The Monday evening training session had just finished. The players were heading toward the showers, their jerseys soaked in sweat and their breath visible in the cool air.

Eric Maddox stood on the touchline, collecting the GPS tracking vests and checking the data on his tablet. The "Shadow Box" drill from morning to this evening session had been a success; Declan Whittaker’s reaction times were down by another 0.2 seconds. It was a small margin, but in the NextGen Ascension League, 0.2 seconds was the difference between a goal and a blocked shot.

"Coach!"

Maddox looked up to see Mr. Markus, the youth club’s director, walking across the grass. Markus was a stout man who usually wore a worried expression, but today he looked oddly formal. He was wearing a suit instead of his usual track jacket, and he was carrying a thick, cream-colored envelope with a heavy wax seal.

"Mr. Markus," Maddox said, tucking his tablet under his arm. "You’re looking sharp today. Is there a board meeting I forgot about?"

Markus stopped in front of him, slightly out of breath. "No board meeting, Eric. But something just arrived via special courier from the senior club. It’s addressed to you, personally."

He handed over the envelope. The paper was expensive, heavy and textured. On the back, the seal was stamped with the crest of Northcastle FC: a rising phoenix encircled by iron gears. This wasn’t the youth academy’s stationary. This was the mark of the senior club.

Maddox broke the seal and pulled out a single sheet of parchment.

[Dear Mr. Maddox,

On behalf of Northcastle FC, I would like to personally congratulate you on the youth team’s recent success. Qualifying for the NextGen Ascension League is a significant milestone for this organization, and to achieve it within such a short tenure is nothing short of remarkable.

I would like to invite you to the Northcastle Main Facility this Wednesday. You are invited to observe our senior first-team training session and join the executive board for a luncheon. We believe it is time the senior leadership and the youth management align our visions for the future.

Regards,

Gerald Fawkes

Director of Football, Northcastle FC]

Maddox read the letter twice. He felt a strange ripple of surprise. In his previous life, he had been the king of the mountain, but in this world, he had been a "failing" coach only weeks ago. To be summoned by Gerald Fawkes was a massive shift in status.

Northcastle FC played in the Imperial Crown League, the top division. They were currently sitting in the lower half of the table, struggling to maintain their top-flight status, but they were still a Tier 1 professional organization.

"Fawkes," Maddox muttered. "The Director of Football himself."

"It’s a big deal, Eric," Markus said, his voice hushed with a mix of awe and jealousy. "The senior club usually ignores us down here. We’re just the ’tax write-off’ for the Northcastle Corporation. For Fawkes to send a personal invitation... he’s noticed you. The whole city has noticed you."

"It’s just a training session and a lunch, Markus," Maddox said, though he knew better. In the world of high-level football, there was no such thing as ’just a lunch.’ It was an inspection. It was a test.

"Don’t downplay it," Markus insisted. "The Imperial Crown League is the pinnacle. Those executives hold the keys to the kingdom. If they like what they see, your career won’t just be moving up; it’ll be taking flight."

Maddox nodded slowly. "I’ll need to adjust Wednesday’s schedule. Teddy can handle the tactical walk-throughs and the transfer of Noah while I’m gone."

"Adjust whatever you need," Markus said, patting him on the shoulder. "Just make sure you wear something better than that tracksuit. First impressions with Fawkes are everything. The man is a hawk."

---

Wednesday morning arrived with a low mist hanging over the city. Maddox drove his modest car through the gates of the Northcastle Main Stadium Facility, The Grey Keep, which was located twenty miles north of the youth academy.

The difference was staggering. While the youth academy had two grass pitches and a repurposed warehouse for a gym, the main facility was a sprawling complex of glass and steel.

There were twelve perfectly manicured pitches, a state-of-the-art medical wing, and a stadium that could hold sixty-nine thousand people. This was where the big money lived.

He was met at the security gate by a young man in a sharp black suit. "Mr. Maddox? Director Fawkes is expecting you. Please follow me."

They walked through a corridor lined with trophy cases and photos of legendary Northcastle players from decades past. Maddox looked at the faces, stern men with thick mustaches and heavy leather boots. This club had history, even if its current form was lacking.

They stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the main training pitch. Below them, the Northcastle senior squad was already at work.

Maddox leaned against the railing, his eyes immediately narrowing. He didn’t see the fame or the high salaries of the players. He saw the movement and structure. Or rather, the lack of it.

The senior team was coached by a man named Victor Draken, a veteran ★★★½☆ Professional Coach with a B+ Coaching Badge known for a "hard-nosed" defensive style. On the pitch, the players were going through a standard 11-on-11 scrimmage.

Maddox’s System flickered to life in his peripheral vision.

[SENIOR TEAM ANALYSIS]

『Tactical Cohesion: 42%

Energy Efficiency: 38%

Key Weakness: Static Midfield Transition.』

Maddox watched as the senior team’s star playmaker, a tall man named Silas Vanney, received the ball in the center circle. Silas had talent, his "Player Card" showed a high rating in technique, but he was standing still.

He waited for the ball to come to him, and by the time he turned, two defenders were already closing him down. He was forced to play a safe, sideways pass.

"A bit different from the youth games, isn’t it?"

Maddox turned to see a man standing a few feet away. He was in his late fifties, with silver hair swept back and a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite. He wore a tailored navy suit and held a leather-bound notebook. This was Gerald Fawkes.

"Director Fawkes," Maddox said, offering a hand. "Thank you for the invitation."

Fawkes shook his hand with a grip that was surprisingly strong. "Call me Gerald. We don’t stand on ceremony here during training hours. What do you think of the boys?"

Maddox looked back at the pitch. A more diplomatic man would have praised the intensity or the size of the players. But Maddox wasn’t here to be a diplomat. He was here because he was a coach.

"They’re slow," Maddox said.

Fawkes raised an eyebrow. "Slow? These are some of the fastest sprinters in the league."

"I don’t mean their feet," Maddox replied. "I mean their brains. Your midfield is playing in the past. They’re waiting for the game to happen to them instead of making the game happen. Silas Vanney has a three-second delay between receiving the ball and making a decision. In the Crown League, three seconds is an eternity."

Fawkes went silent. He looked down at the pitch, then back at Maddox. A small, dry smile touched his lips. "You’re as blunt as the reports said you were. Draken wouldn’t like hearing that. He thinks the problem is a lack of ’grit’."

"Grit is what you use when your tactics fail," Maddox said. "If you’re relying on grit to win games, you’ve already lost the tactical battle."

Fawkes chuckled and gestured toward the doors leading back inside. "Let’s go to the boardroom. The others are waiting, and I suspect they’ll find your perspective... refreshing. Or infuriating. Either way, it will be an interesting lunch."