We spent the entire week working on our defensive shape. We did drills until the players were sick of them. We worked on compactness, on communication, on discipline. I was a drill sergeant, barking orders, demanding perfection.
This wasn't the fun, attacking football they were used to. This was grim, attritional, defensive work. The kind of work that builds character, that forges teams, that separates the dreamers from the believers. By the end of the week, we were a well-oiled defensive machine. We were ready.
Cue the [TRAINING MONTAGE] music.
Monday Night: The rain is lashing down on a poorly lit training pitch. I'm screaming myself hoarse, physically dragging players into position. "Lower, Baz! Two yards deeper! Scott, you're the shield! Nothing gets past you!" The players are exhausted, covered in mud, but they're listening. They're learning. This is the foundation. The defensive shape. The discipline. The willingness to suffer for the team.
Tuesday Night: We're working on transitions. The moment we win the ball, the moment we launch the counter-attack. "JJ, you sprint! You don't jog, you don't walk, you SPRINT! Big Dave, your distribution has to be perfect. One bad pass and the counter-attack dies." We practice it fifty times. Sixty times. A hundred times. Until it's muscle memory. Until it's instinct.
Wednesday Night: We're working on the corner routine. "Cascade," I call it. A complex series of blocks and decoy runs designed to free up one player at the back post. We practice it over and over again. It fails. It fails again.
The timing is wrong. The movement is wrong. Then, finally, it works. Baz, our big centre-back, meets the ball with a thundering header. The net bulges. A small, perfect moment of victory in the middle of a miserable week. The players cheer. They believe.
Thursday Night: Set-piece defending. We work on our own zonal marking, on blocking runs, on communication. "Talk! I want to hear you! If you're not talking, you're not defending!" The players are hoarse from shouting. But they're learning. They're becoming a unit.
Friday Night: The final session before the game. We're doing a full-scale 11 vs 0 shadow play drill. No opposition. Just our team, moving as one, practicing the defensive shape, the transitions, the counter-attacks. It's hypnotic. It's beautiful. It's a team that is ready. A team that believes. A team that is about to shock the world.
[END MONTAGE]
The day of the game was a classic, miserable Manchester Sunday. The rain was lashing down, the wind was howling. It was perfect weather for a giant-killing.
North Manchester Athletic's ground was a world away from the public parks we were used to. It was a proper, non-league stadium, with a small, covered stand, concrete terracing, and a clubhouse that sold hot pies.
There was a crowd of a few hundred people, a mixture of their regular supporters and curious neutrals who had come to see the Sunday league superstars in action.
As we warmed up, I could see the opposition sizing us up. They were bigger, they were more athletic, they looked like proper footballers.
Their warm-up was professional, synchronized, intimidating. They had matching kit bags, personalized training gear, and a level of physical conditioning that made my lads look like a Sunday morning pub team.
Which, to be fair, they were. They had an air of effortless superiority, the confidence of a team that was used to winning. They looked at us, a motley crew of pub players, and they saw an easy victory. I could hear their laughter, their jokes. They were already planning their post-match celebration. They had no idea what was coming.
In the changing room, my final team talk was short and to the point. "Lads," I said, my voice a low, intense growl.
"No one outside this room believes we can win this game. They think we're just here to make up the numbers. They think we're going to roll over and let them tickle our bellies. I want you to go out there and prove every single one of them wrong. I want you to be horrible. I want you to be disciplined. I want you to be the most awkward, the most frustrating, the most difficult team they have ever played against. And I want you to believe. Believe in the plan. Believe in each other. And believe that we can win this game."
We walked out onto the pitch, the roar of their crowd a hostile, intimidating wall of sound. We were in the lion's den. The cup run was about to begin. And we were ready for a fight.
As the referee blew the whistle to start the match, I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it. This was the moment. The culmination of a week of intense preparation, of a season of hard work, of a lifetime of dreaming. This was David versus Goliath. And I had a feeling that David had a few tricks up his sleeve that Goliath wasn't expecting.
I looked at my players, standing shoulder to shoulder, ready for battle. I looked at the opposition, confident, arrogant, and completely unaware of the storm that was about to hit them. And I looked at the system, my secret weapon, my unfair advantage, and I saw a single, beautiful, and utterly insane notification.
[SYSTEM] Quest Activated: 'The Giant-Killers'.
[SYSTEM] Objective: Defeat North Manchester Athletic.
[SYSTEM] Reward: Massive XP Bonus. New 'Reputation' feature unlocked.
I smiled. The system believed. The players believed. And now, I believed too. This wasn't just a football match. This was a quest. And we were the heroes.
The game was about to begin. And I had a feeling it was going to be legendary.
***
Thank you for 50 Power Stones.