Dynasty Awakening: Building My Own Football Empire-Chapter 242: Dalmatians of London

Michael snapped out of his deep tactical trance to the sound of the locker room door slamming shut. He groggily took a peek onto the bench where Arthur Milton had been sitting just a moment ago, inhaling a bag of jelly babies. Seeing that he was not there, Michael looked at the tactical clock on the wall which was reading 15:55.

His mental fatigue quickly disappeared as he remembered that the Managerial System had finished its calibration during the first half chaos and should now be available to use again.

With a hint of nerves mixed with excitement, he opened it up in his mind.

#SYSTEM ALERT

SYSTEM HAS SUCCESSFULLY UPGRADED TO LEVEL 3.

PREMIER LEAGUE MODULE

SYSTEM LEVEL: 3 (0/5000 Influence points to level up)

NAME: Michael Sterling

ROLE: The Architect

TACTICAL ASSESSMENT: B+

INFLUENCE: A (S) 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

MANAGEMENT POINTS: 0

USER MENU:

-SQUAD STATS

-SCOUTING (1 unread)

-SYSTEM SHOP (Locked)

-MIRACLE ENGINE (Locked)

-ZONE OF CHAOS (new)

Michael was a little bit underwhelmed after seeing that his System Shop and Miracle Engine pages were still locked, yet he instantly recovered after seeing the brand new option that had been added to his menu.

"Zone of Chaos..." He mumbled, opening it up curiously.

ZONE OF CHAOS:

#NOTICE: MANAGER’S TACTICAL INSTRUCTIONS WILL BE TRANSMITTED INTUITIVELY TO KEY ’MISFIT’ PLAYERS, CREATING A TEMPORARY STATE OF HYPER-AWARENESS AND UNPREDICTABILITY. PLAYERS WILL BE ABLE TO EXECUTE MOVEMENTS THAT DEFY CONVENTIONAL LOGIC. ADDITIONALLY, INFLUENCE POINTS ARE AWARDED FOR COMPLETING ’IMPOSSIBLE’ PLAYS WITHIN THE ZONE.

#NOTICE: IT IS ADVISED THAT USER ACTIVATES THE ZONE OF CHAOS WHEN THE OPPONENT IS MENTALLY FRAGILE.

DOES THE USER WISH TO ACTIVATE ZONE OF CHAOS?

[YES/NO]

’Holy fuck!’ Michael exclaimed inwardly after reading the description.

He had heard the phrase "being in the zone" before, it was something that a lot of professional athletes and top-tier managers strove for. However, he was 100% sure it was not this exaggerated or weaponized.

With this in his arsenal, he could turn the tide of a deadlock against a billion-pound team simply by pushing a mental button. This would certainly come in handy when there were times the tactics board just wasn’t enough against superior individual quality.

"Ugh." Michael groaned after his last thought, remembering that his team would likely face some serious fatigue in the last twenty minutes. If the Chelsea manager was smart, then they would unleash their £100 million substitutes to run at tired legs.

"As long as we can survive the first fifteen minutes..." Michael said, trying to manifest positive energy. Now that they had equalized right before the whistle, it would really hamper their momentum if they conceded early in the second half.

Of course, they could still defend deep, yet it would not yield the same results against a team like Chelsea.

Michael contemplated activating the Zone of Chaos immediately to catch them off guard, but he had to get up and give the final team talk. He inwardly set a reminder to check the activation criteria before the 60th minute.

Just as he was about to haul himself off the tactical bench to begin his speech, the door opened. Diego Nunez stuck his bald head in, checking up on him.

"Whoa, Papa Michael are you okay?" He asked, a hint of shock in his voice.

"Yeah why?" Michael was perplexed, what kind of question was that.

"Dude, go check the mirror. You look like a Dalmatian."

"Dalmatian?"

He quickly raced to the small mirror by the showers and stepped in front of it. It seemed that the hug from Kaito and the mud from the pitch during the celebration had given him giant black and brown spots all over his white shirt, hence the Dalmatian comment.

Michael wiped his face with a wet towel, feeling a little stickiness around his collar, yet it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Having lived with the stress of relegation battles for two years had really changed his perspective and mess tolerance.

After having a bit of a laugh with Diego, Michael quickly fixed his tie and they headed back into the main room. He was met with the soft sobs of Lorenzo Ricci, who quickly wiped his face with a silk handkerchief as he heard them approaching.

"Lorenzo? What’s wrong? Why are you crying before the second half?" Michael once again was perplexed.

"N-Nothing. Go and give your speech." He responded, shooing him away with a manicured hand.

"Huh?"

"Come on let’s go." Diego urged, dragging Michael toward the tunnel exit as the buzzer sounded.

He reluctantly went along, putting his jacket on to cover the stains and heading out into the tunnel. The two began to walk, yet Michael felt as if Diego knew something that he didn’t.

"Man, what’s wrong with Lorenzo this afternoon? Usually, he’s checking his reflection after his halftime conditioner routine."

"Ah. That might be because of me." Diego said, feeling a little guilty.

"Huh??? Didn’t we just have a happy equalizer? How have you made him cry already?" Michael was flabbergasted. Even when Diego was a menace in training, he had rarely made the Italian model cry, yet Diego had succeeded in a single halftime break.

"I hid his expensive hair gel..." Diego said quietly, feeling a little embarrassed.

"Oh."

"..."

"Yeah, that checks out." Michael said simply. In truth, he was a bit shocked by the pettiness, yet he didn’t want to make it awkward for his giant bald defender.

"I guess it’s the next step in his evolution. Maybe when he plays with messy hair he can change his name to... The Mop."

"..."

The two walked in silence for a moment before breaking out in uproarious laughter, startling the fourth official who quickly glared at them from the touchline.

A minute or so later, the two arrived back at the pitch side and took their places before the whistle blew.

"Ah man, I’m so hungry." Diego complained, making his way onto the field.

He saw the Chelsea manager standing near the technical area adjusting his expensive scarf as he usually did when he was nervous. The manager turned his head, his facial expression flickering for a moment before returning to normal.

"Michael, I’m terribly sorry. We are all out of laundry detergent at Stamford Bridge so you’ll have to settle for looking like a 101 Dalmatians extra." He said with a straight face before returning to his bench.

Muffled giggles suddenly sounded from the Barnsley bench and Arthur beside him.

Michael stood still in puzzlement for a moment, before remembering the mud stains he was now sporting thanks to the celebration, making him look like a spotted dog.

"Ha ha." Michael let out a sarcastic laugh before heading over to his technical zone and preparing for the war. If he was being perfectly honest, he too enjoyed the joke, yet the Chelsea manager didn’t need any more encouragement.

The teams took their positions before the referee blew the whistle to restart the chaos.

Chapter 168: The Zone of Chaos

The rain had stopped, but the pitch was slick, a dangerous surface that promised speed and mistakes in equal measure.

Minute 46

Chelsea kicked off. They were angry. You could see it in the way Enzo Fernandez smashed the pass to Caicedo. They didn’t want to play football; they wanted to erase the embarrassment of the first half.

"Press!" Michael shouted, his voice cutting through the humid London air.

The Barnsley Misfits surged forward. It wasn’t organized. It wasn’t clean. It was a swarm of purple wasps.

Kaito Tanaka, the Japanese Jet, was the tip of the spear. He sprinted at the Chelsea defense, his legs a blur of motion.

"Zoom Zoom!" Kaito chirped, diving in to block a clearance.

The ball ricocheted off his shin and spun wild into the midfield.

Lukas Weber, the Berlin Wall, was there. He controlled the spinning ball with his chest, his face a mask of pure calculation.

"Trajectory adjusted," Lukas mumbled to himself.

He didn’t pass. He stepped forward, engaging the logic of the game. He saw Mateo Vega making a run that made no sense to a normal human but perfect sense to a Misfit.

Lukas chipped the ball.

It wasn’t a pass to feet. It was a pass to space.

Mateo Vega, the Painter, didn’t look at the ball. He just ran, trusting the geometry of his teammate.

"Beautiful," Arthur whispered from the bench, clutching a bag of pretzels. "It’s like they share a brain, Boss."

"They share a frequency, Arthur," Michael replied, eyes glued to the action.

Minute 55

The game settled into a rhythm of violence and beauty. Chelsea threw their wallet at the Barnsley defense. Mudryk came on, adding pace to the wings. Nkunku danced through the center.

But Vladimir Petrovic, the Bear, was immovable.

Nkunku tried to shimmy past him. Vladimir simply expanded his chest.

Thud.

Nkunku bounced off the Serbian giant and landed on his backside.

"No entry," Vladimir rumbled, offering a hand to pick him up. "Only roses pass here."

Nkunku slapped the hand away, frustration boiling over. The billion-pound squad was getting rattled by a man who talked to plants.

Minute 60

Michael felt the vibration in his mind. The System.

ZONE OF CHAOS: READY

OPPONENT MENTAL STATE: FRAGILE

ACTIVATE? [YES/NO]

Michael looked at the Chelsea players. They were arguing with the referee. They were arguing with each other. The crowd at Stamford Bridge was groaning with every misplaced pass.

"Now," Michael whispered.

He mentally pressed the button.

[ZONE OF CHAOS ACTIVATED]

A ripple seemed to go through the team. It wasn’t visible to the naked eye, but Michael saw it. A purple aura flickered around Diego Nunez, Mateo Vega, and Kaito Tanaka.

Minute 62

Lorenzo Ricci, still sniffing back tears over his missing hair gel, received the ball on the right flank.

Usually, Lorenzo would look for a safe pass to protect his pass completion stats. But the Chaos had touched him.

He didn’t pass. He didn’t cross.

He did a roulette spin.

Two Chelsea defenders, Cucurella and Chilwell, collided with each other trying to stop him.

"Mamma Mia!" Lorenzo shouted, his hair flopping wildly in the wind. "I am a tornado!"

He drove inside. The Chelsea midfield collapsed on him.

Lorenzo back-heeled the ball without looking.

It rolled perfectly into the path of Diego Nunez.

Diego wasn’t in defense. He wasn’t in midfield. He was inexplicably standing on the edge of the Chelsea penalty box, eating a metaphorical hot dog.

"THE BULL IS LOOSE!" Diego roared.

He didn’t shoot. He didn’t pass.

He chipped the ball up to himself, chested it, and then bicycle-kicked it toward the corner flag.

"What the fuck is he doing?!" Arthur screamed, dropping his pretzels.

But Kaito Tanaka was there.

The Japanese sprinter ran up the advertising hoardings, pushed off the wall like a ninja, and volleyed the wayward cross back into the danger zone.

It was physics-defying. It was nonsense. It was Chaos.

The ball flashed across the face of the goal.

Victor Osimhen was there. The Masked Assassin.

He didn’t head it. He didn’t kick it.

He dove chest-first, propelling himself like a torpedo.

Smack.

The ball hit his chest and flew past the bewildered Robert Sanchez.

GOAL.

Chelsea 1. Barnsley 2.

The silence that fell over Stamford Bridge was deafening. It was the sound of money burning.

"YES!" Michael screamed, running down the touchline, his dalmatian-spotted shirt flapping in the wind.

Diego Nunez ran to the corner flag, ripped it out of the ground, and started playing it like a guitar.

"I AM A ROCKSTAR!" Diego shouted. "THIS IS MY CONCERT!"

Vladimir Petrovic walked over, took the flag gently from Diego, and replanted it in the earth.

"Respect the equipment," Vladimir said softly. "The grass needs peace."

Minute 75

Chelsea was broken. The Zone of Chaos had shattered their logic. They couldn’t predict Barnsley because Barnsley didn’t know what they were doing either.

Mateo Vega was painting pictures with his feet, nutmegging players for fun. Kaito Tanaka was running circles around tired defenders, making "beep beep" noises every time he passed them.

And Lorenzo Ricci? He had stopped crying. He had realized that with messy hair, he looked like a rugged action hero.

"I am dangerous," Lorenzo whispered to the camera as he prepared to take a throw-in. "I am the storm."

Minute 88

The final whistle was approaching. Chelsea launched one last desperate attack.

A high ball into the box.

Vladimir Petrovic rose. He was a mountain. He headed it clear, sending the ball fifty yards up the pitch.

The referee checked his watch.

PEEEP! PEEEP! PEEEEEEP!

FULL TIME.

CHELSEA 1 - 2 BARNSLEY.

The Misfits had done it. They had walked into the lion’s den, looked the billion-pound beast in the eye, and poked it with a stick until it surrendered.

Michael walked onto the pitch, the adrenaline crashing into exhaustion.

He saw the Chelsea manager staring at the ground, likely wondering how he was going to explain this to the owners.

Diego Nunez ran over and tackled Michael in a bear hug, getting even more mud on his already ruined shirt.

"WE DID IT PAPA MICHAEL!" Diego screamed. "WE BEAT THE WALLET!"

"We beat the wallet, Diego," Michael laughed, patting the giant bald head.

Arthur Milton waddled over, holding a half-eaten sandwich he had found somewhere.

"Boss," Arthur said, his mouth full. "That was fun. Can we go home now? I think Lorenzo needs therapy for his hair."

Michael looked at his team. They were dirty, tired, and completely insane.

"Yeah," Michael said, smiling. "Let’s go home."