Dynasty Awakening: Building My Own Football Empire

Michael Sterling stood in the away dressing room, adjusting his purple tie in the mirror.

His hands weren't shaking but his stomach felt like it was hosting a cage fight between Diego Nunez and a bear.

"Boss," Arthur Milton squeaked from the corner. The assistant manager was currently sitting on the floor, hugging his knees. He looked like a garden gnome that had seen a murder. "I checked the team sheet again. They have Jude Bellingham. And Vinicius. And Rodrygo. And Mbappe on the bench. Is that legal? Can we call the police?"

"It's the Champions League, Arthur," Michael replied, his voice calm despite the internal screaming. "The police can't help us here. Only God and Diego can help us."

"God is busy," Diego Nunez grunted.

The bald center-back was doing push-ups in the center of the room. With every rep, he shouted a Spanish obscenity. He looked terrifying. He looked ready.

"I am not worried about God," Diego said, standing up and flexing his pecs. "I am worried about Vinicius. Does he taste like chicken? Or spicy beef?"

Lars Jensen, the new Danish giant, was sitting next to him. He was sharpening his studs with a small file. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

"He is fast," Lars stated, his voice deep as a tectonic plate shifting. "We must break the rhythm. If he runs, I put him in the wall."

"Into the wall!" Diego cheered, high-fiving Lars so hard it sounded like a gunshot.

Michael looked around the room.

It was a strange mix. The old Misfits—Kaito Tanaka, Victor Osimhen, Sergio Ramos—looked nervous but determined. They remembered League One. They remembered the mud. This was a dream for them.

The new guys—Enzo Moretti and Jax—looked different.

Jax was currently recording a TikTok dance in front of the tactics board. "Yo, what's up guys! We are at the Bernabéu! About to cook some Merengues! No cap!"

Enzo Moretti, on the other hand, was sitting in a meditative trance. The Italian maestro had played here before with Milan. He didn't fear the white shirts. He hated them.

"Enzo," Michael said softly.

Enzo opened one eye. "Sì, Boss?"

"You okay?"

Enzo took a sip from a tiny paper cup (he had brought his own espresso machine in his kit bag). "I am fine. Ancelotti is out there. He raised his eyebrow at me in the tunnel during the warm-up."

"And?"

"And I raised mine back," Enzo smirked. "It is war."

Michael checked his watch. Ten minutes to kickoff.

"Okay, listen up!"

The room went silent. Even Jax stopped dancing.

Michael walked to the center. He didn't use the Voice Projection Elixir today. He didn't need volume. He needed intimacy.

"Look at this room," Michael said, gesturing to the gleaming white tiles, the expensive lockers, the gold trim. "This place... it's designed to make you feel small. It's designed to make you feel like tourists visiting a palace."

He looked at Kaito. The winger was rubbing his nose.

"They have fifteen Champions Leagues. We have zero. They have Ballon d'Or winners. We have..." He pointed at Arthur, who was now hyperventilating into a paper bag. "We have him."

Laughter rippled through the squad.

"But here is the secret," Michael leaned in, his eyes burning. "Royalty gets lazy. Royalty expects you to bow. They expect you to swap shirts and ask for autographs."

He looked at Diego.

"Diego, are you going to ask for an autograph?"

"NO!" Diego roared. "I AM GOING TO ASK FOR THEIR SOUL!"

"Exactly," Michael grinned. "We aren't tourists. We are the barbarians at the gate. We are the Misfits. And tonight? We don't respect the crown. We steal it."

"MISFITS ON THREE!" Sergio Ramos screamed, slapping his captain's armband.

"ONE! TWO! THREE! MISFITS!"

The roar shook the expensive light fixtures.

The Tunnel

Walking out into the tunnel of the Bernabéu was like walking into the throat of a beast.

On the left side, the Real Madrid players lined up. They looked immaculate. Their white kits were blindingly bright. They smelled of expensive cologne and inevitable victory.

Modric looked bored. Vinicius was laughing with Rodrygo. Rudiger was staring at the wall like a serial killer.

On the right side, Barnsley lined up in their deep purple away kits.

Michael stood at the front. He buttoned his suit jacket. He checked his System Interface.

[EVENT: CHAMPIONS LEAGUE DEBUT]

[OPPONENT: CARLO ANCELOTTI]

[STATUS: LEGENDARY]

[WIN PROBABILITY: 12%]

"Twelve percent," Michael muttered. "Generous."

Then, he saw him. 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

Carlo Ancelotti. The Don. He was standing near the pitch entrance, chewing gum with a rhythm that defied physics. One eyebrow was perpetually raised.

Michael walked over. He had to play the part. He was the Media Darling, after all.

"Carlo," Michael said, extending a hand. "An honor."

Ancelotti looked at him. The gum chewing slowed for a millisecond.

"Michael," Carlo's voice was like gravel and velvet. "You brought the chaos to Spain. Interesting."

"I brought the Misfits, Carlo. We're just here for the paella."

Ancelotti actually cracked a small smile. "The paella is good. But the football is harder. Good luck, kid."

He walked out.

Michael took a deep breath. He looked at Arthur, who was clutching a bag of jelly babies so hard his knuckles were white.

"Arthur," Michael whispered. "If you faint, I am leaving you in Madrid."

"I won't faint, Boss," Arthur squeaked. "I'm just... structurally compromising."

The Champions League anthem started.

Zadok the Priest.

THE CHAAAAAMPIOOOONS!

It echoed around the stadium. 81,000 people roared. A giant tifo of a king holding a sword was unfurled in the South Stand.

Michael felt a shiver run down his spine. This was it. The pinnacle.

He looked at his players. Kaito closed his eyes, soaking it in. Diego was staring at the tifo, licking his lips.

The referee blew the whistle.

KICKOFF.

The first ten minutes were not a football match. They were a suffocation.

Real Madrid didn't run. They glided.

Modric to Kroos (spiritually, even if he wasn't there, his ghost dictated the pass). To Bellingham. To Valverde.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Barnsley couldn't get near them. It was a rondo. A humiliation.

"Boss!" Arthur screamed over the noise of the crowd. "We haven't touched the ball! It's 92% possession! Are we playing or are we watching?"

"Hold," Michael said, gripping the railing of the technical area. "Stay compact."

On the pitch, Enzo Moretti was the only one not panicking. The Italian trotted around the center circle, cutting off passing lanes. He wasn't running; he was calculating.

But Madrid was relentless.

12th Minute.

Vinicius Junior received the ball on the left wing.

Kaito Tanaka was tracking back. He had the speed. He had the Titanium Hamstrings.

Vinicius stopped. He looked at Kaito. He smiled.

He did a step-over. Then another. Then he flicked the ball through Kaito's legs.

"Olé!" The stadium roared.

Vinicius burst past him.

"Oh fuck," Michael whispered.

Vinicius drove into the box. Lars Jensen, the Great Dane, stepped out to meet him.

It was the moment Michael had feared. Speed vs. Size.

Vinicius dropped his shoulder to cut inside.

Lars didn't bite. He simply... expanded. He stood his ground like a statue.

Vinicius tried to go around. Lars extended a massive arm. It wasn't a push. It was a barrier.

THUD.

Vinicius bounced off Lars and hit the turf. He threw his arms up, screaming for a penalty.

The referee waved play on.

"Good!" Michael roared. "Physicality! Show them we are not soft!"

Lars looked down at Vinicius, offered a hand, and pulled him up with one jerk that nearly dislocated the Brazilian's shoulder.

"Strong," Lars grunted. "But I am heavy."

Vinicius looked confused. He wasn't used to defenders who treated him like a piece of furniture.

18th Minute.

The pressure was building. Madrid was toying with them.

Bellingham received the ball thirty yards out. He looked up. He saw space.

"CLOSE HIM DOWN!" Michael yelled.

But Bellingham didn't need space. He hit it.

The ball flew like a laser. It swerved. It dipped.

Jan Visser, Barnsley's stoned-looking goalkeeper, reacted late.

SMACK.

The ball hit the post. The sound rang out like a bell tolling for a funeral.

The ball rebounded out. It fell to Rodrygo.

The goal was empty.

"NO!" Arthur covered his eyes.

Rodrygo tapped it in.

But then... a shadow.

A bald, crazy shadow.

Diego Nunez threw himself across the goal line. He didn't slide. He launched himself like a salmon.

BLOCK.

The ball hit Diego's face.

It bounced away.

Diego lay on the ground for a second, stunned. Then he jumped up, blood trickling from his nose.

He thumped his chest. He screamed at the crowd.

"IS THAT ALL?! I EAT BALLS FOR BREAKFAST!"

The Bernabéu went quiet for a split second. They weren't used to this. They were used to teams crumbling. They weren't used to a bald man headbutting a shot away and then laughing about it.

Michael let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"We survived the first wave," Michael muttered.

He looked at Enzo Moretti in the midfield. Enzo caught his eye. The Italian tapped his temple.

Calma.

Michael nodded.