108: The King's Weakness

"Lin Feng is proving with his actions that his football empire is rooted in the warmth of the community, not just the coldness of commerce."

Sophie Green used this sentence to conclude her column in the latest issue of the Hartlepool Mail. The accompanying picture showed dozens of children and elderly people in the stands of Victoria Park Stadium, waving blue and white scarves and smiling brightly.

Keira Knightley's name, along with those ambiguous speculations about Hollywood, was completely washed away by this wave of community warmth. Public attention was cleverly diverted to the club's sense of social responsibility, and Lin Feng's image became more three-dimensional as a result.

A potential public opinion storm was averted without a trace.

At Phoenix Training Center, the air was filled with the scent of grass and sweat.

"Again!"

Old John's roar echoed across the training ground.

Jordan Henderson gritted his teeth and started sprinting from thirty meters away. He had to weave around three staggered human-shaped obstacles, then take a long-range shot directly without stopping the ball.

The ball once again flew high into the sky, wildly off target.

"Shit!" Henderson irritably kicked the turf with the tip of his foot. "This is impossible! My center of gravity is completely messed up when I'm running!"

Not far away, Vardy stopped his own training and shouted over, "Jordan, are you trying to shoot down the crows above the stadium with that footwork?"

His teammates burst into laughter.

Henderson's face flushed red. This kind of training was too grueling. Lin Feng's requirement was to correct his habitual overexertion when shooting, which led to body stiffness. But this novel training method made him feel like he couldn't even kick a ball anymore.

"Don't try to use brute force, Jordan!" Old John walked over, repeating the instructions Lin Feng conveyed through the earpiece. "Push with the instep of your foot! Put your strength into your supporting leg, and stabilize your lower body!"

Lin Feng stood behind the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, calmly observing everything.

The system interface in his mind was displaying Henderson's real-time data.

[Technical Action Correction Progress: 12%]

[Muscle Memory Conflict: High]

[System Recommendation: Continue high-intensity repetition to form new dynamic stereotypes.]

*Stupid muscle memory.* Lin Feng thought. *It must be overwritten with a new pattern through even higher-intensity repetition. The cost is high, but so is the reward.*

On another field, Chris Smalling's training was equally "unusual."

An assistant coach stood with his back to him, holding several different colored tennis balls.

"Yellow!"

The moment the command was given, the assistant coach threw a yellow tennis ball backward. Smalling had to immediately turn around after hearing the command and catch the tennis ball before it hit the ground.

The first time, he was half a beat too slow, and the tennis ball grazed his fingertips.

"Again! Blue!"

This time, Smalling sharply twisted his waist and turned, extending his arm precisely, and the yellow tennis ball landed steadily in his palm.

"Very good! Keep going!"

This kind of training not only exercises turning speed but also instantaneous judgment and body coordination. For a tall center-back, this is the most valuable asset.

Old John looked at these novel and effective training programs on the field, filled with shock. He had been a coach his entire life and considered himself to know everything about football training, but the things Lin Feng brought out completely exceeded his cognitive scope.

"Boss, I feel like a rookie apprentice, learning new things every day," he said to Lin Feng during a training break.

Lin Feng simply replied, "We are just using more scientific methods to unearth the treasures within their bodies."

In addition to "micro-sculpting" the main players, Lin Feng also looked further into the future.

"Richard, have Oliver Baker from the youth academy start training with the first team today."

Richard Arnold was a bit surprised.

Oliver Baker, a product of the club's youth academy, was a 15-year-old attacking midfielder with delicate technique but very poor physical confrontation. Was it too early to promote him now?

"Boss, his physique..."

"Let him train, but don't participate in confrontations," Lin Feng interrupted him. "Also, have Gylfi mentor him."

On the training ground, when 15-year-old Oliver Baker, like a startled fawn, stood uneasily in front of Sigurðsson, everyone cast curious glances.

"The boss wants you to follow me?" Sigurðsson's expression remained as cold as ever.

"Ye... yes, Mr. Sigurðsson," Baker was so nervous he could barely speak. Sigurðsson was his idol.

Sigurðsson didn't say much, just kicked a football to his feet.

"Dribble, walk around this circle, no looking down."

Baker obediently started dribbling, but his eyes still couldn't help but glance down.

"Head up!" Sigurðsson's voice wasn't loud, but it was very penetrating. "Look at me, tell me what I'm doing right now."

Baker suddenly looked up and saw Sigurðsson making a passing feint.

"Watch the ball, and watch the man. Before the ball reaches your feet, you should already be thinking about your next move. Don't look down; your opponent will thank you for it."

The Icelander, uncharacteristically, showed astonishing patience. He personally taught the raw youth how to shield the ball with his body, how to observe movement, and how to handle the ball in the most concise way.

Lin Feng was in his office, watching this scene on the monitor, feeling very satisfied.

What he wanted was not just superstars.

What he wanted was a legacy.

Only a dynasty that could self-generate, constantly producing new stars, was an unbeatable dynasty. Sigurðsson's growth allowed him to see the template for a "prodigy factory," and Baker was the first product under this template.

The night before the team departed for Carlisle, Hartlepool United's official website released a major announcement.

"The club is honored to announce a five-year contract extension with Icelandic international Mr. Gylfi Sigurðsson. The new contract includes a release clause valued at £20 million."

As soon as the news broke, the entire English football world took notice.

£20 million!

This figure, like a depth charge, completely shattered all the giants' illusions of "getting a bargain."

In the scout offices of Barcelona and Arsenal, Sigurðsson's file was quietly placed at the bottom of the filing cabinet.

The media in Iceland, moreover, erupted in celebration. The Morgunblaðið (Morning Paper) used its entire front page to report the news, with the headline — "The Most Expensive Player in Icelandic Football History Is Born!"

Sigurðsson's name, overnight, became a national hero in the small Nordic country.

The excitement of the contract extension, coupled with the healthy competitive atmosphere within the team, elevated Hartlepool's team morale and form to an unprecedented high.

On the team bus heading to the away game against Carlisle United, the atmosphere was relaxed and lively.

Henderson was still savoring his final shot from the afternoon's training; the ball finally arced as he intended, grazing the post and flying into the net. That feeling was unprecedented.

Vardy leaned back in his seat, watching the rapidly receding scenery outside the window, then suddenly turned to Henderson and said:

"Jordan, I heard Carlisle's defense is like paper, are you ready to rack up some assists for me?"

Henderson smiled, stretching his right leg.

"I'd rather show you how my newly practiced long-range shot is doing."