Football Dynasty-Chapter 203 - 800 Acres of Pure Shithole

The drive from Maine Road to Ancoats in Manchester took approximately 15 to 20 minutes, depending on traffic. The fastest route usually followed major roads like Princess Road, Mancunian Way, and then Great Ancoats Street.

"Miss Heysen, please turn on the radio for me," Richard said.

"Arsenal?" she asked, glancing at him.

Richard nodded. He wanted to catch the match update. Judging by the time on his watch, the game had probably been underway for about 40 minutes now.

The radio crackled to life, and the announcer’s voice filled the car.

"Arsenal’s tactics now resemble a shaky building on the verge of collapse, while Manchester City is pressing them relentlessly. From a tactical standpoint, there’s every reason to be optimistic about Manchester City in this match. Arsenal is falling apart far too quickly—just like in the Premier League, where they’ve scored fewer goals while conceding nearly twice as many."

Just from the commentator’s tone, Richard could already picture how the match was unfolding.

At Maine Road, as the second half progressed, Arsenal began to push their entire lineup forward. They had no choice—their attacking combinations were limited, relying heavily on individual brilliance to break through Manchester City’s compact and disciplined defense.

But with their formation pressing higher, the gaps in Arsenal’s backfield widened dangerously.

After intercepting a pass from Martin Keown, Lennon quickly laid it off five meters to Cafu, who turned and launched a deep, curling ball from his own half toward Arsenal’s territory.

Larsson had already anticipated the pass and was sprinting from the halfway line, surging past Nigel Winterburn and breaking through the defense into a potential one-on-one.

The not-so-slow Tony Adams began tracking back immediately. As the ball bounced once, Larsson calmly brought it under control and passed it square to Ronaldo.

At that moment, Adams was just a meter behind.

Ronaldo, slowing slightly to receive the pass, used his body to shield the ball. He made a sharp stop, nudging it forward. The sudden change in rhythm threw Adams off.

With a fluid motion, Ronaldo pulled back briefly, then surged forward again, creating a clear path to the goal. But just as he was about to take his next step—

WHAM.

A heavy challenge from behind sent him crashing to the ground.

"How embarrassing! Tony Adams just brought Ronaldo down from behind! There’s no doubt—that’s a foul! Oh, wait—this could be serious, Ronaldo’s clutching his leg!"

In the car, Richard froze.

’FUCK.’

Back at Maine Road, O’Neill, standing furiously at the touchline, raised his hand and stormed toward the fourth official.

"Stop the match! That’s a clear foul—stop the match!!"

The referee didn’t hesitate. He blew the whistle, jogged straight over to Tony Adams—who was still catching his breath—and pulled out a glaring red card.

If Adams hadn’t committed that foul, Ronaldo would’ve had a clean one-on-one with the keeper. The tackle was reckless, even malicious.

The Maine Road crowd erupted, booing Adams relentlessly and cheering the referee’s decision.

Without a word or protest, Adams turned and walked off the pitch with a stone-cold expression. He didn’t even bother passing the captain’s armband.

On the sideline, Arsenal manager Bruce Rioch shouted after him, furious. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Adams turned his head, expression grim, and muttered: "Shut up."

Then he disappeared down the tunnel without another glance.

"Oh! It seems there’s some serious tension on the Arsenal bench!" the radio commentator exclaimed. "Captain Tony Adams and manager Bruce Rioch having words after that red card... This is not a good look for Arsenal!"

But that wasn’t what was on Richard’s mind. His hands tightened into fists as he stared out the car window, jaw clenched.

Ronaldo was clutching his leg. That’s what the commentator said. And that’s what terrified him the most.

The commentator’s voice came through the radio again, sharp with excitement.

"It looks like Roberto Carlos is stepping up to take the free kick. We’ve seen him score from tighter angles and longer distances... this one, just outside the box, slightly to the left—perfect for a left-footer like him."

Miss Heysen glanced at Richard through the rearview mirror. He hadn’t moved. His eyes were locked on the radio dial, as if he could see the pitch through it.

Back at the stadium, the whistle blew.

Carlos took a few calculated steps back, stared at the wall, then the ball—and in a flash, ran forward.

BOOM.

The shot was a cannon. The ball curled viciously over the wall with Carlos’s signature spin, bending mid-air like a guided missile. The Arsenal keeper dove, full stretch.

Too late.

GOAL!!!

The ball smacked into the top corner of the net, the crowd erupting into a roar so loud that even in the car, Richard could hear it faintly in the distance.

"WHAT A STRIKE!!! Roberto Carlos with an absolute thunderbolt! That’s 2-0 to Manchester City! Maine Road is shaking!"

Richard exhaled, finally.

2–0—which meant City’s spot in the League Cup quarterfinal was all but guaranteed.

The team was firing on all cylinders. But the worry about Ronaldo was still there, lingering at the back of his mind.

"Please turn off the radio for me," Richard said quietly.

With the outcome now certain, there was no point in hearing more about the match. Better to shift his focus—anything to keep his mind from spiraling back to thoughts of Ronaldo.

Miss Heysen gave a small nod and reached forward, the commentary cutting off with a soft click, leaving only the hum of the road and the weight of silence between them.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Miss Heysen’s voice cut through the silence.

"We’re here."

Hearing that, Richard’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t realized he’d even closed them. The tension still lingered in his chest, but her voice grounded him, pulling him back from the spiral of thoughts he’d been trapped in. He straightened up in his seat and looked out the window.

"...Ahm... Miss Heysen?"

"Yes?"

"Are you sure this is the right place?"

She glanced at him, unfazed. "Yes, this is it."

"..."

Richard fell silent as he stepped out of the car, his shoes crunching over a mix of broken glass and wet mud.

Abandoned warehouses with shattered windows and walls stained by years of grime loomed nearby. Rusted fences enclosed the lot, where muddy, waterlogged ground mixed with broken glass and debris had overtaken the contaminated soil.

Everything was ruined beyond recognition.

"Woof! Woof!"

A few stray shopping carts sat like forgotten relics, and in the distance, a dog barked from behind a makeshift gate.

Now it made sense—no wonder the Greater Manchester Council had allowed him to buy the land directly and without restrictions. They had even fast-tracked the sale to push things forward.

No zoning pushback. No long debates in council chambers. No competing bids. They wanted this place off their hands—fast.

They probably figured that anything built here would be better than what stood now.

This wasn’t just derelict land. This place was a pure shithole—rotten, and you could even feel the chemicals in the air.

"Is this the place where Peter Swales wanted to build the stadium for the Summer Olympics?" Richard asked.

"No, this is the site Francis Lee chose to build for the Commonwealth Games. See over there?" Miss Heysen pointed in one direction.

"That wasn’t just any building—that was the Bradford Colliery coal mine. That place is going to be the center where they plan to build the stadium."

Richard stayed silent for a moment, staring at the abandoned coal mine. Then he finally spoke, "But the air here is bad, don’t you think? If we build the stadium here, I’m worried it could cause problems, right?"

Miss Heysen shook her head. "When Francis Lee had the same concerns, the Arup Group already guaranteed that within two years, the air quality would return to normal. The stadium, scheduled to be ready next year, will be free from polluted air."

"Is it just an assumption, or is it based on solid research?"

"It’s based on soil remediation reports conducted by the Arup Group. They tested the air, soil, and groundwater multiple times and developed a detailed cleanup plan."

Richard shut his mouth after hearing that.

Afterward, he, Miss Heysen, and the driver—who also acted as a bodyguard—began to tour the area.

The first site Richard currently visit is Bradford Colliery, which will serve as the central point of the entire 800-acre development. Coincidentally, it’s also one of the most heavily industrialized areas within the site.

Richard referred to this location as a "brownfield" because, as far as the eye could see, everything around him was just brown—from the soil and structures to the decay.

"Do we have the tax breaks for the infrastructure?"

As far as he remembered, for every private stadium development, the government offers tax reductions to incentivize investment.

Here’s how it works: Clubs may receive property tax breaks or other relief to offset construction and operating costs, especially if they commit to community involvement or job creation.

The council also wins in this solution, as they can redirect their funds elsewhere since Richard will develop this land solo, which helps achieve public economic goals. As long as the local area benefits from improved infrastructure, they will agree to it.

"Yes, and since we already support the project by investing in surrounding infrastructure, they also grant us relief to offset construction and operating costs for the surrounding infrastructure (e.g., roads, public transport, utilities)."

"Really?" Hearing this, Richard was happy.

It meant he could design the accessibility to the club area and prioritize the stadium better.

"Yes, that’s right," Miss Heysen said before he suddenly hesitated. "But Richard..."

"Hmmm?"

"Are you sure you want to develop this land entirely on your own? Don’t you think it might be wiser to ask the Manchester Council for financial support?"

The earlier discussion about the stadium—whether during Swales’ or Lee’s era—involved Sport England, which contributed between £77 million and £112 million toward its development, most of it through public funding. Ultimately though, the stadium would be owned by Manchester City Council, which would then lease it out.

As far as Richard knew, the lease term was set at 250 years with Lease agreements previously. If it were another businessman, they might see this as a bargain.

But for Richard, it wasn’t.

First, with a lease, the council could demand a share of the revenue or impose caps. Richard wanted 100% of the income generated by the stadium and the surrounding area to go directly to the club.

Essentially, what he wanted for the 800-acre land was autonomy—the ability to make all decisions without requiring council approval. Whether it involved renovation, rebuilding, expansion, or commercial use, he wanted full control.

Second, ownership would also enhance the club’s valuation, borrowing capacity, and appeal to investors. In the future, the stadium could even be used as collateral to raise capital.

Third, and most importantly, Richard prioritized long-term security. Under a leasehold arrangement, there is always legal and operational uncertainty. He couldn’t predict whether, in the future, the terms would be renegotiated, restricted, or politicized.

So, full ownership, to him, meant permanent control—a safeguard for the club’s future leadership.

"Then..."

"?"

Richard waited for Miss Heysen to finish her question.

"Don’t you think 800 acres is too large for a stadium?"

Not just 800 acres— even 30 acres is rare for a football club. But Richard doesn’t want to build just a stadium of that size. What exactly is he planning?

Hearing this, Richard smiled and looked up at the sky.

"Miss Heysen, have you ever heard the phrase ’a city within a city’?"