Michael stood in the director's box, frozen.
[BALANCE: 200 SYSTEM POINTS!]
His hands, which had been clenched into fists, now moved with purpose, his mind clicking into a cold, sharp focus.
He mentally clicked the 'Shop' tab. A list of available skills materialized in his vision, each with a cost.
The clock was ticking... The players would be back out in less than ten minutes...
[SYSTEM SHOP: SKILL LIST]
[Power Shot] (Cost: 150 pts): For one match, massively increases a player's shot power and long-shot accuracy. The ball is a cannonball.
[Shadow Dribbler] (Cost: 100 pts): For one match, increases dribble success rate by 30%. The ball is glued to their feet.
[Third Lung] (Cost: 100 pts): Instantly restores one player's stamina to 100%. They can run all day.
[Guardian's Wall] (Cost: 200 pts): For one match, increases a goalkeeper's reflexes and save percentage by 10%.
Michael stared at the list, his mind racing. 200 points.
He could buy the goalkeeping buff, or two of the 100-point skills. But his eyes were drawn back to the first one. [Power Shot].
He thought of the first half. Finn Riley's thunderous strike that hit the crossbar... that was raw, untamed power.
But Jamie Weston's shot... that was different. It was a good shot, a saveable shot. The keeper had gotten to it. Jamie had the hunger and the speed, but he lacked that one final, killer instinct.
This was a chance to give it to him. It was expensive. It would use almost all his points. But a goal... a single goal at Old Trafford would change everything.
The players were walking back out of the tunnel. He was out of time.
"System!" he thought, his voice a mental command.
"Buy [Power Shot]!"
A pleasant chime echoed in his head.
[Skill Purchased: Power Shot - 150 pts!]
[Current Balance: 50 pts]
"Gift skill to: Jamie Weston! Now!"
[Skill Gifting Confirmed!]
Down on the pitch, Michael watched as Jamie jogged back to his position on the left wing.
The boy stumbled for a split second, as if he'd been hit by a sudden gust of wind, then shook his head, clapped his hands together, and got ready for the restart.
Michael sat back in his seat. He had just messed with reality. He felt a dizzying, terrifying surge of power.
The second half was on.
As the game kicked off, it was clear Man United's manager had made his point.
His players were now lazy, playing with a 3-0 lead. They were arrogant, trying flicks and backheels, treating the game like a training session, much to the delight of their crowd.
But Barnsley, to their credit, were not broken. Arthur had clearly worked his magic at halftime. They were still running.
They were playing for the 3,000 traveling fans who hadn't stopped singing.
The game became a back-and-forth, scrappy affair. United were too lazy to score, and Barnsley were too outclassed to create a clear chance. Until the 65th minute.
A Man United attack broke down, and Barnsley's captain, Dave Bishop, hoofed the ball clear. It was a long, desperate, hopeful punt. It wasn't aimed at anyone. It just sailed high and bounced 30 yards from the Man United goal.
Jamie Weston was the only one who chased it. He sprinted, his legs pumping, and got to the bouncing ball just before the defender. He was in space.
But he was 30 yards out. A pre-season friendly ago, he would have panicked, tried to dribble, and lost the ball.
Now, he looked up. He saw the goal. And in his mind, the goal seemed to get bigger, the target clearer, as a strange, hot energy flooded his left leg.
He let the ball bounce once and then unleashed a shot of such venomous, unnatural power that it seemed to defy physics.
The World Cup-winning goalkeeper, who had been standing casually on his line, didn't even have time to move his feet.
He just flinched, a split-second too late, as the ball exploded into the roof of the net, nearly tearing it from the stanchions.
3-1.
A stunned, horrified, 75,000-person silence fell over Old Trafford. The only sound was the animalistic, disbelieving roar from the 3,000 Barnsley fans in the corner.
Michael was on his feet, screaming, his fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.
"YES! YES! YES!"
On the pitch, Jamie Weston just stood there, his left leg tingling, a look of utter bewilderment on his face, as his teammates buried him in a pile of ecstatic red shirts.
That goal did something to Manchester United. It angered them. It was like a giant that had been stung by a wasp. The lazy arrogance vanished, replaced by a cold, clinical fury.They swarmed Barnsley. Five minutes later, their £70 million striker scored again, a simple, brutal finish.
4-1.
But Barnsley didn't give up. The humiliation was gone, replaced by the defiant pride of having scored at the Theatre of Dreams. They were still hungry.
The clock ticked into the 90th minute. The game was long over. But Danny Fletcher, who had been a ghost all game, finally found a pocket of space.
He received the ball, did a perfect turn, and threaded a defense-splitting pass right into the path of Finn Riley.
The wild fox, one-on-one, made no mistake, smashing the ball past the keeper.
4-2.
The referee blew the final whistle seconds later. The match was over. Barnsley had lost 4-2.
But as the dejected, multi-million-pound Man United players trudged off, the Barnsley squad, exhausted and beaten, walked over to the away end.
The 3,000 fans were on their feet, singing and applauding like they had just won the league.
Their players, their young, hungry team, had lost, but they had scored two goals at Old Trafford. They had not been humiliated. They had fought back.
Michael stood in the director's box, watching his team and his fans celebrate a defeat. He was filled with a profound, unshakeable pride.
He had lost. His father had watched him lose. And he had never felt more like a winner.
As he watched his proud, defiant team, the blue screen flickered one last time.
[Achievement Unlocked: Honorable Defeat!]
[Description: You lost the battle, but you won the respect. You have shown the world that hunger can bite.]
[Reward: +100 System Points!]
[Total Balance: 150 pts.]
Michael looked at the new total. 150 points. A very familiar number.
His gaze drifted down to the bench, where the small, unused substitute, Raphael Santos, was clapping his new teammates, a curious, intelligent look in his eyes.
Michael thought of the [Power Shot] skill, and what it had just done.
"Now..." he thought, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face as he looked at his [PA 93] secret weapon. "...the real work begins."