,” he muttered. “The sky’s fallen.”
…
Back at the private club, Victor Graves had just gotten to his feet, one arm around a girl’s waist, heading toward the bedroom inside.
Bang!
The suite door was slammed open.
His assistant stumbled in half crawling, face white as paper, looking like he’d seen a ghost.
“D-Director Graves! Something’s happened! Something huge!”
Victor turned and roared, “Why are you panicking? If the sky falls, I’m still here to hold it up!”
“It really did fall!” the assistant cried, hands shaking as he thrust over a phone. “Y-you should see this yourself.”
Victor frowned and snatched it from him.
He only needed one look.
All the color drained from his face.
The video of him counting money. His signature on the account sheets.
Each one hit like a knife straight through the heart.
“T-that’s impossible…” His voice broke. “I destroyed all of this. How does Leon Hart have it?!”
His whole body began to shake violently. His knees gave out, and he collapsed onto the carpet with a thud.
At that moment, the private phone on the table started vibrating wildly.
Caller ID: Richard Sterling.
Victor’s fingers trembled as he answered.
The instant the line connected, a deafening roar exploded through the speaker.
“Victor Graves, what the hell have you done? Inspectors are already calling my office! Orders came down from above—this is being fully investigated! You can spend the rest of your life behind bars!”
Click.
The call ended.
Victor’s vision went black.
He passed out on the spot.
…
At the capital’s airport terminal, the boarding announcement rang through the lounge.
“Attention passengers: Flight CA937 to London is now boarding…”
Back in the capital, the Football Association headquarters had turned into a panic chamber overnight.
Word that Victor Graves had been taken away for investigation spread through the football world like wildfire. Every official and player whose name appeared in those records was scrambling for cover, calling in favors, hunting for escape routes before dawn.
To calm the public fury exploding across the internet, the top brass moved fast and cut hard.
An emergency statement was released before morning: Victor Graves was stripped of all positions and would fully cooperate with the investigation. Three national team players tied to the scandal were banned for life. The Association also issued a stern condemnation of the “malicious conduct that had poisoned the football environment.”
But the blaze was already out of control.
The entire internet was looking for the madman who had lit the fuse—
Leon Hart.
By then, Leon was already halfway across the world.
Manchester, England.
Rain hung over the city like a permanent stain, turning the old industrial skyline into a wash of steel and shadow.
Inside Carrington Training Centre, the mood was even grimmer than the weather.
In the manager’s office, Sir Franklin Ashford stood in front of a tactics board, brow furrowed, staring at the mess in front of him as if he could force order out of it by will alone. He had spent thirty years building Red Devil United into a dynasty. Now, on the verge of retirement, he found himself facing the one thing he had never solved:
Who came after him?
Seated across from him was the club’s chief executive, Edwin Cross.
“We can’t keep hesitating, Franklin.” Edwin tapped a stack of financial reports on the desk, his tone clipped and impatient. “That Scottish manager is asking for too much, and he’s made it clear that if he comes in, he’ll gut half the senior squad you built and tear up your entire system. The dressing room will explode. The club’s share price will go through the floor.”
Sir Franklin exhaled and rubbed at his temple. “And if we don’t bring in a big enough name with a strong enough hand, who exactly is meant to control that lot?”
The room fell into another stalemate.
Then—
Bang.
The office door swung open without warning.
Edwin shot to his feet. “Who the hell let you in? Where’s security?”
A tall young Asian man stood in the doorway, broad-shouldered, sharp-featured, wearing a black coat and holding a thin résumé in one hand. His expression carried the kind of arrogance that made people bristle on sight.
Leon Hart had arrived.
With the UEFA Pro license he’d earned in his previous life—and his memory of the security blind spots around Carrington—getting past the front gate had been almost laughably easy.
“The guards are busy guarding the door,” Leon said as he strode inside. He tossed the résumé onto Edwin’s desk. “I’m here to save you.”
Chapter 3
Edwin stared at him like he was insane. “Who are you? Chinese? This is the office of the Red Devil United first-team manager, not some tourist stop where you barge in asking for autographs. Get out now, or I’ll call the police.”
Leon didn’t even look at him.
He walked straight to Sir Franklin, planted both hands on the desk, and looked down at the legendary manager without the slightest trace of respect.
“I watched your match against Arsenal last weekend.”
His voice was cold, flat, and openly contemptuous.
“Your defense was tissue paper. Your midfield was so disconnected it looked like it belonged on separate continents. And your attack was just two wingers running around up front like headless idiots hoping something worked.”
He paused.
“And with tactics that pathetic, you still think you can defend the league title?”
Silence crashed over the room.
Edwin’s eyes widened in disbelief.
In Manchester. At Carrington. In Sir Franklin Ashford’s office.
Some lunatic had just pointed at one of the greatest managers in football history and called his tactics garbage.
Was this kid trying to die?
“You little—” Edwin snatched up the phone on the desk. “That’s enough—”
“Wait.”
Sir Franklin raised a hand and stopped him.
His eyes, sharp as ever, locked onto Leon’s face. He wasn’t angry. Not yet. If anything, there was a flicker of something else there.
Interest.
“Young man,” Sir Franklin said in a low voice, “do you have any idea who you’re speaking to?”
“Yes,” Leon said, meeting his gaze without blinking. “An old man on the edge of retirement who can’t find a worthy successor and is about to watch his legacy collapse.”
Then he turned, grabbed the tactics board beside them, and pulled it closer.
System. Activate Hidden Flaw Insight.
The command flashed through his mind.
In an instant, the formations and arrows on the board stopped looking like football plans and started looking like exposed fault lines. To Leon’s eyes, red warning markers bloomed everywhere—fatal weaknesses, structural flaws, predictable breakdowns.
He picked up a marker and slashed three huge red X’s across the board.
“First. Your holding midfielder, Paul Mercer. Yes, he’s talented. But he doesn’t even clear nine kilometers a match, and he’s always two seconds late getting back into defensive shape. He’s a liability, and you’re treating him like the core of the team.”
He drew a second line.
“Second. Whenever your left back pushes forward, your center-back cover route is completely wrong. Any opponent with half a brain can hit the space behind you on the break and cut you open every time.”
Then he looked at Edwin.
“Third. The Scottish manager you’re considering—”
Edwin stiffened.
“If you hand him this club next season, I guarantee you Red Devil United won’t just lose the title. You’ll fall out of the top four, the dressing room will collapse, and he won’t survive a full season before he’s sacked.”
Edwin sucked in a breath.
Because the first two problems Leon had identified were the exact tactical defects the coaching staff had spent a month trying and failing to solve.
And the third?
It matched, almost word for word, the highly confidential internal risk assessment the club’s own analysts had submitted.
What the hell was this kid?
Sir Franklin slowly rose to his feet.
The shock in his eyes was no longer hidden.
For one strange second, as he looked at this outrageously arrogant young man from the other side of the world, Sir Franklin felt as if he were looking through time—back at the wild, defiant version of himself who had once walked into this club thirty years earlier and refused to bow to anyone.
“What’s your name?” Sir Franklin asked, his voice rougher now.
“Leon Hart.” He dropped the marker and dusted off his hands. “The man your Football Association’s friends would love to erase.”
Then he spoke with the calm certainty of someone announcing a sentence.
“I don’t want your salary. I want absolute authority in the dressing room.”
“Give me two years, and I’ll give you a Champions League trophy.”
“If you don’t have the nerve to bet on that, then after you retire, this club can enjoy its slide into mediocrity.”
The audacity of it seemed to make the very glass in the office hum.
Edwin finally snapped out of his shock and exploded. “This is absurd. Completely absurd. Franklin, you cannot seriously listen to this lunatic. He’s twenty-four. He hasn’t managed a single professional match in his life.”
“Edwin. Enough.”
Sir Franklin cut him off cleanly.
He stepped closer to Leon, studying him like a scout sizing up a dangerous prospect.
“You’re arrogant,” Sir Franklin said. “Your eye is sharp, and your tactical reading is exceptional.”
Then his tone turned hard.
“But the Red Devil United dressing room isn’t something you control with pretty speeches. It’s full of world-class stars worth millions, with massive egos and short tempers.”
“Even I’ve had to compromise with them at times.”
He let that hang.
“You? A complete nobody, with no experience, no standing, and no history in this league? They’d tear you apart on day one.”
Leon laughed.
There was no humor in it.
Only something cold enough to make the room feel smaller.
“Compromise?”
He leaned in slightly, eyes fixed on Sir Franklin’s.
“That’s weakness. The kind old-school managers mistake for wisdom.”
He straightened.
“You don’t need to worry about how I deal with arrogant troublemakers. I don’t use soft psychology. I don’t negotiate.”
His voice dropped lower.
“I use the simplest method there is.”
“Brutal. Direct. Bloody.”
“If someone refuses to listen, I don’t care if he’s the best player in the world. I’ll send him to the reserves and have him cleaning toilets.”
Sir Franklin held his gaze for a long moment.
There was violence in those eyes. Ambition too. Not the shallow kind, not the kind that chased a paycheck or a headline. This was the dangerous kind—the kind that wanted power, total control, and results at any cost.
And maybe that was exactly what the club needed.
A tyrant.
“Fine,” Sir Franklin said at last.
Edwin turned pale. “Franklin—”
“The first-team manager’s seat is not yours,” Sir Franklin went on, ignoring him. “Not yet.”
He circled back behind the desk, a faint, foxlike smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“But the club is drowning in injuries. The reserves and the rehab group are packed with the hardest cases we have—problem players, castoffs, men everyone else has given up on.”
He looked Leon dead in the eye.
“I’ll give you one month. A temporary trial.”
“Take over that mess.”
“If you can turn that pile of rejects into players fit to take the pitch inside a month, I’ll let you step into the first-team tactical area.”
His smile sharpened.
“Do you dare take it?”
Leon gave a cold smile of his own, turned, and pulled open the office door.
“Get the real contract ready.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, rain-gray light cutting across his face.
“In one month, I’ll show you what real iron-blooded rule looks like.”
Edwin Cross stared at the tactics board Leon Hart had covered in red Xs, his face turning an ugly shade of green.
“Franklin, you cannot hand this club’s future to a lunatic!” Edwin shot up from the sofa and strode to the desk, jabbing a finger straight at Leon. “For all we know, he bought his coaching badges. You want him leading a team? By tomorrow morning, United’s stock will be in free fall.”
Sir Franklin Ashford ignored the CEO’s outburst. Instead, he studied Leon for a long moment.
“Edwin, I know there’s no opening with the first team.” Franklin opened a drawer and pulled out a staffing list for the training base. “But Training Ground Seven—the recovery group for fringe and injured players—is short a head coach.”
“The Reject Squad?” Edwin froze for half a beat, then let out a cold laugh.
Everyone in the club knew what that place really was. Recovery group was the polite label. In truth, it was Red Devil United’s dumping ground—stuffed with overpaid troublemakers, washouts banished for living in nightclubs, and long-term injury cases the club had already written off.
“Fine.” A vicious glint flashed in Edwin’s eyes. He snatched up the pen from the desk and began scratching changes onto a blank contract at speed. “If you’re so confident, then go coach that pile of trash.”
He slapped the contract down in front of Leon.
“But we add conditions.”
“First, this is a one-month probation deal. No guarantees.”
“Second, for that entire month, you stay with the Reject Squad at Training Ground Seven. You are not to step into the first-team training area under any circumstances. Not one foot. Even the dining hall—you use it at different hours.”
“Third, if the lot you coach fails the joint evaluation from the club’s medical staff and coaching department at the end of the month, you get on a plane and go straight back to China.”
Edwin locked eyes with him. “Well? Dare to sign it, hotshot?”
Leon didn’t even bother reading the dense wall of predatory clauses. He picked up the pen and signed his name across the bottom in one smooth stroke.
“One month?” He tossed the pen back onto the desk, a mocking curve touching his mouth. “That’s more than enough to deal with a bunch of useless men who don’t even know how to play football.”
Edwin let out a harsh snort, yanked the contract back, and hit the call button on his desk.
“Send an assistant in. Take this ‘miracle coach’ to his new kingdom.” He put extra weight on the words miracle coach.
Two minutes later, a young training-base assistant stepped through the door.
“Take him to Training Ground Seven,” Edwin said with a dismissive flick of his hand, as if shooing away a fly.
Leon turned without saying goodbye and walked straight out of the office.
The rain was still falling when he followed the assistant out of the gleaming administration building. They crossed the immaculate first-team pitches, the grass trimmed so perfectly it looked like green velvet. The farther they went, the more desolate the surroundings became.
The facilities grew older. More neglected.
Until at last they reached the forgotten edge of the complex.
“We’re here.” The assistant stopped and pointed ahead.
Leon narrowed his eyes.
This was Training Ground Seven.
The turf was uneven and pitted, with patches of bare yellow earth showing through. Marker cones and training mannequins lay scattered and half-collapsed along the touchline. Even the nets were ripped open in places.