In less than an hour, the comment section of the leading Norwegian sports outlet had exploded past ten thousand replies.
The hype train had officially left the station.
@VikingUltra: "Theodore Bjorn?? Who the hell is this guy"
@OsloBlue: "Get Lars Lagerbäck on the phone and cap-tie him immediately!"
@NordicGoal: "A hat-trick of assists in the English Championship at 17?! He's literally younger than Erling Haaland!"
@TrollhunterFC: "Norwegian football is actually saved. Imagine Haaland playing up top with this kid feeding him through-balls. We'd be unstoppable."
@EuroDreamer: "The Euro qualifiers are coming up! Call him up! Norway finally has a playmaker!"
The overwhelming tsunami of domestic hype didn't go unnoticed.
Deep inside the Norwegian FA headquarters, national team manager Lars Lagerbäck opened a fresh scouting file on Theodore Bjorn.
At the exact same time, halfway across the world, the Chinese Football Association was scrambling.
Desperate to salvage their crumbling men's national team, the CFA head dispatched his trusted right-hand man—assistant coach 'Tie'—on the first flight to England to lock down Theodore's naturalization.
...
Away Dressing Room, Madejski Stadium.
Theodore had just finished showering and was stuffing his boots into his duffel bag when Jack Grealish aggressively slapped his shoulder.
"Bjorn! Remember that super-agent I was telling you about? Jonathan Barnett?"
"Yeah. What about him?" Theodore asked, zipping his bag.
"He's standing right outside our dressing room door," Grealish grinned, practically vibrating with excitement.
Theodore frowned, genuinely confused. "What the hell does he want with me?"
"To sign you, you idiot!"
Theodore waved a hand dismissively. "Jack, lay off the pints. Barnett is the most powerful agent in England. He engineered Gareth Bale's record-breaking transfer to Real Madrid. Why the fuck would he be waiting in a freezing hallway for a rookie?"
"I'm dead serious!" Grealish grabbed Theodore by the arm and physically dragged him toward the door.
"The old man watched you carve up Reading. He's completely sold. Go talk to him!"
Grealish wasn't exaggerating.
Standing leaning against the concrete wall of the tunnel, wearing a pristine tailored suit, was England's top-tier football shark.
The moment Barnett saw the 17-year-old, he broke into a warm, practiced smile and extended a hand.
"Theodore. An absolute pleasure to meet you."
"Mr. Barnett," Theodore replied, shaking his hand firmly.
"Jack tells me you're currently navigating the professional waters without representation," Barnett said, his eyes sharp and calculating. "If you don't mind, I would be more than happy to offer my agency's services."
Theodore hadn't expected the man who controlled half the Premier League to be this humble.
"I appreciate it, Mr. Barnett. I really do need an agent," Theodore replied bluntly. "But let's be realistic. Your agency fees are exorbitant, and I'm currently sitting on a youth-scale contract making £770 a week. I can't afford you."
Barnett's smile didn't waver, it actually grew wider.
He loved a player who cut the bullshit!
"That is not a problem in the slightest, my boy," Barnett chuckled, pulling a sleek leather folder from under his arm.
"You're 17 years old and you play with the vision of a seasoned veteran. In my professional opinion, your ceiling is right up there with Zidane, Lampard, and Xavi. You are an investment."
Barnett flipped the folder open, revealing a pre-drafted contract.
"Standard elite commission is usually around ten percent," Barnett said smoothly. "For you? I'm willing to drop it to five. We sign right now, and I handle every single piece of noise off the pitch. All you have to do is play football."
Theodore scanned the numbers.
Five percent was a steal for Barnett's level of influence and protection.
"Hand me a pen," Theodore said.
He decisively signed the contract.
"Thank you for your trust, Theodore," Barnett said, securing the paperwork back in his folder. "Keep playing like you did tonight. I'll make sure the rest of the world pays what you're actually worth."
...
11:00 PM. A Luxury Hotel in Berkshire.
Dilraba tossed and turned in her plush hotel bed, completely unable to sleep after the chaotic adrenaline of losing her father earlier that afternoon.
She grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV to use as background noise.
A post-match sports highlight reel flashed across the screen.
Dilraba sat bolt upright.
Staring back at her through the television was the exact same teenager who had beaten three drunks into the pavement to save her father.
"Theodore Bjorn... he's a professional football star?!" Dilraba gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
She immediately scrambled out of bed to go wake up her dad.
...
February 13th.
Aston Villa Training Ground.
The honeymoon phase of the Reading victory was over.
Aston Villa was gearing up for a brutal Valentine's Day clash against the Bees—Brentford FC.
It was a true six-pointer.
Brentford sat in 5th place, directly blocking Aston Villa's path to the Premier League promotion playoff spots.
The mind games had already started. During the pre-match press conference, Brentford's head coach, Thomas Frank, was overflowing with arrogance.
"Aston Villa is not a threat to us," Frank told the cameras. "We know exactly how to neutralize Grealish. Tomorrow night, the three points are staying in London."
When a reporter asked about Aston Villa's new 17-year-old midfield sensation, Frank actually laughed.
"I've heard the noise," the Brentford coach smirked. "But honestly? I'm not losing sleep over a kid. He's 17. He's a child. He isn't going to pose any real threat to a structured, veteran Championship defense."
Dean Smith didn't take the disrespect lightly.
"I strongly advise opposing coaches to keep my players' names out of their mouths," Smith fired back in his own presser.
"Theodore Bjorn has exceptional intelligence and a ruthless technique. I fully expect him to make Thomas Frank eat those words tomorrow night."
...
Theodore watched the press conference clips on his phone.
His blood was boiling!
He stayed an extra hour after training that night, relentlessly running sprints until his lungs burned.
Just as he finally collapsed onto his hotel bed to rest, his phone buzzed.
It was Jonathan Barnett.
"Theo. I've got an interesting inquiry," Barnett's voice crackled through the speaker. "Assistant Coach Tie from the Chinese men's national team is in England. He wants to sit down with you personally tomorrow to discuss immediate naturalization."
Theodore let out a sharp, disdainful laugh.
As someone who had transmigrated from the year 2024, Theodore knew exactly who Li Tie was.
He knew about the massive corruption scandals, the bribery, and the fact that the man would eventually be sitting in a prison cell.
"Mr. Barnett," Theodore said, his voice dripping with ice. "Tell him I have absolutely zero interest in naturalizing. Tell him to go fuck himself."
Barnett paused. "Are you sure? It might be politically wise to phrase the rejection a bit more subtly..."
"No," Theodore interrupted sharply. "Tell him exactly what I just said. Word for word."
...
February 14th. 7:30 PM.
Brentford Community Stadium.
The stadium was a tight, suffocating cauldron.
It only held twelve thousand fans, but they were packed right on top of the pitch, creating an intensely hostile atmosphere.
Tucked quietly into the away stands, wearing heavy coats and beanies to stay disguised, were Dilraba and her father.
When Mulati found out his lifesaver was a rising football star, the hardcore fan had immediately demanded his daughter buy them tickets.
Up in the Skysports broadcast booth, Gary Weaver's voice cut through the noise.
"Welcome, fans, to a massive Round 32 Championship clash!" Gary Weaver announced. "It's 5th place Brentford hosting 7th place Aston Villa!"
"Let's look at the tactics," Gary Weaver continued. "The home side deploys a 4-2-3-1. Bentley in goal. Odubajo, Konsa, Jeanvier, and Barbet at the back. Mokotjo and Sawyers anchor the midfield, with an aggressive attacking trio of Canós, Watkins, and Benrahma. Neal Maupay leads the line."
"As for Dean Smith's Villa, it's the 4-1-4-1. Kalinić in net. Taylor, Mings, Elphick, and Hutton form the backline. Jedinak sits in the pivot. Adomah, McGinn, Theodore Bjorn, and Jack Grealish make up the midfield. But massive news up front—Tammy Abraham suffered a muscle strain in training! Andre Green steps in as the lone striker tonight."
The referee blew the whistle.
The hostile crowd roared.
Brentford went straight for the jugular.
Just two minutes into the match, Mokotjo launched a brilliant long pass over the top to find Neal Maupay.
Standing at just 173cm, Maupay wasn't a traditional target man, but he was an absolute lethal pest. With 18 goals to his name this season, he was terrifying on the ball.
Maupay brought the pass down cleanly in the final third. Grealish and McGinn immediately collapsed on him, trying to crush the striker in a double-team.
Maupay didn't even flinch. He dropped his shoulder, deftly rolled the ball with his left foot, and snapped it rapidly forward.
The ball zipped ruthlessly straight through McGinn's legs—a devastating nutmeg.
Breaking free of the midfield trap, Maupay didn't get greedy.
He immediately slipped a pass out wide to Saïd Benrahma.
It was a pure 1v1 isolation.
Benrahma against Aston Villa's left-back, Neil Taylor.
Benrahma squared him up. His feet moved in a blur, executing two lightning-fast stepovers that left Taylor completely flat-footed.
In a flash, Benrahma cut violently inside onto his stronger foot, opening up the angle, and pulled the trigger for a devastating direct shot.