The handshake was firm, the transfer was complete, and just like that, Ken Davies, the man who had carried Barnsley FC on his shoulders for five long years, was gone.
He gave Michael a final, hopeful nod, clapped Arthur on the back, and walked out of the owner's office, leaving behind the keys to the kingdom and a profound, echoing silence.
Michael stood alone with Arthur in the middle of the room, the new owner of everything he could see. The pitch, the stands, the history soaked into the very walls.
The sheer, terrifying weight of it all pressed down on him.
He had just gambled his entire existence on this.
And then, the world went blue.
The transparent blue screen from his car materialized directly in front of his face, bright and impossibly solid. White text scrolled across it with silent, perfect precision.
[Welcome, Owner Michael Sterling.]
[Football Empire System is now fully activated!]
[Core Function Unlocked: The Eye of Potential!]
[Description: The user can now perceive the Current Ability (CA) and Potential Ability (PA) of any human being. CA represents their present skill level in their chosen field. PA represents their theoretical maximum skill ceiling.]
[Begin your dynasty!]
Michael's breath hitched in his throat.
He stared, mesmerized and terrified.
This was real. This was happening. It wasn't a stress-induced hallucination.
He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers passing right through the glowing screen as if it were smoke.
Arthur, completely oblivious, was already on his phone.
"Jessica, the deal is done. We are officially in control. Initiate phase two. I want a full operational audit on my desk by morning."
Michael barely heard him. His eyes were wide, scanning the room. He felt a strange new sensation, a tingling awareness at the edge of his perception. He looked over at Arthur, who was now pacing as he spoke, rattling off a list of demands.
And that's when he saw it.
Floating just above Arthur Milton's head were two numbers, rendered in the same clean, white font as the system screen, visible only to him.
[Arthur Milton: CA 92 / PA 92]
Michael's jaw dropped.
Current Ability 92. Potential Ability 92.
It made perfect, intuitive sense. Arthur was an elite operator, a master of his craft, already at the absolute peak of his abilities. He had maxed out his potential.
A dizzying thought struck him.
What about me?
He turned and looked at the large, glass-fronted trophy cabinet against the wall.
It was dusty, the trophies inside tarnished, but his reflection was clear.
He stared at his own image—a young man of eighteen, his face pale with shock, his eyes wide with disbelief. And floating above his reflected head were his own numbers.
[Michael Sterling: CA 47 / PA 68]
A strange mix of disappointment and relief washed over him.
47.
He was, in the grand scheme of things, completely average.
A nobody. But the other number, 68… that was his potential.
He wasn't a genius, but he had room to grow. He could get better.
The implications of what he was seeing crashed down on him with the force of a tidal wave.
He could see it. He could see everyone's potential. He could walk down the street and know who was a world-class musician stuck in a dead-end job. He could look at a group of kids kicking a ball in a park and spot the one with the potential to become a global superstar.
He could look at his own team, his own players, and know, with absolute certainty, which ones were diamonds in the rough and which ones had already hit their ceiling.
This was his secret. His weapon. His cheat code for building an empire.
An iron-clad certainty settled in his heart. No one could ever know about this.
Not Arthur, not Jules, not Leo. This was his power alone. To tell anyone would be to risk it, to dilute it, to invite questions he could never answer.
He straightened up, taking a deep breath and forcing his expression into a neutral mask as he turned back to Arthur, who had just ended his call.
The blue screen vanished from his vision as he focused his will.
"…so the first order of business is damage control," Arthur was saying, completely unaware that his new boss had just been gifted a superpower.
"The press will get wind of the sale within the hour. They'll paint you as a rich kid who broke his piggy bank. We need to control the narrative immediately."
"Okay," Michael said, his voice surprisingly steady.
His mind was still buzzing, but a strange calm had settled over him.
The numbers didn't change the work that needed to be done; they just illuminated the path. "What's the plan?"
"We schedule a press conference for tomorrow morning," Arthur said, shifting into high gear.
"We'll introduce you as the new owner, I'll be announced as the new Chief Executive Officer. We'll present a clear, confident vision for the future. Stability. Investment in youth. A sustainable plan for growth. No wild promises."
"Makes sense," Michael agreed. He felt like he was playing a role, but it was a role he was born for.
"But before any of that," Arthur said, his expression turning serious, "we have a more pressing problem. A much more human problem."
He gestured towards the window overlooking the training pitch. "Pre-season training starts in two days. The players will be arriving, uncertain about their futures. The manager will be wondering if he still has a job. We can't let that uncertainty fester. It's poison to a football club."
Michael nodded.
"We need to speak to them. Today."
"Exactly," Arthur confirmed.
"The manager first. His name is David Wallace. He's a club legend, former captain. Took over as manager a year ago. He's respected by the fans and the players, but his tactical approach is… dated. He's a motivator, not a strategist."
Michael could almost guess what Wallace's numbers would be. Probably a decent CA from his playing days and experience, but a PA that was already close to being met.
"And the players?" Michael asked.
"We need to address the entire squad as a group," Arthur said.
"They'll have heard the rumors. They'll be scared. They'll think the rich new owner is going to come in, sell them all off, and bring in a team of expensive mercenaries. We need to reassure them. Let them know that we believe in them, that we're here to build with them, not replace them."
The task felt monumental.
Just hours ago, he was a frustrated teenager arguing with his father.
Now, he was about to stand in front of a room full of professional athletes and their manager, men who had dedicated their lives to this sport, and convince them to follow him.
But for the first time, he wasn't scared. He had a secret. He had the numbers.
He could see the potential shimmering just beneath the surface, waiting to be unlocked.
"Alright," Michael said, squaring his shoulders. He looked out at the empty stadium, no longer seeing it as a burden, but as a blank canvas.
"Let's go and meet the manager."