August 4, 2017, Spain, Barcelona.
The midday sun in Catalonia was scorching hot, like burning golden swords, piercing mercilessly into the interior through the massive UV-resistant floor-to-ceiling windows of the Barça office on Carrer d'Arístides.
However, for all the Barcelona executives sitting at the mahogany conference table at this moment, the sun brought no warmth; instead, it made the cold sweat on their backs stickier and colder. The central air conditioning was running at full power, emitting a slight hum, yet it couldn't dispel the suffocating smell of anxiety and decay in the air.
It was the scent of a giant club on the verge of collapse.
In the center of the conference table lay a thin piece of paper. It was a bank draft from BNP Paribas in France. Face Value: 222 million euros. Payer: Paris Saint-Germain Football Club. Note: Payment of Neymar da Silva Santos's release clause.
"Chairman? Josep? Are you listening?"
A voice, anxious and nearly cracking, drilled into Lin Feng's eardrums like a power tool. He felt a violent tearing sensation deep in his brain, as if two souls were fighting a fierce battle for possession. Countless memory fragments surged in like a torrent—the noisy shouts of the Wall Street trading floor, countless sleepless nights staring at K-line charts, the sharp pain of cardiac arrest in the final moment... followed immediately by the memories of another man's life: the cheers of Camp Nou, the shadow of Rosell, the summons for the tax evasion case, and that honest, round face mocked by the world as "Big Bear."
Lin Feng suddenly opened his eyes, his pupils contracting sharply. His vision slowly focused from a blur, revealing a face full of anxiety and puffy eye bags.
That was Òscar Grau, the current CEO of Barcelona.
"Hoo..." Lin Feng exhaled a long breath, his fingers instinctively tightening around the armrest of the chair, his knuckles turning white from the effort.
He had transmigrated. He had traveled to Barcelona in the summer of 2017 and became Josep Maria Bartomeu, who was widely regarded as one of Barça's worst Chairmans in history.
And now was the turning point in Barça's destiny—Neymar had just been forcibly poached by Big Paris.
"Mr. Chairman, we really don't have time to stare into space!" Seeing no reaction from Bartomeu, Pep Segura, the Sporting Director sitting on the left, was so nervous that he pounded the documents in his hand, his voice trembling. "Listen to the noise outside! Over two thousand radical fans have gathered outside Camp Nou, burning your jersey! They are shouting 'Bartomeu out!' The topic of the 'No-Confidence Impeachment' has soared to the top of global trending topics on Twitter. If we don't come up with a decent counter-plan within 24 hours, the opposing faction led by Puçada will launch the impeachment process tomorrow!"
Lin Feng (Bartomeu) slowly raised his head. As a top trader who had managed billions of dollars in hedge funds on Wall Street, the closer the collapse, the colder his blood ran. He ignored Segura's roar, reached out, and picked up the 222 million Euro check from the table.
The paper was light, yet it weighed a thousand jun.
In the original historical trajectory, this was a "Death Check." The panicked Bartomeu, desperate to keep his presidency and quell public opinion, acted like a drunkard entering a casino with a fortune, getting ruthlessly fleeced by Borussia Dortmund and Liverpool. 150 million for Coutinho, 140 million for Dembélé, plus Griezmann later on... These disastrous signings completely locked up Barça's salary cap for the next five years, ultimately leading to Messi's tearful departure and the club's technical bankruptcy.
"This is a huge sum of money, isn't it?" Bartomeu finally spoke. His voice was no longer the acquiescent tone of the previous pushover, but possessed a cold, hard, metallic quality.
Grau paused, wiping the sweat from his forehead: "Of course, this is the largest cash inflow in the history of world football. But Chairman, money isn't the point right now, people are! Neymar is gone, MSN has broken up! We need replacements!"
"Tell me your plan." Bartomeu gently placed the check on the table, his fingers rhythmically tapping the mahogany surface.
Segura immediately pushed a pre-prepared transfer list toward Bartomeu as if grasping a lifeline, speaking rapidly: "Our scouting network is already active. We currently have two most suitable replacements. First, Ousmane Dembélé from Borussia Dortmund. The kid is only 20, a two-footed monster, fast as lightning. Although Borussia Dortmund's director Zorc has been very aggressive, demanding 130 million fixed transfer fee plus 40 million in variables, we have no choice."
"Continue." Bartomeu was expressionless.
"Second, Philippe Coutinho. Liverpool's stance is even tougher; Klopp even refuses to take calls. But the agent side revealed that if we shell out 160 million euros, Fenway Sports Group will relent. These two players combined will cost about 300 million euros. Although it exceeds the budget, we have Neymar's money, and we can take out a short-term bank loan to barely manage it."
After Segura finished, he looked at Bartomeu expectantly, waiting for the Chairman to nod and sign as usual.
However, the response he received was a cold laugh.
"Heh heh..."
Bartomeu stood up, adjusted the slightly wrinkled lapel of his suit, and walked slowly to the huge floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the magnificent stadium below. The turf was under maintenance, showing patches of bare earth, much like the team's current predicament.
"Pep, Óscar." Bartomeu said, his back to them, his voice low. "Do you know what we call this behavior on Wall Street?"
The two exchanged glances, confused.
Bartomeu suddenly spun around, his gaze sharp as a hawk's, fixed firmly on the two executives: "This is called 'Panic Buying'! This is called 'Pigs Ready for Slaughter'!"
He strode back to the conference table, picked up the transfer list, and slammed it down hard on the table in front of everyone. The loud "smack" made Grau jump.
"Do you want Barça to die faster?!"
Bartomeu's roar echoed through the conference room, carrying an unprecedented authority. "Borussia Dortmund and Liverpool are just waiting for us to take the bait! The whole world knows Barça has 222 million in cash in its pocket and is panicking like an ant on a hot pan. To make an offer now? That's offering your neck for them to chop! A bottle of mineral water that usually sells for 1 Euro, they now dare to sell to us for 100 Euros! Your so-called ambition is just to be the sucker?"
"But... but Chairman..." Segura's face flushed red as he tried to argue. "If we don't buy a superstar, how do we appease the fans' anger? How do we explain this to the sponsors? Nike has already called to question us; without Neymar, jersey sales will plummet!"
"Fans want victory, not overpriced commodities. Sponsors want exposure, not to watch us do something stupid."
Bartomeu leaned forward, placing both hands on the table, radiating pressure: "Listen, from this moment on, the transfer strategy is completely overturned. Dembélé? Tell Borussia Dortmund that 80 million euros is the final offer, not a penny more. Take it or leave it. Coutinho? That one is more interesting."
A glint of cunning flashed in Bartomeu's eyes. "We will continue to bid for Coutinho, and we will even make the noise louder, letting all of Europe know that we must buy him."
"Huh? Didn't you just say we wouldn't be the sucker?" Segura was confused.
"This is called a 'Smokescreen,' Pep." Bartomeu said coldly. "We feign an attack on Coutinho, forcing Liverpool to focus all their defensive energy on protecting their 'Magician.' When they are exhausted, I want you to immediately pivot and secure the real targets."
"The real targets?"
"Book me a flight to London. We are going to complete two transactions." Bartomeu held up two fingers.
"First, Christian Eriksen of Tottenham. Since Xavi left and Little White aged, our midfield control has been declining. We don't need another Dembélé who only dribbles with his head down; we need a 'brain.' Eriksen runs 12 kilometers per game, has excellent vision, and can pass and shoot—he is the perfect system player. Furthermore, Tottenham is currently building a new stadium and is short on cash, which is our opportunity to strike while the iron is hot."
"Second," Bartomeu paused, his tone turning exceptionally fierce, "After we settle things with Tottenham, I will personally take cash to Liverpool. But I won't buy Coutinho; I will buy Sadio Mané."
"Mané?!" Pep exclaimed. "The Senegalese man? He plays on the left, so he could replace Neymar, but isn't his technique a bit rough? And Klopp..."
"Rough? No, that means you don't understand his value." Bartomeu interrupted him. "Neymar is a dancer; Mane is a beast. In this increasingly aging Barça squad, we need the beast's fangs. He can press like a mad dog in the final third, which is exactly the wingman Messi lacks most. We must dismantle Liverpool's future nuclear weapon ahead of time and mount it onto Barça's war chariot."
"Third," Bartomeu pointed out the window, "Go to San Sebastián. Immediately activate the release clause for Real Sociedad center-back Iñigo Martínez, 32 million euros. Our defense is paper-thin. Mascherano is old, and Piqué is sometimes distracted. We need a left-footed center-back for ball distribution and coverage."
"Eriksen, Mane, Iñigo. The total cost of these three combined is probably less than 200 million euros." Òscar Grau quickly calculated the figures in his mind, surprised to find that the Chairman's plan was so... terrifying.
If this truly happens, Barça won't just avoid weakening; all three lines of the team will be upgraded!
"This is called value for money, Óscar." Bartomeu picked up the 222 million check, a mysterious smile playing on his lips. "I have big plans for the remaining money."
"Prepare the car. I need to go to the CaixaBank headquarters."
"To deposit the money at the bank?"
"No, to make money make money." A fanatical light flashed in Bartomeu's eyes. "The transfer market is insane right now, with inflation rates as high as 200%. If we throw this money directly into the transfer market, it will instantly halve in value. I am going to use this money for a short-term financial hedge."
Looking at the bewildered executives, Bartomeu patiently explained—or rather, issued instructions:
"Listen, Óscar. The euro-to-dollar exchange rate is currently low, and the US tech stock sector is brewing an unprecedented bull market. I will use this 222 million as collateral, structured through an offshore trust, to allocate 30% to Amazon call options, 30% to short-term US Treasury Bonds for hedging, and the remaining 40% for currency swaps. This is called 'asset preservation'."
Òscar Grau gaped, as if listening to gibberish.
"Chairman... this... is this compliant? The members will go ballistic."
"If we make money in the end, it will be a stroke of genius. If we lose, I will resign." Bartomeu stated unequivocally. "Furthermore, this isn't just about making money. This cash flow is my biggest leverage when negotiating financing for the 'Espai Barça/New Stadium Project' with the banks. I will use the liquidity of this 222 million to leverage 500 million euros in low-interest, long-term bonds."
Bartomeu stood up, adjusted his clothes, and strode toward the door.
"Pep, you are responsible for generating public opinion that we are determined to fight for Coutinho; the bigger the buzz, the better. Óscar, prepare the financial statements and come with me to the bank. As for those fans burning jerseys..."
He stopped at the doorway, glanced back at the noisy crowd outside the window, his eyes complex.
"Let them burn. The day we bring back the Champions League trophy, they will be queuing up to buy new jerseys."
...Ten minutes later, the black audi a8 armored car slowly drove out of the Camp Nou underground garage.
Outside the car window, angry fans spotted the Chairman's vehicle and instantly swarmed it. Eggs, rotten vegetables, and even plastic water bottles struck the window, making dull thuds.
"Liar!" "Give us back Neymar!" "Bartomeu resign!"
Lin Feng, sitting in the back seat, watched the distorted faces outside the window expressionlessly. Instead of fear, he felt a long-lost surge of excitement.
This is right. This is a hell-difficulty start. If I wanted to play something easy, I would play the FIFA game.
"Chairman, it's Gerard Romero calling." The PR director in the passenger seat tremblingly handed over the phone. "He is the most difficult journalist in Catalonia, and he's live right now, saying that if you don't answer, it proves Barça is in chaos."
Bartomeu took the phone and pressed the speaker button.
"Hello, Gerard." His voice was steady and calm, even carrying a hint of easy laughter, forming a stark contrast with the hellish scene outside the car.
On the other end of the line, the highly agitated Romero clearly hadn't expected Bartomeu to answer. He paused for a moment before firing off questions like a machine gun: "Mr. Bartomeu! All of Barcelona is bleeding right now! Borussia Dortmund's Director Zorc just tweeted, mocking us for not being able to afford the price, calling Barça a 'failing noble.' How do you plan to respond? Can we really sign Dembélé? If not, would you consider resigning?"
This wasn't just an interview; it was a public execution in front of the entire people of Catalonia.
Bartomeu looked at the fans being held back by security outside the window and said calmly, "Gerard, do you know what is most important for a 'noble'?"
Romero subconsciously asked, "What is it? Honor?"
"No, it's dignity." Bartomeu's voice traveled clearly through the airwaves to the ears of countless Barça fans listening to the live broadcast. "Borussia Dortmund is an excellent club, but their current behavior is like that of a greedy robber. They thought that because Barça was injured, we would recklessly throw our wallet at them. But I want to tell you now, and I want to tell all Barça members—"
Lin Feng paused, his tone suddenly turning cold, carrying an undeniable commanding presence:
"Barcelona will never accept blackmail. We hold 222 million, and this is our sword, not our weakness. Dembélé is a talented player, but his current behavior—whether striking from training or going AWOL—does not align with Barça's values. We will not empty the club's future for a child who is still playing video games."
"But Neymar is gone..."
"Neymar is gone, but Barça remains. Cruyff is gone, but Barça remains. Ronaldinho is gone, and Barça remains." Bartomeu interrupted him. "Even if Messi retires one day, Barcelona will still be the greatest club in the world. Please tell the fans to give me one month. Before the transfer window closes on August 31st, I will give you a team that is stronger, more united, and more competitive than last year. Not a mercenary army built with money, but a true Blaugrana squad."
Having finished speaking, he hung up the phone without waiting for Romero's response.
The car interior fell silent. The PR director stared dumbfounded at the Chairman, as if meeting this man for the first time. Was this still "Big Bear," the man who only knew how to dodge questions and read prepared statements when facing the media? His words just now sounded like a battle manifesto!
"To the bank." Bartomeu closed his eyes and leaned back against the leather seat. "Then, help me contact Suárez. Tonight, I need to make a trip to Castelldefels."
"To see Suárez?"
"No," Bartomeu opened his eyes, his gaze profound, "To see Leo Messi. Until he signs his contract extension, everyone on this ship will be restless. And tonight, I am going to give him peace of mind."
The car accelerated, leaving the noisy crowd behind, and drove toward Barcelona's bustling Diagonal Avenue.
For Lin Feng, the first battle after transmigration—the public relations war—was barely stabilized. But the real tough battles lay ahead.
How to handle the bankers using financial means? How to convince the silent Argentine King of Football using football logic? And the upcoming 'feint and attack' spectacle that would shock Britain—using Coutinho as a decoy to steal Klopp's fang, Mane.
All of this was just beginning.