After three consecutive wins in the League, the mentality of the Bradford pyers is at an all-time high. The current standings are beyond expectations or predictions.At the top sits Bradford City with a total of 9 points, followed by AFC Wimbledon, who also have 9 points but fall short due to goal difference. Lastly, in third pce is Bromley, also behind due to goal difference.
Reinhart sat at his desk, meticulously organizing preparations for the upcoming fourth-round match. Their opponent this time was a formidable one. The reason Bradford held the top spot was because they had faced weaker teams, unlike Wimbledon, who had defeated three top-tier teams, including Port Vale.
After analyzing the goal records and pyers of AFC Wimbledon, Reinhart realized the key to their victories y in their attacking trio. Utilizing a 3-4-3 formation, they capitalized heavily on the wings. That trio had to be stopped. The problem was Bradford’s left side, currently guarded by Lucas. Wimbledon’s right wing featured two incredibly fast and dangerous pyers: wingback Mateo Krkic and winger Takefusa Kato. Reinhart didn’t have a proper repcement for that position. Forcing Harry to py on the left would be risky—Harry wasn't a natural defender.
What worried Reinhart most was Lucas’ lingering trauma from a past injury.
His thoughts wandered to memories of his prime. The reason Reinhart had chosen Lucas was because of how remarkably he pyed for PSG as a substitute. At 36 years old, Lucas had relentlessly chased Real Madrid’s attackers, shutting down their right wing. He had once neutralized an entire fnk. But clearly, Lucas back then was different from now. Still, it meant he had overcome his trauma once before.
As Reinhart mulled over the possibilities, Cassandra approached and gently patted his back.“What’s got you so deep in thought?”Reinhart smiled faintly. “Nothing, just... thinking about how we’ll win tomorrow.”“Fufufu, as passionate as always,” Cassandra chuckled, then casually wrapped her arm around his shoulders. Reinhart froze for a moment, unsure how to respond.Before he could speak, Cassandra leaned in and whispered pyfully,“Don’t forget to rest. If you don’t, I’ll eat you.”Her soft yet mischievous tone made Reinhart blush slightly. But then the moment passed.Cassandra stood straight again, her voice returning to its usual calm.“The transfer and relocation process for Park Elías Jae Min is complete. The pyer should arrive in Bradford around early November, just in time for the FA Cup round.”
Reinhart, hearing the news, gave a small, satisfied smile. His eyes narrowed slightly, a sign of contentment.“Did we pay a fee?” he asked calmly but with calcuted interest.Cassandra nodded. “Yes, the club asked for a transfer fee of 10,000 euros. But… it’s a number we’re happy to invest for the future.”
Her tone remained serious, as always when discussing transfers. Yet behind her composed voice, a quiet optimism bloomed.Reinhart looked out the window of his office, drawing in a long breath as memories surfaced.
“We saved 3,000,000% to bring him in,” he murmured, half-joking, even though his mind wandered through a deeper memory—Park. A pyer he once coached at Real Madrid. A dazzling talent he’d nurtured into a shining star among giants.
“Is that so?” Cassandra replied with a small smile. “If that’s true, then we’ve struck gold.”She knew one thing for sure: anything Reinhart touched often turned into something great. Like Duvant, Lucien, Mike, Eden—even Mathias, once beled a failed striker. All had been doubted, yet now, they were fourth-division stars shocking the league.
Then, Reinhart suddenly fell silent. His expression shifted as he asked softly,“How’s Min Sung?”“After Park’s transfer, he’s now in Japan,” Cassandra answered immediately.“Japan?” Reinhart looked up slowly. “Could it be… that pyer is there?”**He didn’t finish his thought.“No, no... Maybe I’m hoping for too much. That pyer... maybe he’s already pying somewhere else.”
Tokyo, Japan.A small stadium on the city’s outskirts.Among half-empty seats, a man sat quietly, munching popcorn from a paper bag. He was Min Sung, a former scout from a third-tier Korean club, now working for Reinhart.For sixty minutes, nothing on the pitch made him budge. He nearly fell asleep.“Hmmm… just as I thought. Nothing worth seeing,” he muttered, brushing dust off his pants as he stood. “Alright, onto the next destination…”
But—Before he could walk away, the stadium’s loudspeaker announced a substitution.A substitute stepped onto the pitch.His face was unfamiliar.But his body…
Tall. Solid. Commanding.His stride was confident. His gaze—cold but focused. Among the smaller, lighter academy pyers, he looked like a lion entering a flock of sheep.Min Sung froze mid-turn, his eyes locked on the field.“Who is that…?”
The game resumed.Within two minutes, everything changed.Sharper passes. Braver tackles.Commands shouted with crity from a young man whose name even the local commentators didn’t know.Min Sung dropped back into his seat.He reached into his bag, pulled out an old brown notebook, and flipped to a bnk page. Quickly, he scribbled:
Name: ???Jersey Number: 4Notes: Entered at minute 61 — Game tempo shifted. Physical presence akin to top-css pyers. Vocal. Mature vision. Requires further observation.
Three days before the match against AFC Wimbledon.The city sky darkened as light rain fell. In an old café, Lucas sat alone, staring at his phone.A video pyed—footage of his childhood, running joyfully on a dirt field with other kids.A young woman in her twenties appeared on the screen, smiling.
He sipped his drink. Warm beer. The bitterness was far too familiar.He exhaled deeply, eyes bnkly watching raindrops on the window.Wondering if any of this was still worth it.
Half-drunk, he staggered outside, eyes red, thoughts in shambles.
Then—a small voice called out.
“Big Brother!!”
He turned.A little girl, no older than five, stood beneath a purple umbrel far too big for her tiny frame.
“You’re drunk again! I told you drinking is bad for your health!”
He let out a dry ugh. “I’m just… a little dizzy.”But she didn’t buy it.She smacked his leg lightly with her tiny hands.
The little girl—probably five—scolded him, hitting him over and over with her small fists.
Then she burst into tears.“Waaahhh! YOU DON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE!”She sobbed under the night rain.
Taken aback, Lucas tried to comfort her, swearing he wouldn’t drink again.
Once her tears stopped, the girl dozed off, her chubby cheek resting on his thigh.That night, in the rain, on the wet sidewalk, Lucas gazed up at the foggy sky and whispered softly—before gently lifting the girl in his arms and carrying her home.
