⚽ Football Reborn: The Manager from the Future
Chapter 32 – The Playwright: He Who Writes the Game
In the silent heart of a mountain fortress, known only to those with clearance beyond the realm of governments, the Syndicate's most feared architect of chaos awoke.
He wasn't called a general.
He wasn't a soldier.
He was The Playwright.
Because he wrote the game.
Not just tactics, not just formations—but actual predictive neural fields. His mind worked faster than any AI, processing probability, emotional variance, and spatial geometry all at once. He could watch a player once and write a code that mimicked them down to their foot angles and heartbeat shifts.
When he walked, the corridors adjusted their lighting automatically. Not from sensors—but because the building itself feared him.
He watched the footage of Operation Nocturne in silence.
The clones' failure.
The anomaly's resistance.
The unexpected interference from Chuva.
He paused the footage on Chuva's face.
"Improvisational neuro-sync. Counter-chaos coding. Unschooled brilliance," he muttered. "We missed him in the original sweep."
Behind him, the silver-eyed operative nodded.
"Should we rewrite the playbook?"
The Playwright turned.
"No. We change the field."
Meanwhile, back at Chrono Base, repairs were underway.
Haaland and Neymar worked with technicians to restore the gym. Jude was in medical diagnostics, analyzing the way his reactions had been mirrored. Messi sat alone, deep in thought.
But it was Chuva everyone kept watching.
He moved differently now.
Quieter. Slower.
Almost like the encounter had peeled something away.
Ethan approached him near the tactical pool, where the team visualized match scenarios in 3D.
"You alright?"
Chuva shook his head. "They weren't trying to kill me. They were trying to record me."
Ethan frowned. "What?"
"I felt it during the fight," Chuva said. "They wanted my decisions. My patterns. My language."
He waved a hand and the tactical pool lit up, showing simulations of his recent training.
"They're trying to write me into code."
Greg entered the room, overhearing.
"They're trying to 'copy-paste' you," he said grimly. "They've done it before. Created clone players that mimic legends. But no one's ever resisted the write."
"Until me," Chuva said.
Ethan nodded slowly.
"And they'll come again."
That night, the team held a meeting.
All eleven of them.
Ethan stood before the holoboard.
"The Syndicate's changing tactics. They're deploying someone new."
"Who?" asked Pedri.
Greg tapped the screen.
"Codename: The Playwright."
The image showed a shadowy figure seated in a vast chamber filled with floating data scripts and shifting field patterns. A man who could choreograph matches before they were played. Someone who wrote matches instead of watching them.
Messi was the first to speak.
"I've heard of him. Years ago. They said he used to work for FIFA's data integrity group. Until he disappeared."
Greg nodded. "He didn't disappear. The Syndicate absorbed him."
Neymar leaned forward.
"What's his goal?"
Chuva answered.
"To erase unpredictability. To own the game by scripting every outcome. He believes creativity is the last chaos in football—and he wants to kill it."
Jude scoffed. "Good luck. You can't write soul."
Ethan shook his head. "Don't underestimate him. He's already infiltrated the Youth Tournament in Lisbon. They're testing players now using predictive scripts."
Haaland frowned. "You want us to go?"
Ethan stared at the holoboard.
"No. I want to send Chuva. Alone."
The room exploded.
"You can't be serious!" Neymar barked.
"He's a kid," Pedri added.
"He's more than a kid," Ethan replied. "He's a variable they can't contain. And they know it. That's why they'll be there."
Messi, as always, said nothing.
Just looked at Chuva.
Finally, he spoke.
"If you go, you'll be tested not just by players—but by your mirror. The Playwright will try to write you before you finish the match."
Chuva stood up.
"Let him try."
Three days later, Lisbon.
Youth International Invitational.
Thousands packed into the stadium. Cameras everywhere. Unknown to most of the public, the entire tournament was a field experiment for the Syndicate's newest predictive module: ScriptFlow—a shadow program capable of adjusting gameplay in real time.
On a makeshift pitch outside the stadium, Chuva warmed up barefoot, juggling a dirty ball while watching the sunset.
He wasn't wearing a team kit.
He wore no number at all.
But as the match began, he was subbed in by a small amateur side from Mozambique—the coach too stunned to ask questions after receiving a mysterious clearance badge and cash envelope.
Within five minutes of Chuva stepping onto the pitch, the Playwright activated ScriptFlow.
From his hidden command room beneath the stadium, he typed:
"Mark: Anomaly 01. Track variance. Deploy MirrorCell."
On the pitch, a new player appeared for the opposing team. Number 99. Thin, fast, and eerily fluid.
He moved just like Chuva.
"Meet your double," the Playwright whispered.
For the next ten minutes, the crowd witnessed something impossible:
A mirror match.
Every pass Chuva made was intercepted by his clone. Every twist was countered.
The crowd began to turn.
"Who's the new guy?" they whispered.
"Looks like he's being outplayed…"
Chuva felt it too.
He was being unwritten.
Scripted as he played.
He closed his eyes.
Let the ball pass him.
Let the crowd fade.
Let the script flow over him.
And then—he did what no program could predict.
He laughed.
And sang.
Just a simple melody.
From the street matches. The alleys of Maputo. A rhythm that had no pattern, no timing, no bars.
The clone hesitated.
And Chuva danced.
For the next five minutes, he didn't play football.
He played freedom.
He nutmegged the clone.
Then backheeled to a teammate without looking.
Then lobbed it up, spun, and flicked it over two defenders—before walking away.
The ball landed perfectly at the striker's feet.
Goal.
The crowd erupted.
But more importantly…
The Script broke.
Far below, the Playwright's screen turned red.
:: ERROR ::
:: DATA OVERFLOW ::
:: RHYTHMIC DISRUPTION DETECTED ::
"What… is that melody?"