Friday, September 11th. 11:30 AM. Carrington Training Complex.
The Manchester air was crisp, the grass slick from a morning drizzle. Out on Pitch 2, the "Shadow Squad" was running through high-intensity 8v8 transition drills.
With the primary starters nursing heavy jet lag and bruised limbs from international duty, Elias Thorne had handed the reins of the training session over to the rotation players. And Kwame Aboagye was firmly in the driver's seat.
Kwame received a fizzing pass from Tyrell Malacia on the left flank. He didn't take a touch to settle it. With a swift drop of his hips, he let the ball roll across his body, utilizing his [Field Sense] to map the movement ahead of him.
Over the last few weeks, the countless hours spent on the training ground had forged real chemistry.
Kwame saw Mason Mount making a relentless, lung-busting decoy run to drag the center-back wide. He saw Bryan Mbeumo hovering dangerously in the right half-space, ready to cut inside onto his lethal left foot.
But Kwame aimed for the sky.
He clipped a beautiful, lofted wedge-pass over the entire defensive line.
Arriving like a towering, 6'5" freight train was Benjamin Šeško. The giant Slovenian striker didn't even need to jump. He cushioned the dropping ball flawlessly on his chest, let it bounce once, and hammered a half-volley past Altay Bayındır into the top corner.
"What a ball, General!" Šeško roared, his deep voice carrying across the pitch as he pointed a massive finger at Kwame.
"Great run, Benji!" Kwame shouted back, clapping his hands.
"Keep the tempo!" Harry Maguire barked from the center-back position, clapping his hands to keep the defensive line energized. "We don't give them a second to breathe! Good shape, Kwame, stay plugged in!"
Kwame nodded to the veteran English defender, feeling completely at ease. This wasn't a team of disjointed reserves; they were a finely tuned secondary engine, and they respected the 17-year-old anchoring them.
FWEET!
Assistant Manager Mark blew his whistle, bringing the drill to a halt. "Hold it there, lads. Bring it in."
As the squad jogged toward the touchline, grabbing water bottles, a sudden, palpable shift in the atmosphere swept across the grass.
Elias Thorne, who had been quietly observing from the balcony, was walking down the steps, a rare, genuine smile on his face. Bruno Fernandes and Lisandro Martínez, dressed in recovery gear, were following closely behind him, grinning broadly.
They were flanking a man who had just walked out of the medical wing.
He was wearing standard training gear, but he carried himself with the heavy, unshakeable gravity of a monarch returning to his kingdom. He was built like a tank, with broad shoulders and a calm, calculating gaze that had seen every peak the footballing world had to offer.
"Lads," Thorne announced, his voice echoing over the quiet pitch. "Look who the medical staff finally cleared."
The squad erupted.
"THE TANK!" Gaz bellowed, throwing his hands in the air.
"About time, old man!" Mason Mount laughed, jogging over.
It was Casemiro.
The five-time Champions League winner, the ultimate defensive midfielder, had finally returned from a long-term injury lay-off. He walked into the center of the group, smiling warmly as he hugged Bruno, high-fived Rashford, and took a playful punch to the shoulder from Licha. The sheer relief and joy in the squad were obvious; they had missed their apex enforcer.
Kieran Cross, wiping sweat from his forehead, walked over and gave the Brazilian a firm, deeply respectful embrace. "Good to have you back, Case. Midfield's been lonely without you."
"You held the fort well, my friend," Casemiro smiled, his English heavily accented but warm. He turned his gaze toward Elias Thorne. "And you, Gaffer. I watched the Chelsea game from the medical room. A masterclass in nullifying the chaos. You played them perfectly."
Thorne offered a slow, respectful nod. "We survived it. But we are much better equipped now that you are back on the grass, Case."
Casemiro's eyes drifted away from the manager. He looked past Kieran Cross, his gaze scanning the group until it locked onto the seventeen-year-old standing quietly near the back.
The Brazilian veteran walked over. The crowd of players naturally parted for him.
Kwame straightened his posture instinctively.
"So," Casemiro said, his voice a low, rumbling baritone. "This is the Icebox."
"Hello, sir," Kwame said politely, feeling a sudden, immense pressure in his chest.
Casemiro chuckled, reaching out and clapping a heavy, calloused hand onto Kwame's shoulder. The grip was like iron. "No 'sir' here, kid. Just Case."
The veteran's smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of sharp, clinical appraisal. "I watched the tape. The way you locked down Cole Palmer... the way you used your shadow to block the passing lanes. You have an old soul for a teenager. You did the shirt proud while I was gone."
"Thank you, Case," Kwame said, genuinely humbled. "I learned a lot of it from watching Crossy. And from watching your old tapes."
Casemiro patted his cheek affectionately. "Good. Keep watching. Because the real work starts now."
As the Brazilian turned to speak to Maguire, Kwame's eyes briefly glazed over. He couldn't resist. He triggered his System.
[TARGET: CASEMIRO] [OVR: 91 - WORLD CLASS]
[TRAIT: THE ULTIMATE DESTROYER]
Kwame swallowed hard.
Ninety-one.
He had just hit 85 OVR and felt like he could take on the world. But staring at the digital readout hovering over the Brazilian's head, the sheer, staggering height of the mountain suddenly came back into terrifying focus. He was an elite Premier League player now, but Casemiro was a global god.
Elias Thorne clapped his hands, demanding silence.
"Listen up," Thorne commanded. "The Champions League draw is set. We play Sporting CP on Wednesday. I need my internationals fully rested and tactically prepared for Europe. Which means Saturday against Everton belongs to the B-Team."
Thorne looked around the group of rotation players. "Maguire, Mount, Mbeumo, Šeško, Malacia. You are starting at Goodison Park. Aboagye, you are anchoring them."
Thorne turned to Casemiro. "Case, you are on the bench. You will get thirty minutes in the second half to get your match fitness back before Wednesday."
Kwame's heart hammered against his ribs. He was going to start, and the ultimate Final Boss of the CDM position was going to be watching him from the dugout, waiting to replace him.
" Everton away is a war," Thorne warned, his eyes narrowing. "David Moyes is back at the helm. He has turned Goodison Park into a fortress of grit, set-pieces, and deep defensive blocks. They will fight you for every inch of grass. Do not take them lightly. Dismissed!"
The Recovery Pool.
The freezing waters of the Carrington hydrotherapy pools were a necessary evil.
The "Young Core" were packed into one of the massive stainless-steel tubs, submerged up to their chests, shivering to varying degrees.
"I'm telling you, it's a scam," Leo Castledine chattered violently, hugging his knees to his chest. "I sat on a plane for twelve hours, played forty minutes in a meaningless friendly, and came back jet-lagged just to get benched for Everton. I should have stayed here in the hyperbolic time chamber with Icebox."
Kobbie Mainoo calmly wiped a splash of freezing water from his face. "It's an honor to wear the national shirt, Leo. It's a responsibility. You have to go when they call."
"Spoken like a true future England captain," Alejandro Garnacho teased from the corner of the tub, though he looked equally exhausted from his trip to Argentina. He looked over at Kwame. "Still can't believe Thorne is making us sit out tomorrow. You get to have all the fun against Moyes' low block."
"Yeah, but look who's breathing down his neck," Leo grinned, pointing a shivering finger at Kwame. "You have the Final Boss on the bench waiting for you. Did you see Casemiro? The guy is built out of actual granite."
Kwame sank a little deeper into the ice water, feeling the dull ache in his muscles from the scrimmage. "I saw him," he muttered. "Trust me, I saw him."
"And after Everton, it's the Champions League," Mainoo added, his tone turning serious. "Sporting CP, Juventus, Real Madrid... that draw was brutal."
"Which brings us to the elephant in the room," Leo pivoted smoothly, his goofy demeanor returning as he stared directly at Kwame. "The FAs are losing their minds. The media won't shut up about it. So, General... who is it going to be? The Three Lions or the Black Stars?"
The tub went quiet. Even Garnacho leaned in, curious.
Kwame looked at his teammates. He thought about the two official envelopes sitting on Elias Thorne's desk. He thought about Uncle Raymond's frantic phone calls.
"I'm just focused on the Champions League for now," Kwame deflected smoothly, staring down at the churning ice water. "I can't afford to think about international football until we survive September."
Leo groaned, splashing him. "Boring! You sound like a PR robot!"
Kwame forced a smile, but internally, his chest felt incredibly tight. He wasn't just deflecting for the sake of PR.
Floating just at the edge of his peripheral vision, burning with a heavy, intimidating weight, was the Epic Quest log.
[EPIC QUEST: THE BURDEN OF KINGS]
[OBJECTIVE: LEAD MANCHESTER UNITED TO THE UCL QUARTER-FINALS]
FAILURE PENALTY:
[REVOCATION OF 'THE MAESTRO' TITLE & OVR REDUCTION TO 81]
He couldn't care about national teams right now. The System was staring at him coldly, holding a loaded gun to his entire career.
Saturday, September 12th. 10:00 AM.
The Premier League weekend had officially arrived, and the internet was already trembling with anticipation.
@UnitedStrandGuy (TikTok/X):(Video shows a guy in a United shirt, his hair wild, untamed, and falling past his shoulders, looking incredibly stressed into his phone camera)."Day 1,124 of not cutting my hair until Manchester United win five Premier League games in a row. Lads... we are currently on 3 out of 5. The clippers are literally sitting on my desk. But the lineup just leaked. Thorne is resting the A-Team! We are playing the B-Team away at Goodison Park! David Moyes is going to send out eleven brick walls to injure us! Pray for me, chat. The hair might survive another year. 😭✂️❌ #MUFC #HairBet"
Replies:
@EFC_FansDaily:Good luck with that mop, mate. Tarkowski is going to eat your B-Team for lunch. Everton fans are ready to ruin your streak today. 😈🍬 #UTFT
@FootballMemeLord:Imagine the absolute chaos if United lose and he has to keep growing that hair. He's going to look like Gandalf by Christmas. Priceless.
@FPL_Guru:PANIC STATIONS! Thorne is rotating! Bruno, Rashy, Dalot all benched! But Kwame Aboagye starts! The General is immune to rotation! Keeping the armband on him against Moyes' low block. He's going to have to pick the lock today. 📈💰
@General_AllDay:Are you all blind?! Look at the depth! We are starting Mount, Mbeumo, and Šeško! That's a frontline that would start for half the teams in Europe! And the Icebox is orchestrating it all. Everton are going to get suffocated. 3-0 United. Call it now. 🚂❄️
12:00 PM. The Streets of Liverpool.
The atmosphere surrounding Goodison Park was a stark contrast to the sleek, corporate stadiums of London or the colossal tourism of Old Trafford.
This was old-school, gritty, working-class English football.
The narrow, terraced streets around the stadium were buzzing. Blue and white scarves hung from car windows, snapping violently in the cool, damp breeze rolling off the River Mersey. The air was thick with the smell of street food—vinegar-soaked chips, hot meat pies, and the bitter tang of stale beer.
Street vendors stood on the corners, their voices hoarse. "Get your scarves! Get your flags! Up the Toffees!"
In the nearby Stanley Park, Everton fans were tailgating. Children kicked scuffed footballs against brick walls while their parents stood in groups, sipping hot tea from thermos flasks and arguing about the lineup.
At the stadium gates, the sea of royal blue surged forward.
Massive banners were unfurled over the turnstiles. One towering flag read in bold, defiant white letters: MOYES ARMY – NEVER BACK DOWN. The return of their former manager had injected a gritty, desperate hope back into the fanbase.
A father holding his 7-year-old son on his shoulders pointed up at the iconic, crisscrossed steel floodlights of Goodison Park. "Look at it, son," the father said, his voice thick with emotion. "This is where legends are made. This is where we fight."
Nearby, an elderly Evertonian in a flat cap wiped a tear from his weathered face, soaking in the atmosphere. "Been coming here since I was your age," he muttered to no one in particular. "Can't believe I'm still standing."
As the home fans filtered in, the away section arrived. A smaller, tightly packed, fiercely vibrant patch of red shirts. They marched toward the away end, their voices slicing through the blue noise.
"Glory, glory Man United! Glory, glory Man United!"
The clash of colors and cultures was cinematic. It was a powder keg waiting for a spark.
12:30 PM.
Salford Quays, Manchester. Inside the pristine, silent penthouse, Afia Aboagye and Chloe were sitting at the massive marble kitchen island. Laptops were open, highlighters were scattered, and three empty coffee cups sat between them. They were furiously typing away at their Master's thesis methodology sections.
But mounted on the wall directly in front of them, the 85-inch television was tuned to Sky Sports, the volume muted.
Afia paused her typing, her eyes drifting up to the screen as the camera showed the Manchester United bus arriving at Goodison Park. She watched Kwame step off the bus, his face an emotionless mask, his headphones on.
She smiled softly, tapped her pen against the marble, and immediately went back to typing. He's got this.
***
Mia's bedroom was a disaster zone of cardboard boxes, bubble wrap, and rolls of packing tape. She was leaving for art college in two days.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, holding her professional sketching pens. Instead of packing, she was meticulously shading a drawing of a stadium crowd. Propped up against a half-taped box of clothes was her iPad, quietly playing the pre-match build-up. She glanced up, adjusting her glasses as the commentators debated United's heavily rotated squad, before returning her focus entirely to the cross-hatching of a fan's scarf in her sketchbook.
Cheshire. Maya Lunt's bedroom looked equally chaotic. Suitcases lay open on the bed, overflowing with winter coats and university supplies for her impending move to Manchester.
But Maya wasn't packing.
She was sitting right in the middle of the mess on her floor, her back against her bedframe, holding her phone six inches from her face. She was biting her thumbnail nervously, the volume turned all the way up as she watched the live feed of the players inspecting the pitch.
"Look at him," Maya whispered to the empty room, a massive, irrepressible smile breaking across her face as the camera zoomed in on Kwame standing on the Goodison Park grass.
"So serious."
1:30 PM.
Inside Goodison Park, the atmosphere was suffocating.
The historic, wooden-seated stadium amplified sound unlike any modern arena. As the legendary Everton anthem, Z-Cars, began to blare over the crackling PA system, the stadium physically shook. 39,000 fans clapped in a terrifying, synchronized rhythm.
The smell of hot dogs and deep heat drifted over the pitch.
The Everton players marched out for warm-ups, their faces set in grim, aggressive determination. Dwight McNeil sprinted down the right flank with violent intensity. James Tarkowski, their colossal center-back, was already practicing aggressive, leaping headers, barking at his full-backs. Jordan Pickford, the manic England goalkeeper, was stretching in his six-yard box, screaming at the empty stands to hype himself up.
On the opposite end of the pitch, the United B-Team jogged out.
The physical disparity of the rotated squad was immediately obvious. Benjamin Šeško towered over the crowd, a 6'5" giant warming up his aerial leaps. Mason Mount buzzed around the grass with relentless, high-pressing energy.
And in the center of the rondo, Kwame Aboagye was coolly passing the ball. He didn't look at the screaming Everton fans behind the goal. He tuned out the hostility, his focus entirely on the weight and speed of his passes to Bryan Mbeumo.
Sky Sports Commentary:"Welcome to Goodison Park, everyone! You can feel the sheer tension in the air. David Moyes has got these Everton fans ready to go to war, while Elias Thorne has gambled heavily, resting his primary stars ahead of the Champions League. United look poised, but this is an entirely different test. This is Premier League football at its absolute, gritty finest."
2:55 PM. The Tunnel.
The drum beats from the Gwladys Street End echoed down into the concrete tunnel, a deep, rhythmic thumping that sounded like a heartbeat.
"UP THE TOFFEES! UP THE TOFFEES!" the home crowd roared.
Up in the cramped, vibrant away end, @UnitedStrandGuy was holding his phone up, recording a shaky video, his wild hair blowing in the wind.
"Game 4 out of 5, chat!" he yelled into the microphone, barely audible over the Everton fans. "Goodison is LOUD! The B-Team is starting! Pray for me! The clippers are waiting!"
Down in the tunnel, the two teams stood shoulder-to-shoulder.
James Tarkowski glared across the line, chewing gum aggressively, his eyes locked onto Benjamin Šeško.
Behind Šeško, Kwame took a slow, deep breath. The air smelled of rain and adrenaline.
He didn't look back, but he knew exactly who was sitting on the bench today. Casemiro. The 91 OVR Final Boss of his position. The Brazilian was watching, waiting to see if the teenager could truly command the midfield in a hostile environment before stepping in to show him how it was really done.
Kwame closed his eyes.
BZZT.
[ENVIRONMENT DETECTED: GOODISON PARK (HOSTILE)]
[OPPONENT: EVERTON FC (LOW BLOCK / HIGH AGGRESSION)]
[QUEST: THE TOFFEE TRAP]
[OBJECTIVE: BREAK THE LOW BLOCK.]
Kwame's eyes snapped open. The icy, terrifying calm of the Maestro settled over his features.
The referee checked his watch. He blew a short, sharp blast on the whistle.
"Let's go, gents!"
The teams marched out of the shadows and into the roaring cauldron of Goodison Park.
The streak was on the line. The Champions League was looming.
FWEET!
The referee blew the whistle for kickoff.