⚽ Football Reborn: The Manager from the Future
Chapter 37 – Matchday Minus One: The Calm Before Rhythm
Rain tapped gently on the hotel window.
Not a storm, not a downpour. Just a soft rhythm—steady and patient.
Chuva stood alone, arms folded, watching Zurich shimmer under twilight. The city had become a fortress overnight. Cameras on every rooftop. Drones in every alley. Security at every hotel entrance.
And yet, the world wasn't watching Zurich.
The world was watching tomorrow.
The Global Youth Invitational had never seen anything like this.
In a tournament usually reserved for emerging academy talent and forgotten prodigies, this year's Group B held the unthinkable:
Chrono United — the wild underdogs led by a mysterious coach from nowhere.
Seraph XI — the perfect eleven, backed by the Syndicate and the shadowed mastermind known only as the Playwright.
Across social media, the game had been dubbed:
"The Soul vs. The Code."
Inside the locker room, the team sat in silence.
Ronaldo Jr. scrolled through videos of Seraph's past games. Thiago Messi stretched slowly in a corner. Falcãozinho bounced a ball against the wall, lost in thought.
No music played.
For once, even Greg had stopped talking.
Ethan finally broke the silence. "No one expects you to win."
Ronaldo Jr. looked up. "Then why are we here?"
Ethan smiled. "Because expectation is a trap. You're not here to meet it. You're here to shatter it."
Chuva walked in.
He tossed a small speaker onto the bench and hit play.
A low, slow melody filled the room—old-school Brazilian jazz.
The kind of music that danced, but never repeated.
"That's the rhythm we follow tomorrow," he said.
Not a single beat to memorize.
But a feel to absorb.
He pointed to the wall where a whiteboard displayed a hand-drawn diagram of Seraph's predicted formations.
Then he erased it.
"You won't memorize them. Because she'll break her pattern as soon as you adjust."
He stepped closer, eyes sharp.
"Tomorrow, we don't respond. We lead. You don't play their game. You make them chase yours."
Meanwhile, in a cold, sterile chamber three floors underground, Seraph sat motionless in her pre-match stasis chair.
Dozens of tubes fed into her spine and neck.
No nerves.
No emotion.
Just raw data being streamed into her cortex.
Around her, digital projections displayed Chuva's team—every pass, every flick, every laugh.
Her systems categorized them:
Ronaldo Jr.: Unstable acceleration. Predictable in finishing patterns. Prone to flair overload.
Thiago Messi: Lacks upper-body strength. Emotional bias toward team chemistry. Weak against tight man-marking.
Falcãozinho: Footspeed high. Vision inconsistent. Struggles with aerial duels.
She blinked once.
Then a projection of Chuva appeared.
Her head tilted slightly.
Chuva: Undefined.
Error.
Undefined.
Error.
Undefined.
The projection flickered.
And behind the screen, the Playwright stared, lips pressed thin.
"He's not just a coach," he muttered. "He's wild code. He improvises so fast the system can't map him."
The AI beside him responded:
"Would you like to initiate containment protocol?"
The Playwright paused.
Then typed:
INITIATE: SHADOW DEFENSE – MIRRORCELL PRIME
Later that night, Chuva stood outside the stadium's empty tunnel.
He closed his eyes.
Breathed in.
He could almost hear it—the sound of the pitch under floodlights. The murmur of the crowd. The heartbeat before kickoff.
Ethan joined him, hands in his coat pockets.
"You think she'll break like Ravelin?" he asked.
Chuva shook his head. "No. Seraph wasn't built to feel. She was built to delete."
"Then how do we beat her?"
Chuva looked up at the stars.
"We don't."
Ethan blinked. "What?"
"We don't beat her. We interrupt her. Enough to make her question. Enough to let the world see the difference."
"What difference?"
Chuva's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Between playing football... and becoming it."
In her chamber, Seraph was given one final instruction:
"He will pass."
She blinked.
"You will not."
She blinked again.
"You will win."
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time…
…she dreamed.
Not of goals.
Not of tactics.
Not even of Chuva.
But of a pass. A spinning ball on wet grass.
And a boy—smiling.
Matchday dawned.
The sky cracked with early sunlight, burning through the grey.
In locker rooms on opposite sides of the stadium, two teams laced their boots.
On one side: children who played with rhythm in their souls.
On the other: precision forged into muscle and wire.
And at the center of it all—one man who had died once and chosen to start again.
Not to rewrite history.
But to remind it what it felt like.