The ball soared across the night sky.
The Sheffield winger had brought it down perfectly on the far side. He sprinted down the wing, boots slicing across the damp turf, Ng chasing him at full speed. Tanner scrambled to shift across, but the overload had happened too fast. One pass. One mistake. That was all it could take.
The cross came in—low, fast, vicious.
It bypassed Tanner. It swerved past Ralls' outstretched boot.
A Sheffield striker lunged.
The ball flew toward goal.
Firdaus didn't blink.
Alnwick dived—arms outstretched, body horizontal.
The entire stadium stood frozen, breathless.
THUMP!
A palm. A parry. The ball bounced away.
Ramsey slid in and cleared the rebound, launching it into the stands.
Roars erupted. Not just from the players, but the fans, the bench, even the stewards. The release of tension was thunderous. Even substitutes who hadn't touched the pitch leapt to their feet, hands in the air, fists pumping.
The danger was gone.
Firdaus finally exhaled.
He gave a slow nod, barely perceptible, as if approving the outcome of an equation. Omer Riza let out a low whistle beside him, clapping once with a grin.
"Lucky?" Omer asked.
"No," Firdaus replied. "Corrected."
Seconds later, the referee lifted the whistle to his lips.
Peeeeeeep!
Full time.
1–0.
The match was over.
A mix of relief and triumph washed over the stadium. Players fell to their knees, some clenching fists, others collapsing from exhaustion. Ramsey and Ralls embraced, sweat pouring down their faces. Robinson pointed to the crowd, grinning wide. Ng slapped hands with the bench players. The fans stayed on their feet, roaring.
For a brief moment, even the night air seemed to cheer.
Then, it happened.
The fans began chanting.
"FIR-DAUS! FIR-DAUS! FIR-DAUS!"
It started with one corner and quickly spread, rolling around the stadium like a wave. Firdaus stood in the technical area, not acknowledging it. The chant got louder.
The new manager, once doubted and criticized, now stood at the center of Cardiff's rising belief.
Firdaus didn't smile.
He simply turned toward the tunnel.
In the press conference room, flashes from cameras lit up the table. The club badge gleamed on the backdrop behind him.
Firdaus sat calmly, mic in front of him, flanked by club media staff. He looked composed, fingers loosely interlaced, as a reporter raised his hand.
"Firdaus, congratulations on the win. Many are calling this one of the most tactically sound second halves Cardiff has played in years. What changed?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Nothing changed. We just played better."
A pause.
Some chuckles followed from the reporters. A few exchanged knowing glances—this was his style.
Another reporter leaned forward. "You made a bold call bringing Ralls in and giving him the armband. Was that pre-planned or reactive?"
Firdaus nodded. "Ralls is a leader. Sometimes, leadership doesn't shout. It positions."
Scribbles on notepads. A cameraman zoomed in.
One more question: "Fans are calling your adjustments 'genius.' Some even say you read the game like a machine. Thoughts?"
His eyebrow twitched. He answered dryly, "They read too much."
The room broke into laughter. Even the harder-edged journalists softened, taking note of the quiet fire behind the answer.
Meanwhile, the system chimed quietly in his head.
[MEDIA PERCEPTION: +18 | REPUTATION SCORE: 42% to 61% | TRAIT ASSIGNED: CALCULATED LEADER]
Firdaus ignored it. He glanced at the reporters one last time, gave a half-nod, and stood.
"Thank you."
He exited with the same deliberate pace he had entered with—no rush, no need to bask in attention.
The corridor outside was quiet. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the soft scuff of his shoes against the concrete floor. Firdaus walked slowly, not from fatigue—but reflection.
He didn't win that game.
The players did.
And the system helped.
But even now, everyone thought he was a genius.
The tsundere part of him hated the praise. Not because it wasn't deserved—but because it wasn't entirely honest. He didn't hate being misunderstood. He hated being glorified for the wrong reason.
He entered his small office, walls lined with tactical boards, training plans, and a single worn chair. He sat down alone and whispered, "System."
The screen flickered in his mind.
[POST-MATCH ANALYSIS: COMPLETE][MATCH RATING: 8.6 | TACTICAL EFFICIENCY: 91% | PLAYER MORALE: +12][REWARD UNLOCKED]
Firdaus blinked.
[SYSTEM FEATURE UNLOCKED: PLAYER DEVELOPMENT TRACKER]
New menu appeared—charts, progress arcs, personality changes, loyalty indexes. Names flickered: Ramsey, Ralls, Colwill, Robinson. A list of attributes, potential ceilings, and hidden growth curves appeared beneath.
He stared at it.
The tracker mapped out more than just statistics. It showed a timeline—moments where confidence rose, where trust between teammates strengthened, where doubts disappeared. Even Colwill's missed runs were tagged with confidence boosts due to passes received.
Firdaus leaned back.
It was overwhelming. And intriguing.
"...What now?" he muttered.
The system pulsed silently.
A new phase had begun.
Outside, the stadium lights began to dim. But inside Firdaus' mind, the engine had just started.
To be continued...
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