Marc stared at the shimmering blue screen, his mind a frantic, chaotic scramble of confusion and abject terror.
He reached out a trembling hand, the fingers numb and clumsy, half-expecting it to pass through the light like a cheap cinematic ghost.
Instead, his fingertips met a surface that was cool, smooth, and impossibly solid. He snatched his hand back as if he'd touched a live wire, a strangled yelp catching in his throat.
This was real.
The grimy hostel room, the impossibly youthful face in the mirror, the date on the newspaper… and this… this thing.
It hummed with a low, resonant frequency that seemed to vibrate in his very bones, a silent thrum of immense, latent power.
"Red Devil's Fortune System?" he read aloud, the words feeling alien and absurd on his tongue.
His voice was a stranger's, a young man's voice, not the weary, gravelly tone of the middle-aged man he had been just hours or a lifetime ago.
As if responding to his voice, the screen flickered, and new text scrolled into view with unnerving smoothness.
[Welcome, Host Marc Ashford.]
[This System has been generated from the final, focused singularity of your dying wish, the culmination of a life's worth of passion, regret, and singular, unwavering devotion to a single cause.]
[Your new existence has been granted with one ultimate purpose. All other objectives are secondary. You are an agent of correction. You are here to fulfill your Main Quest.]
The text faded with an almost cinematic flair, replaced by a new, terrifyingly ambitious declaration. It was displayed like a title card for an epic film, complete with a gleaming, blood-red progress bar currently sitting at a demoralizing, perfectly round 0%.
[MAIN QUEST: The Red Devil's Legacy]
[Objective:] The entity known as Manchester United has been compromised by parasitic ownership, leading to a future of decay and mediocrity. You will correct this. You will acquire a controlling interest of no less than 10% of the club's total shares.
[Estimated Capital Required:] $250,000,000 USD
[Deadline:] December 31, 2016 (10 years, 11 months, 30 days remaining)
[Failure Condition:] Failure to complete the Main Quest by the designated deadline will result in the termination of this timeline. The paradox of your existence will be resolved, and your second chance will be forfeited. You will cease to be.
Marc's legs, which had been trembling, finally gave out. He stumbled back and sat heavily on the lumpy, protesting mattress, his head in his hands.
The springs groaned in protest, a sound that seemed to echo the impossibility of what he was being asked to do. Two hundred and fifty million dollars.
The number was so vast, so astronomical, it defied comprehension. It was a number that existed in a different reality, a reality of private jets and superyachts, of boardroom battles and hostile takeovers.
It was a number he associated with lottery jackpots and the GDP of small nations. In his previous life, he had earned, over the course of his entire working career, less than one-tenth of one percent of that amount.
He was a man who bought his clothes from Primark and considered a takeaway from the local curry house a weekly luxury. And now, this… this ghost in the machine was telling him to become a kind of master of the universe.
A hysterical laugh, sharp and ragged, bubbled up from his chest. "You're insane," he muttered, the words directed at the silent, glowing screen. "I'm insane. This is a dream. A very, very cruel, elaborate dream."
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms into them until he saw stars, willing himself to wake up.
Wake up back in the pub, smelling of stale beer and regret.
Wake up in a hospital bed, the steady beep of a heart monitor a comforting rhythm. Wake up anywhere but here, in this cold, damp room with this impossible, soul-crushing demand hanging over him.
But the pressure behind his eyes, the cold of the room, the smell of damp and disinfectant, it was all too real.
Too visceral. This wasn't a dream. This was his new reality, as impossible and terrifying as it was.
But when he opened his eyes, the blue screen was still there, patient and implacable. Its light cast an eerie, otherworldly glow on the peeling wallpaper.
Termination of this timeline. The phrase was so much more chilling than simply 'death'. Death was something he had just experienced. It was a painful, messy, but ultimately natural end.
This sounded different. It sounded like erasure. Like being a line of code that was simply deleted from existence. The thought sent a jolt of primal fear through him, a fear far deeper than the one he'd felt as his heart gave out in his previous life.
He took a ragged breath, trying to force his racing mind to think. He thought of the future he had left behind.
The years of misery, the slow, painful decay of his beloved club. But it wasn't just the football. He remembered the world.
He remembered the 2008 financial crash, a global catastrophe that had wiped out his meager pension pot and cost his father a third of his retirement savings.
He remembered the news reports, the images of bankers in expensive suits walking out of Lehman Brothers with their boxes, their faces grim, while ordinary people lost their homes.
He remembered a geeky friend from work, Liam, trying to explain "Bitcoin" to him around 2013.
"It's digital gold, Marc! It's the future! Get in now while it's still cheap!" Liam had said, his eyes alight with a feverish excitement, practically begging Marc to invest even a hundred pounds.
Marc had laughed, calling it "nerd money" and a Ponzi scheme, dismissing it as another dot-com bubble waiting to burst.
The last he'd heard, Liam was living in a mansion in Dubai, retired at forty, posting pictures of his Lamborghini on Facebook. Marc had unfollowed him out of sheer, burning envy.
He remembered the explosion of social media, the rise of Facebook, and the IPO that had made Mark Zuckerberg a household name.
He remembered the iPhone, a device that had seemed like science fiction in 2006, becoming ubiquitous.
He remembered the companies that had seemed like titans: Nokia, Blockbuster, MySpace fading into obscurity, replaced by new ones: Apple, Netflix, Amazon.
His past life wasn't just a string of personal regrets; it was a detailed, decade-long financial report. A cheat sheet for the biggest economic boom and bust cycle in modern history.
The hysterical laughter died in his throat, replaced by a cold, hard resolve that felt like a shard of ice forming in his gut.
The System wasn't just giving him an impossible task. It was giving him a weapon. A weapon forged from twenty years of hindsight, regret, and bitter experience.
Two hundred and fifty million dollars in ten years. It was still insane. It was still a mountain so high he couldn't see the peak. But for the first time, a tiny, rebellious spark in his mind whispered, …is it?
The screen flickered again, as if sensing his shift in mood.
The monumental Main Quest minimized into a small, persistent icon in the top corner of his vision, a constant, silent reminder of his ultimate purpose. A new, more pressing notification took its place.
[New Quest Issued: A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. And you, Host, are currently barefoot and penniless.]
[SIDE QUEST: Survive the Week]
[Objective:] Your current funds are insufficient for basic survival. The human body requires sustenance. Landlords require rent. Secure a minimum of €200 to cover food and lodging for the coming week.
[Reward:] 10 System Points (SP)[Note:] SP are the currency of potential. Do not squander them.
The sheer, almost insulting banality of it was a splash of icy water to the face.
One moment, he was contemplating a billion-dollar corporate takeover; the next, he was being chided by a cosmic entity for being broke. It was humbling, and it was exactly the dose of gritty reality he needed.
He instinctively patted the pockets of the worn jeans he'd woken up in. His fingers closed around a thin, worn leather wallet.
He opened it. Inside was a driver's license with his twenty-something face staring back, a few faded receipts for things he hadn't bought yet, and a single, crisp €100 note.
That was it. The sum total of his worldly possessions. His starting capital for a financial war against one of the most powerful families in global sports.
He stood up, the mattress springs groaning in protest. He walked to the window and looked out at the grey, drizzly streets of Manchester.
It was a city he knew like the back of his hand. A city full of betting shops, pubs, and people with deeply held, often wildly incorrect, opinions on football.
His mind, now sharp and focused, raced through the sports calendar of early 2006. He remembered the FA Cup that year with a painful clarity.
There was a third-round match coming up in a few days. A true David vs. Goliath fixture. Burton Albion, a non-league minnow, against the mighty Manchester United.
Everyone, including his past self, had expected a slaughter. He remembered putting it as the final, "safe" leg of a £20 accumulator bet that would have won him over £500. Enough for a much-needed weekend away.
He remembered the shock, the fury, the sheer disbelief as the final score came in. 0-0. A goalless draw.
United, fielding a weakened team of reserves and youngsters, had been held at Burton's tiny Pirelli Stadium.
It was a national embarrassment for the Premier League giants, a day of unbelievable glory for the non-league side, and the reason Marc had spent a miserable, rain-soaked weekend at home instead of on a beach in Spain.
The memory, once a source of deep irritation, was now a golden ticket. It was the first page of his cheat sheet.
Nobody saw it coming.
Nobody but him.
A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. It felt strange on his younger, smoother features. The System wanted him to survive the week. He would do more than that.
He would start his empire. With one, perfectly placed, impossibly prescient bet.
He picked up his thin jacket, slipped the wallet containing his entire net worth into his pocket, and walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The game was on.