Football Dynasty-Chapter 579: Welcome to hell, guys (skip this - , error!)
Hello guys, Antonigigss here. For your information, I just published this Chapter, and I think Webnovel made a slight error in arranging it.
This Chapter, "Welcome to Hell, Guys," was supposed to come after "Before the Tours and Alex Ferguson’s Knighthood," but it was placed before it instead. In short, the Chapters "Welcome to Hell, Guys" and "Before the Tours and Alex Ferguson’s Knighthood" were swapped.
The correct order should be:579: "Before the Tours and Alex Ferguson’s Knighthood"580: "Welcome to Hell, Guys"
It was also placed in Volume 8 instead of Volume 9. I don’t know if this will affect your reading experience, but if it does, please comment so I can attach it to my report to Webnovel.
Thank you, guys.
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The first team, except for those playing in the Copa América gathered at Trigoria, their bags packed and full of fighting spirit. The training camp, as per Pintus’ request and as Mourinho had already mentioned, would be a devilish experience. The goal of regaining their fitness in two weeks had been clearly explained.
The players boarded the team bus, the younger ones chatting excitedly, while others simply sat back in their seats, mentally preparing themselves for the tough days ahead.
Richard also followed with a group of kids. He sat near Mourinho, alongside Baltazar Brito and Pintus, reviewing the itinerary for the camp.
Val Pusteria, in the Italian Alps, was the perfect location—high altitude, fresh air, and, most importantly, isolation from distractions. This place had been deliberately chosen by Pintus, probably the only thing they had done right. After all, for such an intense training regimen, it was better for the location to be secluded yet conducive to relaxation.
As the bus pulled away from Trigoria, Richard turned his gaze to the players. He really wanted to take a photo of them before and after the training, and at the same time he was curious to test his new Nikon D1, one of the first professional digital SLRs.
CLICK~
As he clicked the shutter, capturing the team before the grueling days ahead, a quiet energy settled over the bus.
Most of the senior players either slept or stared out the window, lost in thought. The youth were more enthusiastic, as most of them glanced at the camera, gave a thumbs-up, or chatted with each other.
Richard was satisfied with the picture. It would not only serve as a good souvenir but also remind them of the hard work they had put in. If they succeeded in the next season, it would prove that no effort had been in vain.
Antonio Pintus, who was reviewing the plan for the camp and was always very observant, noticed that something was on Mourinho’s mind and thought he was still smirking vaguely. He nudged him.
"What’s wrong?"
"Think they’ll last the first week?" he asked with a smirk, lightening the atmosphere.
Pintus chuckled. "They have to. No excuses. If they break now, they’ll break when it matters."
The journey took several hours, with occasional stops to stretch and refuel. By the time they arrived, the sun was beginning to set behind the mountains. The sight was breathtaking. Even Richard, who was not particularly fond of the wild, had to admit it was an ideal place for relaxation. Unfortunately, they were here for work.
Mourinho turned to Pintus. "Let’s get them settled in. We start early tomorrow."
The other party nodded, clapping his hands together. "Alright, guys! Get your room assignments, drop your bags, and meet back outside in twenty minutes. We’re going for a light jog before dinner."
The players didn’t put up much resistance. It wasn’t too much to ask for some stretching after such a long bus ride, especially before dinner.
With Aurélio Pereira as the Youth and Reserves coach, assisted by Villas-Boas, Richard entrusted the kids he had brought to them so they could experience the training firsthand.
"Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them."
Richard nodded as he patted Villas-Boas on the shoulder.
"What about the thing I asked you, by the way?"
Richard could already tell that once the Copa América final between Uruguay and Brazil ended tomorrow, Manchester City office would receive a large number of inquiries about their players. Only a few had already been tagged as "not for sale," and Richard wasn’t too worried about them. For example, Ronaldo and Ronaldinho. They would join later, and Richard didn’t want to force the schedule too much. Mourinho also agreed and even gave them three extra days off after the final.
"Don’t worry, boss, I’ve got you." Villas-Boas then took the documents he had prepared.
"Based on the Prozone scout prototype developed by Ramm, and filtered to players who wouldn’t have much difficulty obtaining a work permit, I’ve compiled several strikers who would fit well with the current Manchester City squad. I’ve already sent this to José as well. Take a look at this."
Richard nodded before looking at the data.
1. 18-year-old Dimitar Berbatov — 77 goals in 92 appearances for the reserve team. Won the Bulgarian Cup with CSKA in his debut season.
2. Christian Vieri — whom Richard failed to sign last season, later moved to Lazio from Atlético Madrid. This season, he partnered Chilean international Marcelo Salas, scoring 14 goals in 28 appearances and winning the Cup Winners’ Cup.
3. Ruud van Nistelrooy of PSV Eindhoven, in outstanding form, scoring 31 goals in 34 matches.
4. Fernando Torres of Atlético Madrid, who dominated at youth level, leading the U-15 team in the Nike Cup and becoming the best player in Europe for his age group.
5. Luca Toni, from Serie A Lodigiani, who scored 15 in his 31 appearance.
Richard was confused.
"Torres? Why include a 16-year-old in the scout list for the first team?"
Villas-Boas coughed. "Well, it’s just a preference, nothing more. But I think Fernando could develop much further."
Most of the names on the list were well-known prospects who were expected to become stars in the future. But just by looking at them, Richard already knew that only Vieri truly fit Mourinho’s system.
Richard actually wanted to bring in Berbatov as well, definitely. However, remembering how Berbatov played, he thought that City didn’t need a player like him right now. It wasn’t that he was a bad player—far from it—but his style didn’t suit what they needed.
He definitely didn’t want to follow the same path as Manchester United, who signed him because they were looking to replace Carlos Tevez. Berbatov was more about ball possession, first touch, and elegance while Tevez was aggressive, relentless, and almost feral in his pressing and movement. Manchester City needed someone that ruthless to lead the counterattacks that fit Mourinho’s system.
"Alright then, I’ve received your scouting report. Good job," Richard nodded before putting the list of names into his pocket.
Twenty minutes later, the team reassembled near the entrance of the training facility. Dressed in light training gear, they formed a loose semi-circle around Mourinho, who stood with his hands behind his back.
"This isn’t Manchester," he began. "The air is thinner, the terrain is tougher, and by the time we leave, you’ll either be stronger than you’ve ever been... or you’ll wish you never came. Your choice."
A few chuckles escaped, but most of senior players remained silent, their eyes locked on him. Those who had been professionals for a long time knew that this wasn’t a joke and that anything could happen.
"Now, just a light jog. Loosen up, get a feel for the altitude, eat dinner. Tomorrow? The real work begins."
With that, all the coaching staff set off at a steady pace, leading them along a winding trail that curved around the base of the mountains. After all, most of them himself wasn’t that old, and it was normal for him to exercise his body. The players followed, some chatting quietly, others already focused on conserving their energy.
By the time they returned to the facility, the players were winded but not exhausted—a good sign. Henry clapped his hands together. "Good start. Shower, eat, and rest. Tomorrow at 5 AM, we begin for real."
The next morning, before the sun even had a chance to rise over the peaks of Val Pusteria, the sound of alarms rang through the players’ rooms. It had been deliberately arranged by the staff. Screams of anger could be heard echoing through Val Pusteria.
Even the coaching staff were not spared; even Mourinho, had he not been the head coach, would have preferred to keep sleeping.
The freshness of the morning was truly invigorating. By 5:00 AM exactly, the team was gathered outside, dressed in full training gear.
None of the players looked pleased; they seemed ready to explode at the slightest provocation.
Mourinho and Pintus stood in front of them. Mourinho was checking his watch, while Pintus scanned the group with a knowing look that seemed to say, ’I can feel your suffering.’
He then clapped his hands together. "Alright, warm-up. Five laps around the facility, dynamic stretches, and then we move to the real work."
The players complied, jogging off into the cold morning air. Some tried to shake off the drowsiness, while others embraced the discomfort, knowing what was coming.
Mourinho and Pintus watched in silence, evaluating them as the morning at Val Pusteria unfolded.
After the warm-up, they led them to a nearby clearing, where cones were already set up.
"Listen up," Pintus said, his voice cutting through the morning fog. "We’ll start with endurance. Five kilometers through uneven terrain."
"Uphill, downhill, no breaks. You’ll run as a team, pace yourselves. If someone falls behind, you help them. No man left behind. Understood?"
In this kind of situation, even if someone had the idea of slacking off, they wouldn’t. It would not only embarrass them, as they would need the help of their teammates, but those teammates would also look down on them, as if to say they couldn’t do what the others could.
The players nodded reluctantly to Pintus’s words. Starting with 5 km—this was really hell.
The terrain ahead was no joke, and the altitude would make every step more difficult than a normal 5 km. But they knew this was part of the process. After all, on this path to success, they had endured even greater difficulties.
The assistant, Baltemar Brito blew the whistle, and the team set off in a tight group, their footsteps loud against the gravel path. The first kilometer was relatively flat, allowing them to find their rhythm.
But soon, the trail began to climb, and the air grew thinner. Breathing became harder, and the chatter from the previous day’s jog was replaced by heavy breaths and the occasional grunt of effort.
Richard woke up a bit late, but he managed to catch up with them, following in a utility vehicle and observing the group closely. After a while, he glanced back at the group of kids sitting behind him.
"So? Any of you want to give it a try?" he asked, nodding toward the players running up the trail.
Everyone immediately shook their heads, unwilling to step out of the vehicle.
You’re kidding, right? It’s freezing out there. That looks like torture!
Richard laughed at their reactions, especially at Silva and Busquets, who were bundled up in four or five layers of jackets, clearly not used to this kind of cold. Their noses were red, and they kept rubbing their hands together, trying to stay warm.
Still, Richard knew this was necessary. If they were going to make it at Manchester, they had to adapt—not just to the pace of the game, but to the environment as well. Cold mornings, harsh conditions, and relentless sessions like this were all part of it.
His eyes scanned from player to player, noting who was struggling and who was pushing through with ease. Most of the coaching staff, aside from supervising them, were also monitoring the players’ status on the system in case something went wrong.
Looking at their the manual data tracking and heart rate monitors, he could clearly see the players’ condition. Sports science was still in its early stages, and the same went for Manchester City. They was using Prozone prototype technology to monitor everything.
No one stopped, despite not being in their best condition, and they continued to push through. After all, these were professional athletes. By the final kilometer, the group had split apart. Some pushed on with gritted teeth, while others were barely holding on.
But no one stopped.
Only when they finally reached the end, some dropped to their knees, gasping for air.
Pintus looked at them and nodded slightly. "Not bad," he said. "But not enough. This is just the beginning of today’s training session."
Richard smirked. He turned his gaze back to the players grinding their way uphill, their breaths visible in the crisp mountain air.
This was only the beginning.
"Welcome to hell, guys."
