London's sky was like an old piece of xuan paper soaked in ink, so gloomy it seemed ready to be wrung out at any moment. The fine drizzle, carried by the cold North Atlantic wind, seeped into the collars of every pedestrian.
But inside Tottenham's training base in Enfield, North London, the atmosphere was even colder than the weather outside.
In a conference room decorated with extreme luxury, its walls lined with photos of Tottenham Hotspur legends, the air seemed to have frozen.
Bartomeu sat on a black leather sofa, a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea placed before him. Sitting across from him was the man recognized as the most difficult negotiator in European football, the Tottenham Chairman—Daniel Levy.
The bald Jewish man was staring intently at the offer Bartomeu had just pushed over with small, shrewd eyes that made one's skin crawl. His fingers tapped unconsciously on the mahogany tabletop, making a "tap, tap, tap" sound, as if he were calculating every penny of interest.
"Josep, I don't understand."
Levy finally spoke, his voice dry and sharp with a hint of mockery. "The whole world knows you just sold Neymar and have 222 million euros in your pocket. And then you bring this amount—80 million euros? To buy my midfield core?"
He extended two fingers and pinched the offer sheet as if it were a scrap of waste paper. "This is an insult to Tottenham. Christian Eriksen is not for sale. Coach Pochettino has built the entire season's plan around him. Moreover, just yesterday, an intermediary from Paris Saint-Germain hinted that they are willing to offer 100 million."
Sitting beside Bartomeu, Barça's sporting director Pep Segura grew a bit impatient and was about to argue, but Bartomeu raised a hand to stop him.
"Daniel, we are both businessmen; let's not play these games of posturing."
Bartomeu picked up his teacup and gently blew on the foam, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the day's weather. "Paris just spent 222 million to buy Neymar, and they are being closely watched by UEFA's Financial Fair Play investigation team. If they dare to shell out another 100 million for Eriksen this summer, Čeferin will kick them out of the Champions League tomorrow. Therefore, the Paris offer is nothing but hot air."
Levy's eyelid flickered.
"As for the 'insult'..." Bartomeu set down his teacup and leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Daniel, as far as I know, your proud 'New White Hart Lane' project has recently run into a bit of... minor trouble?"
This sentence was like a needle, accurately piercing Levy's Achilles' heel.
Levy's tapping stopped abruptly. He narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about. The construction is going smoothly."
"Is it? Steel prices have risen by 15%, and because of Brexit causing exchange rate fluctuations, the cost of imported building materials has surged. A friend of mine at Citibank's London branch told me that one of your bridge loans is due next week, and the bank is requiring you to provide additional collateral, otherwise they will downgrade your credit rating."
Bartomeu's voice wasn't loud, but to Levy, it sounded like a thunderclap. This was the highest secret of Tottenham and even the entire ENIC Group! How could this fat Spaniard know so clearly?
Lin Feng chuckled inwardly. In his past life as a trader, he knew the economic shocks after Brexit in 2017 like the back of his hand. Tottenham had lived frugally for those years while building the stadium; this was no secret in financial circles.
"80 million euros. Cash. Paid in full, all at once."
Bartomeu emphasized his tone, each word like a heavy gold brick. "Not installments over five years, not floating clauses full of traps. As long as you sign, within 48 hours, this capital will be transferred from Catalonia to your escrow account. This money is enough for you to fill the gap in construction costs and keep the workers working through this winter."
Levy fell silent. He was a businessman, and an extremely rational one at that. Eriksen was indeed the core, but he had not yet renewed his contract, with only three years remaining. If he wasn't sold this summer, his value would decrease as the contract term shortened. Meanwhile, the new stadium was the foundation for Tottenham's next hundred years, a goose that would lay golden eggs.
Trading a Dane who might not stay for the financial security of the club's century-long foundation... this calculation was too easy to make.
But Levy was Levy, after all; he wouldn't let go so easily.
"Cash is indeed tempting." Levy leaned back in his chair, resuming his profiteer facade. "But it's not enough. I want 90 million. Not a penny less. You must know that the transfer market is heavily inflated right now; if I take your money to buy a replacement, I'll be fleeced by others as well."
"80 million, plus a 3 million floating clause—if he helps us win the Champions League." Bartomeu wouldn't budge an inch. "Daniel, don't be too greedy. My plane takes off in two hours. If you don't accept, I'll take this 80 million in cash to Liverpool. You know, Coutinho's agent has called me ten times; they're going crazy."
Hearing "Liverpool" and "Coutinho," Levy's psychological defense completely collapsed. Tottenham and Liverpool were direct competitors for the Premier League top four. If his own greed pushed this huge sum to a competitor and helped Liverpool through their difficulties, then Tottenham would be the biggest loser.
"...Deal."
Levy gritted his teeth, squeezing out those two words. He felt as though he wasn't selling a player but being robbed, yet the reason the robber gave was one he couldn't refuse.
"But Josep, you must wait until after tomorrow to make the official announcement. I need time to sign a replacement."
"No problem." Bartomeu stood up with a smile and adjusted his suit. "We'll sign the contract now. Pep, have our legal team come in."
Ten minutes later, Eriksen's transfer agreement was signed. The Danish midfielder had actually reached a private agreement with Barça long ago. For any technical midfielder, Camp Nou was a holy land, and the chance to succeed Iniesta was an irresistible temptation.
Walking out of the gates of the Tottenham base, it was still raining, but Lin Feng felt the air was exceptionally fresh. The first piece of the puzzle was in place... 4:00 PM. On the private jet.
The plane was climbing, passing through thick layers of clouds, flying northwest toward Liverpool.
Inside the cabin, Pep Segura was rubbing his hands excitedly. "Chairman, it's incredible! We really secured Eriksen! With him, Messi won't have to drop back so deep. Now that we still have a large sum of money left, should we just go and overwhelm Liverpool to take Coutinho too? Our midfield would be a dream!"
Bartomeu swirled the champagne glass in his hand, looking at the sea of clouds outside the window, a cold smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
"Pep, do you think Coutinho can help Messi defend? Can he press in the final third like a mad dog?"
"Uh... no. Coutinho is a typical Samba player, strong in attack but weak in defense..."
"So we don't want Coutinho."
"What?!" Segura was so shocked he almost spilled wine on his trousers. "We don't want Coutinho? Then what are we going to Liverpool for?"
"We want Sadio Mane," Bartomeu said calmly.
"Mane?! That's impossible!" Segura shook his head repeatedly. "All of Europe knows Klopp's temperament. Mane is the absolute core of his tactical system. Even if Fenway Group wanted to sell, Klopp would threaten to resign."
"You're right, Pep. Under normal circumstances, Klopp would never let him go." Bartomeu set down his glass, his gaze becoming deep and dangerous. "But what if we give Klopp a 'deal' he can't refuse?"
"A deal?"
"Where is Liverpool's Achilles' heel right now? It's the defense." Bartomeu, like a shrewd surgeon, precisely analyzed the opponent's ailment. "They want to buy Van Dijk from Southampton, but because of a previous 'illegal approach,' they were reported by Southampton, and the relationship is now very strained. Southampton has put out the word: unless a record price of 75 million pounds is paid, there's no talk. And Liverpool's current cash flow can't provide that much money unless they sell Coutinho."
"So," Bartomeu held up one finger, "we are going to give Klopp two choices."
"Option A: Cling to Mane, but fail to afford Van Dijk, continue to endure a leaky defense in the new season, and still face Barça's endless harassment for Coutinho."
"Option B: Sell Mane, take 90 million euros in cash, immediately go and sign Van Dijk, and at the same time, we promise to completely give up on Coutinho, helping him keep his star player."
"If you were Klopp, which would you choose?"
Segura was stunned. This was a classic trolley problem. Trading one 'leg' for another 'leg' plus keeping the 'heart.'
"This is a huge gamble," Segura murmured.
"No, this is game theory." Bartomeu looked out the window. "Klopp is an idealist, but his boss Henry is a realist. As long as we handle the boss, Klopp will have no choice but to compromise."
... 5:30 PM, Liverpool, Fenway Sports Group's temporary office.
Michael Edwards looked at Bartomeu sitting opposite him with a complex expression.
Just five minutes ago, Bartomeu had thrown out that "Option B." Withdraw all offers for Coutinho and instead seek to purchase Mane. Offer: 90 million euros. Paid in full, all at once.
Edwards was tempted. As a representative of the data-driven school, he knew very well: Mane was bought for only 34 million pounds last year. Selling him for double a year later was perfect business. And with this money, they could not only buy Van Dijk but also add someone like Naby Keïta.
"I need to make a call to Jürgen." Edwards stood up and walked into the next room with his phone.
Bartomeu leaned back in his chair, resting with his eyes closed. He knew a fierce argument was about to break out in the next room... In the next room.
Edwards dialed Klopp's number. At this time, Klopp was in Munich leading the team for the Audi Cup.
"What?! Michael, have you lost your mind?!" The signature roar of the Scruffy One came from the other end of the phone, so loud Edwards had to move the phone away. "Sadio? He is our explosive winger! If you sell him, who will break through the lines? Mohamed Salah just arrived and hasn't adapted yet! Absolutely not!"
"Jürgen, calm down." Edwards pushed his glasses up, his tone cold. "Barça is offering cash. 81 million pounds. With this money, I can call Southampton right now, and Van Dijk can come for a medical tomorrow."
Silence on the other end. Van Dijk—this name had a fatal magic for Klopp. Liverpool's defense last season was a disaster; the combination of Lovren and Matip had kept him up at night.
"We can sell someone else..." Klopp was still struggling.
"No one else is worth this price except Philippe (Coutinho)," Edwards said, cutting to the chase. "Jürgen, the owner's meaning is clear: we cannot lose two cores at once. If you want to keep Philippe, then Sadio must be sacrificed. The Barça Chairman promised that if they sign Mane, they will issue a statement permanently giving up on Coutinho."
This was the final ultimatum. And the cruelest reality. Either lose Coutinho or lose Mane.
A full minute of dead silence passed. Klopp's heavy breathing came through the phone, like a wounded lion.
"...Tell that Spaniard," Klopp's voice became hoarse, "if he dares to make one more call to Coutinho before the transfer window closes, I will personally go to Barcelona and strangle him."
"Also, this money—every single penny—must be spent on Van Dijk. Even if we have to give Southampton 80 million, I want that Dutchman."
"No problem, Jürgen."
... In the conference room.
Edwards walked back in, his face somewhat pale; evidently, the conversation just now had put him under immense pressure.
"Mr. Bartomeu." Edwards sat back down and took a deep breath. "In principle, we agree to this deal. But before signing, I need you to sign an additional agreement: for the next three years, Barcelona must not seek to purchase Philippe Coutinho."
Bartomeu was overjoyed inside. Coutinho? That "cloud-piercing arrow" who would bankrupt Barça's finances in the future? I wouldn't take him even if you begged me!
"No problem, Michael." Bartomeu suppressed his urge to laugh and spoke with a serious face. "We respect Liverpool's core assets. I guarantee that as long as Mane comes, Coutinho will always be the King of Anfield."
Scratch, scratch, scratch. The sound of the pen moving across the paper was as pleasant as celestial music... That night, Munich, Germany, post-match press conference for the Audi Cup.
Klopp sat before the microphone, his face ashen. Although Liverpool had just beaten Bayern 3-0, he looked as if he had just lost a final.
The reporters below had already caught wind of the news, each one like a shark smelling blood.
"Jürgen! There are reports that Mane is about to join Barça in exchange for keeping Coutinho and funding Van Dijk. Is this true?"
Klopp looked up, his deep eyes flashing with anger but also showing a kind of helpless determination.
"This is professional football, boys." Klopp gritted his teeth, each word sounding like it was being squeezed out. "Sometimes, to fix the roof, you have to sell a sports car in the garage. Sadio is a great warrior, and I wish him well. But..."
Klopp suddenly slammed the table, startling everyone.
"Tell Barcelona they better pray they don't meet us in the Champions League. Because I will use this money to build a steel defense. Next time we meet, we won't be so polite!"
... At the same time, on the private jet.
Pep Segura watched the news live on his phone and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. "Chairman, Klopp looks really angry. Have we made a terrible enemy for ourselves?"
"There are no eternal enemies, only eternal interests." Bartomeu swirled the red wine in his glass, looking at the pitch-black night sky outside.
He knew that in this timeline, because Liverpool got Van Dijk earlier, their strength might rise faster than in the original history. But he didn't care. Because he had just dismantled that future invincible "Red Trio." Without Mane, Liverpool's left-wing attack would be greatly diminished; even with Van Dijk, they wouldn't be that incredibly powerful Liverpool anymore.
"Pep, issue the announcement." Bartomeu drained the wine in his glass, his gaze like a blade.
"First, welcome Christian Eriksen. Second, welcome Sadio Mane. Third, thank Liverpool Football Club for their professionalism and cooperation."
"Tomorrow, I want to see thirty thousand fans at Camp Nou. I want them to see who the King of Europe really is."
As the plane descended, the night view of Barcelona came into sight. This city was sleeping, but it didn't know that when it woke up tomorrow, it would face a world-shaking transformation.
Mane on the left, Eriksen in the middle, Iñigo in the back. Plus Messi and Suárez. This "New Barça" had completed its final ammunition loading.
There was only one goal next: the Bernabéu. The Spanish Super Cup. That would be Lin Feng's first official battle after his rebirth. He was going to use a beautiful match to tell Florentino and Zidane: the Dream Team is back.