The medical wing at Bodymoor Heath was usually a place of quiet rehabilitation, but today it felt like a high-security bunker.
Outside the gates, the paparazzi had set up a permanent camp. The rumors had reached a fever pitch.
The English press couldn't wrap their heads around it: Why would Andrea Pirlo, a Champions League winner, leave the fashion capital of the world for the rainy suburbs of Birmingham?
Julian Vane sat in the observation room, watching the monitors as the club's doctors ran the Italian playmaker through a series of cardiovascular tests.
[ LAYER 1: EYE OF THE PROGENY — ACTIVE ]
[ TARGET: ANDREA PIRLO ]
[ HEART RATE: 52 BPM (RESTING) ]
[ LUNG CAPACITY: 94% EFFICIENCY ]
[ TECHNICAL OVERVIEW: 20/20 VISION | 19/20 PASSING | 18/20 COMPOSURE ]
Pirlo looked bored. Even on a treadmill at high incline, he maintained a look of aristocratic indifference, his long hair dampened by a thin layer of sweat.
He didn't look like an athlete; he looked like a philosopher who had lost his way to the library.
"He's passed everything," the head doctor said, walking into the room. "But Julian, his physical stats... he's not a runner.
If you're planning on playing that high-intensity pressing game from the United match, he'll be dead by halftime."
"Pirlo doesn't run to the ball," Julian said, his eyes fixed on the data. "He makes the ball run to him. In my system, he is the only player permitted to be stationary. He is the fixed point of the universe."
As Pirlo stepped off the machine and draped a towel over his shoulders, Julian walked into the room. The two men stood in silence for a moment. Pirlo's dark eyes scanned Julian—not as a player looks at a manager, but as an equal.
"You told Galliani that you have a 'Protocol'," Pirlo said, his English slow but precise. "In Italy, we have tactics. We have history. What is this Protocol?"
"It's a way of removing the 'luck' from the game, Andrea," Julian replied. "Most managers wait for a moment of magic. I want to manufacture it.
With you as my pivot, I can guarantee that we create at least four high-probability scoring chances every ninety minutes, regardless of the opponent."
Pirlo tilted his head. "And if I don't want to be a machine?"
"Machines are predictable. You are a genius. I'm just providing you with a better lens to see the pitch.
" Julian pulled a tablet—a prototype he had spent 100 Prestige Credits to 'modernize' through the System Shop—and showed Pirlo the 3-2-2-3 simulation.
"Look at the diagonal runs Cristiano is making.
He's 18. He has the highest acceleration in the league, but he has no one to find him.
You are the only man in Europe who can hit that pass 100% of the time."
Pirlo looked at the screen. The logic was undeniable. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. "When do we start?"
The official announcement of Pirlo's signing hit the world like a sledgehammer. The headline in The Sun read: "PIRLO IN THE PUDDLE: Vane's Italian Job or a Birmingham Blunder?"
But Julian didn't have time to enjoy the shock. He had a war to fight on two fronts. The FA investigation triggered by Ferguson was gathering steam.
A commission had been set up to investigate "Unfair Data Acquisition." They suspected Julian was using illegal hacking to access the training data of rival clubs.
Julian sat in his office, the [EMINENCE PROTOCOL] highlighting a stack of legal documents on his desk in a threatening red aura.
[ ALERT: EXTERNAL THREAT DETECTED ]
[ FA COMMISSION INQUIRY: 48 HOURS REMAINING ]
[ STATUS: RISK OF MANAGERIAL LICENSE SUSPENSION ]
"They're trying to bury us," Doug Ellis said, pacing the office. He looked ten years older than he had a week ago. "The FA is asking for your 'source code,' Julian.
They say no 25-year-old can predict injury patterns and tactical shifts without inside information.
They think you've bugged Old Trafford."
"Let them look," Julian said, his brain already formulating a counter-strike.
"They won't find a single wire. They won't find a single line of code. Because the 'source' isn't in a computer, Doug. It's in my head."
"That won't stand up in a hearing!"
"It will if I humiliate them," Julian said coldly.
Julian spent the next several hours in the [TACTICAL SIMULATION LAB], but he wasn't simulating a football match. He was simulating the hearing.
He used the [LOYALTY PRISM] on the names of the commission members provided by Ellis.
[ TARGET: SIR MAURICE GENTRY (CHAIRMAN OF COMMISSION) ]
[ TRAIT: 'TRADITIONALIST' | 'HIDDEN BIAS: PRO-MAN UTD' ]
[ WEAKNESS: INTELLECTUAL VANITY ]
Julian realized that if he fought them with lawyers, he would lose.
He had to fight them with their own ignorance. He needed to prove that his "Data" was simply a result of superior observation.
He called an emergency meeting with the club's video analysis team—a small group of three young guys who usually just clipped match highlights.
"I want every bit of footage you can find on the last ten Manchester United matches," Julian commanded. "But I don't want the goals. I want the throw-ins.
I want the way their ball-boys return the ball. I want the way Ferguson chews his gum when he's about to make a sub. I want the 'trash' data."
The analysts looked at him like he was insane, but they got to work.
While they worked, Julian took Pirlo and Ronaldo out to the training pitch. It was the first time the two "Pillars" of his endgame would touch a ball together. The rest of the squad stood on the sidelines, watching with a mixture of awe and jealousy.
The drill was simple: Ronaldo would start from the halfway line, and Pirlo would be at the center circle. Six defenders would try to stop them.
The first five attempts were failures. Pirlo's passes were too fast, or Ronaldo's runs were too early. The "Sync" wasn't there yet.
[ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: NEURAL SYNCHRONIZATION AT 12% ]
[ RECOMMENDATION: USE 'MANUAL INTERVENTION' TO BRIDGE THE GAP ]
Julian walked onto the pitch. He didn't use the Protocol's buffs. He used his intelligence. He stood between them.
"Andrea, you're passing to where Cristiano is. Cristiano, you're running to where you want the ball," Julian said.
"Both of you are wrong. You need to pass to the space that didn't exist two seconds ago.
Cristiano, you need to trigger your run the moment Andrea's eyes leave the ball. Not when he kicks it. When he looks."
He turned to Pirlo. "And you. Stop looking for him. Look for the shadow of the defender. Pass into the shadow."
They tried again. Pirlo received the ball, didn't even glance at Ronaldo, and clipped a low, fizzing ball into the 'shadow' of Mellberg. Ronaldo was already there. He didn't even have to break stride. He touched it once and smashed it into the net.
[ NEURAL SYNCHRONIZATION: 45% ]
The defenders were stunned. They hadn't even seen the pass coming. It looked like the two players were connected by an invisible string.
"Again," Julian said, his voice showing no emotion. "We do this until it's boring."
The day of the FA hearing arrived. Julian walked into the boardroom at Lancaster Gate, flanked by Doug Ellis and a single junior lawyer.
Across from him sat the commission—five men in their sixties who looked like they were ready to pronounce a death sentence.
Sir Maurice Gentry cleared his throat. "Mr. Vane, the evidence against you is circumstantial but overwhelming. You predicted Manchester United's tactical shift thirty minutes before it happened.
You signed a player from Portugal days before Manchester United made their move. We have reports from scouts that you seem to possess 'supernatural' knowledge of player potential."
Julian leaned back in his chair. He didn't look at the documents. He looked at Gentry.
"Sir Maurice, do you play bridge?" Julian asked.
Gentry blinked. "I... yes, I do. What does that have to do with—"
"In bridge, if I know the cards you've played, and I know the cards your partner has played, I can tell you with 99% certainty what is in your hand. Is that cheating? Or is that just arithmetic?"
"Football is not bridge, Mr. Vane."
"No, it's much more predictable," Julian said.
He signaled his assistant, who opened a laptop. "I have here a breakdown of your own career as a director at Derby County. In 1994, you signed a striker for three million pounds who scored zero goals.
My 'supernatural' data tells me he failed because he had a 15% drop-off in pace when playing in temperatures below five degrees—a fact that was evident in his youth records in France, which you chose to ignore."
The room went silent. Julian began a forty-minute presentation, but it wasn't about his system. It was about their failures.
He used "Common Knowledge" data—things anyone could find if they looked hard enough—and synthesized it into a weapon.
He showed them that what they called "magic" was simply the result of an intelligence they couldn't comprehend.
"I don't have a 'source code,' gentlemen," Julian concluded.
"I just have a better memory than you. I pay attention to the things you think are beneath you. If that's a crime, then by all means, ban me.
But you'll be banning the only man in this room who actually understands why the English national team hasn't won a trophy since 1966."
He closed his laptop and stood up. He didn't wait for them to deliberate. He walked out of the room.
[ MISSION COMPLETE: THE OLD GUARD'S WRATH ]
[ REWARD: 500 PRESTIGE CREDITS ]
[ FUNCTION UNLOCKED: LAYER 1 — MEDIA PUPPET MASTER ]
As he walked down the steps of the FA headquarters, Doug Ellis caught up to him, gasping for breath. "Julian! That was... you just insulted the most powerful men in English football!"
"No, Doug. I just made them afraid of me," Julian said. "Men like that don't ban people they're afraid of. They try to study them. And while they're studying me, I'm going to be winning the league."
His phone vibrated. A notification from the [EMINENCE PROTOCOL] appeared in his vision, shimmering with a new gold hue.
[ GLOBAL EVENT: THE JANUARY WINDOW IS OPENING ]
[ NEW TARGETS DETECTED IN BUNDESLIGA AND LA LIGA ]
[ MANAGER LEVEL 3: 15% PROGRESS ]
Julian got into his car. He had the money, he had the players, and he had just defeated the FA. Now, it was time to take his new 3-2-2-3 formation into the winter grind of the Premier League.
He looked at the dashboard clock. The next match was against Liverpool at Anfield.
Gérard Houllier against the Apex Tactician.
"Andrea," Julian said into his hands-free set as he pulled away. "Tell Cristiano to get his boots. We're going to show Liverpool that the 'Invincibles' aren't the only ones who can go a season without losing."
He had a vision of the future, and for the first time, the Protocol wasn't just showing him data. It was showing him a throne.