The morning sun at Bodymoor Heath reflected off the chrome of a car that definitely didn't belong in a Birmingham training ground. It was a sleek, silver Mercedes, and stepping out of it was an eighteen-year-old with a diamond stud in his ear and a confidence that bordered on the offensive.
Cristiano Ronaldo had arrived.
Julian Vane stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, watching the boy walk toward the dressing rooms.
The [EMINENCE PROTOCOL] was already projecting data across the glass.
[ TARGET: CRISTIANO RONALDO ]
[ STATUS: NEW SIGNING / HIGH EGO ]
[ CURRENT ABILITY: 138 | POTENTIAL ABILITY: 196 ]
[ MENTALITY: 'THE BEST' (UNLOCKED) ]
[ SYNERGY POTENTIAL WITH GARETH BARRY: 89% ]
Julian's high intelligence noted the way the boy walked—the biomechanical efficiency of his stride. But he also noted the looks on the faces of the senior Villa players as they arrived for training.
They had seen the morning headlines: "Vane's £12.5m Gamble: Is the Boy-Manager Insane?"
To the veteran defenders like Olof Mellberg and Mark Delaney, this boy wasn't a savior; he was an expensive toy bought by a manager who didn't know how the "real" Premier League worked.
"The dressing room is a powder keg, Julian," Graham Turner said, entering the office without knocking. "They're calling him 'The Show pony.' If you don't handle the senior players today, you'll lose the squad before the boy even kicks a ball."
"I don't need them to like him, Graham," Julian said, turning away from the window. "I need them to fear being left behind by him."
Julian walked down to the dressing room.
As he pushed the doors open, the chatter stopped. Ronaldo was sitting in a corner stall, lacing up a pair of boots that were far too flashy for an English autumn. Across the room, Mellberg was staring him down.
"Nice earrings, son," Mellberg said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Hope they don't get ripped out when we go to Blackburn on Saturday. It's a bit different than the Portuguese beach, isn't it?"
Ronaldo didn't look up, but his jaw tightened.
Julian stepped into the center of the room. He didn't look at Ronaldo. He looked at Mellberg.
"Olof, I assume that because you're so worried about Cristiano's jewelry, you've already finished your physical recovery data analysis from the Arsenal match?" Julian asked.
Mellberg scowled. "We lost because we got outran, boss. Not because of 'data'."
"We lost because your lateral movement speed dropped by 14% after the 60th minute, which allowed Henry to exploit the gap between you and Delaney," Julian countered, his voice like a scalpel.
"The Protocol—I mean, my analysis—shows that you are currently the slowest reacting center-back in the top half of the table."
The room went ice-cold. You didn't talk to a club captain like that in 2003.
"Today," Julian continued, "we are playing an 11-on-11 match. Full pitch. First team versus the Reserves, but with one change.
Cristiano plays for the Reserves. Olof, you and Mark will be tasked with stopping him. If he scores twice, you both stay late for triple-session cardio. If he doesn't score, I'll admit I made a mistake."
[ PROTOCOL NOTIFICATION: 'CHALLENGE ISSUED' ]
[ AUTHORITY STAT: +5 (TEMPORARY) ]
[ REWARD FOR VICTORY: UNLOCKS 'LOCKER ROOM DOMINANCE' ]
The players headed out to the pitch, the tension palpable. Julian stood on the touchline, his arms crossed.
He had spent his last 50 Prestige Credits in the [BLACK MARKET OF LEGENDS] on a temporary tactical buff: [ISOLATION PROTOCOL].
He whispered instructions to the Reserve team's midfield. "Every time you get the ball, don't look for the safe pass. Look for the diagonal into the space behind Mellberg. Don't worry about the accuracy; just put it into the 'corridor'."
The whistle blew.
For the first ten minutes, the senior players tried to bully Ronaldo. Delaney went in with a heavy shoulder-charge that sent the teenager tumbling into the mud. The veterans laughed.
But Julian watched the [STAMINA] and [REACTION] bars hovering over the players. Mellberg was playing on emotion; Ronaldo was playing on instinct.
In the 22nd minute, the "Chameleon Overload" logic clicked. A reserve midfielder intercepted a pass and, following Julian's instruction, clipped a 40-yard ball into the channel.
Ronaldo didn't just run; he exploded.
Mellberg turned like a tanker in a canal. By the time he had oriented himself, Ronaldo was three yards ahead.
The boy didn't just take the ball; he performed a step-over at full sprint that left Delaney stumbling on his face. Ronaldo rounded the keeper and walked the ball into the net.
1-0.
The laughter on the sidelines died instantly.
"Again," Julian shouted. "Reset."
The senior team was angry now. They started playing "dirty," the kind of football that defined the early 2000s. But Julian's high intelligence had already predicted this.
He had instructed the reserves to play a "Short-Circuit" passing game, moving the ball so quickly that the senior players' "Aggression" stats were useless because they couldn't find a target to hit.
In the 40th minute, it happened again.
Ronaldo received the ball with his back to goal, flicked it over Mellberg's head with his heel, and sprinted around him to volley it into the top corner.
2-0.
Julian blew the whistle.
"That's enough."
He walked onto the pitch.
The senior players were gasping for air, their faces red. Ronaldo was barely breathing hard, a smug, predatory grin on his face. He looked at Julian, and for the first time, there was a flicker of respect in the boy's eyes.
He realized this manager wasn't just a "fan" who bought him; he was a man who knew exactly how to break a defense.
"Mellberg, Delaney—triple sessions start at 4:00 PM," Julian said, not even looking at them.
"The rest of you, get inside. Tomorrow, we start the tactical drills for the 3-2-2-3. If anyone else thinks the 'English game' is about earrings and jewelry, feel free to hand in your transfer request before lunch."
As the players trudged off, the Protocol chimed in Julian's mind.
[ FUNCTION UNLOCKED: LAYER 1 — TACTICAL SIMULATION LAB ]
[ PRESTIGE CREDITS EARNED: 150 ]
[ CURRENT STATUS: THE DRESSING ROOM IS SILENT. THE ARCHI— THE TACTICIAN HAS SPOKEN. ]
Julian turned to Ronaldo. "Don't get comfortable, Cristiano. You missed a run in the 15th minute because you were looking at the stands. In my team, if you aren't perfect, you're invisible. Do you understand?"
Ronaldo's smile vanished. He nodded sharply. "Yes, Boss."
Julian walked back toward the office. He had successfully used his intelligence to weaponize his new signing against his own locker room. He had suppressed the rebellion, but he knew this was just a skirmish.
The real test was coming. Roman Abramovich's Chelsea was the next fixture. The "New Money" of London against the "New Mind" of Birmingham.
Julian opened the [BLACK MARKET]. He had 150 PC. He needed something that could stop a team that cost two hundred million pounds.
[ ACCESSING SHOP... ]
[ ITEM: 'THE ANTI-TANK MINE' TACTICAL BLUEPRINT (ONE-TIME USE) ]
[ COST: 125 PC ]
[ EFFECT: Decreases the 'Composure' of opposing players with a 'High Price Tag' trait by 30%. ]
"Expensive," Julian muttered. "But necessary."
He bought it. The 2003 season was about to be derailed, and the Apex Tactician was the one pulling the lever.