On the other end of the line, Leo was silent for a few seconds before a hesitant, "Uh, Mike? Are you serious?" crackled through the phone.
"Never been more serious in my life," Michael said, his voice cold and level.
He ended the call, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat.
The rage was still there, a clean, sharp flame burning away the sadness and confusion.
For the first time all day, he felt like he had a purpose. A direction.
He stared out the windshield, his mind already racing, calculating, planning.
The apartment in the city center, that's at least three million.
The watch collection… maybe half a million if I find the right buyer quickly.
The stocks my grandfather left me…
It was then that something impossible happened.
"..!"
A transparent blue rectangle shimmered into existence right in front of his eyes, hovering in the air just beyond the steering wheel.
It glowed with a soft, internal light, and pristine white text typed itself across the screen.
[The Football Empire System Initializing…]
Michael blinked. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The box was still there. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Was he hallucinating? Had the stress of the argument finally made him lose his mind?
More text appeared, crisp and clear.
[Objective: Become the majority owner of a professional football club.]
[Reward for completion: Full System Activation.]
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the blue screen flickered and vanished into thin air, leaving no trace it had ever existed.
The only thing left was the faint scent of ozone and Michael's own frantic breathing.
He looked around the car, then outside. Everything was normal. A woman was walking her dog. A bus rumbled past.
No one else seemed to have noticed the phantom computer screen that had just materialized inside his supercar.
"Okay, Michael. Deep breaths," he whispered to himself, his voice shaky. "You're just tired. Overstressed. Your eyes are playing tricks on you."
He tried to dismiss it, to force the memory into the same box as a strange dream, but the image was seared into his brain.
The Football Empire System.
It sounded like something out of a video game. It was ridiculous.
And yet… it had felt completely real.
He shook his head, forcing the thought away. Hallucination or not, it didn't change the plan. In fact, the strange vision only solidified his resolve.
He needed to act, now, before this fire inside him faded.
Selling his assets was the easy part.
The hard part was navigating the labyrinthine world of football club acquisitions.
He was smart, he knew finance, but he was still just eighteen.
He needed a guide, someone who knew the dirty secrets of the game, someone who understood how to turn ambition into reality.
And he knew exactly who to call.
He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over a name he hadn't dialed in over a year. Arthur Milton.
Arthur had been his father's right-hand man for a decade, a brilliant strategist with a mind like a steel trap.
He was the one who had actually run Northwood FC day-to-day while his father handled the big picture. Arthur was pragmatic, data-driven, and utterly unsentimental—everything his father was not. A year ago, after a bitter argument about transfer strategy, his father had fired him.
Richard had called it a "difference in philosophy." Arthur had called it "choosing nostalgia over success."
Michael hit the call button. It rang three times before a familiar, calm voice answered.
"Michael? Is everything alright?"
There was no surprise in Arthur's tone, only a measured concern.
"Arthur, I need to see you," Michael said, skipping the pleasantries. "It's important."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea. Your father—"
"This has nothing to do with my father," Michael cut in. "In fact, it's the opposite. Can you meet me? Half an hour. The Willow Creek Café on Third Street."
There was a pause.
The Willow Creek was a small, unassuming place far from the corporate high-rises and exclusive clubs the Sterlings usually frequented.
It was Arthur's favorite spot. Choosing it was a message.
"…I'll be there," Arthur said, and hung up.
Twenty-five minutes later, Michael pushed open the door to the café.
The warm smell of coffee and baked bread enveloped him. Arthur was already there, sitting in a booth in the corner, a cup of black coffee untouched in front of him.
He looked older than Michael remembered. His sharp suit had been replaced by a simple tweed jacket, and there were new lines of weariness around his eyes, but the intelligence in his gaze was as sharp as ever.
"Arthur," Michael said, sliding into the booth opposite him.
"You look like you've been to war," Arthur observed, his eyes scanning Michael's face.
"I have," Michael replied. "With my father."
He didn't waste any time. He laid it all out—the argument, the fifteenth-place finish, his father's speech about the club's soul, and his own explosive decision in the car.
He told Arthur about his plan to sell everything he owned to fund the purchase of a new club.
The only thing he left out was the crazy blue box. He wasn't ready to sound certifiably insane just yet.
Arthur listened patiently, his expression unreadable. He didn't interrupt, didn't even sip his coffee. When Michael finished, the silence stretched for a long moment.
"So, let me get this straight," Arthur finally said, his voice low and even. "You had a row with your father, and in a fit of pique, you've decided to liquidate your entire personal fortune to buy a football club to prove him wrong."
"It's not a fit of pique," Michael insisted, leaning forward. "It's a strategy. His model is broken, Arthur. It's dying. Relying on history and emotion is a terrible business plan. You know it, and I know it. You tried to tell him."
Arthur took a slow sip of his coffee. "Trying to tell your father anything is like trying to teach a lion to be a vegetarian. It's a noble idea, but you're likely to get your head bitten off." He set the cup down.
"This is an incredibly risky, foolish, and emotionally driven plan, Michael."
Michael's heart sank.
"However," Arthur continued, a faint glimmer appearing in his eyes.
"It's also the most interesting thing I've heard in a year."
A wave of relief washed over Michael. "So you'll help me?"
"Help you? I'll do more than that," Arthur said, a rare, thin smile gracing his lips. He pulled a pen and a napkin from the dispenser. "Let's run the numbers. Your apartment on the waterfront, fully paid off. Market's hot right now, you could get four million if we move fast. The Lamborghini is leased, so that's a liability, not an asset—get rid of it tomorrow. Your watch collection… you have the '68 Daytona, don't you? That's a collector's piece. Two hundred thousand, easily."
Michael watched, amazed, as Arthur scribbled a list on the napkin, his mind working with breathtaking speed.
He listed assets Michael had forgotten he even owned, quoting precise market values and potential buyers.
"The shares your grandfather left you are in a blind trust," Arthur continued, tapping the pen on the napkin. "We'd have to petition the trustees, prove this is a sound investment. That will be the hard part. But the portfolio is worth at least ten million."
He drew a line under the column of numbers and circled the final figure.
"After taxes and fees, if you liquidate everything, and I mean everything… you'll be sitting on a war chest of approximately fifteen million pounds."
Michael stared at the number.
It was more than he'd hoped.
It was real. "Fifteen million," he breathed.
"It's a lot of money," Arthur said, his tone turning serious again. "But in the world of professional football, it's a pittance. It's not enough to buy a Premier League club, not even close. You'll be shopping in the lower leagues. League One, maybe the Championship if we find a club on the brink of financial collapse."
The reality of the challenge began to set in, but it didn't scare him. It thrilled him. This was it.
This was the start.
He was no longer just Richard Sterling's son. He was his own man, forging his own path.
He looked at Arthur, the veteran strategist, the man his father had cast aside. In his eyes, Michael saw not just an advisor, but a partner. An ally.
"Okay," Michael said, the single word filled with all the determination in his soul.
A wide, excited grin spread across his face.
"So now what team should we buy?"