88: The mysterious "KK"

Almost at the same instant.

In Lin Feng’s mind, the azure system interface, visible only to him, flashed a dazzling crimson alert!

[Warning: Detecting an unknown advanced non-hostile psychic probe.]

[Probe source: London, United Kingdom.]

[System firewall has automatically intercepted.]

Lin Feng’s pupils suddenly contracted.

He leaned back in the cold leather executive chair, his fingers silently tapping on the smooth desktop.

Psychic probe.

This was not ordinary hacking technology.

This was a power on the same dimension as him, knocking on his door in an elegant yet overbearing manner.

K.K.

Keira Knightley.

It couldn't be anyone else but her.

An interesting follower?

No.

This was a high-level player who had smelled prey and entered the game personally.

He pressed the phone screen off and casually placed it on the table.

The importance of that text message was instantly stripped from his mind.

Games outside the chessboard could be played slowly.

The empire within the chessboard must begin construction immediately.

He pressed the intercom.

“Notify the Commercial Department, meeting in the conference room in five minutes.”

Five minutes later.

In the newly completed conference room of the Phoenix Training Center, the sweet scent of pre-season winning streaks still lingered in the air.

The newly appointed Sports Director, Richard Arnold, and several heads of the Commercial Department sat upright.

Lin Feng pushed the door open, carrying a cold aura as if he had just withdrawn from an invisible battlefield.

He did not sit down, walking directly to the large white projection screen.

“Gentlemen, we are the top favorites for the League One Championship.”

His voice was not loud, but it lowered the temperature in the conference room by several degrees.

“But our jersey sponsor is still at the level of a League Two relegation team.”

He directly rejected the Marketing Manager’s proposal to renew the contract with a small local brand, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

“Starting today, launch the ‘Brand Value Leap Plan’.”

“Step one, change the jersey sponsor.”

His gaze swept over everyone like a searchlight, finally resting on the blank screen.

“Target: Nike, Adidas, or Puma.”

A suppressed gasp rippled through the conference room.

One manager couldn't help but speak: “Boss, this… this is impossible, they won’t even look at our proposal.”

“They will.”

Lin Feng’s tone carried an overwhelming confidence.

“Because my philosophy is very simple: four words, ‘dimensional reduction attack’.”

“We will use a Championship-level squad to play in League One.”

“Use Premier League-level logistical support to back the team.”

“Use tactical thinking from the next decade to win matches.”

“Now, I will use a Fortune 500-level business plan to negotiate with them.”

He had his assistant encrypt and send three distinct, pre-prepared cooperation proposals to the UK heads of the three major international sports brands.

Richard Arnold couldn't help but be curious and clicked on the summary of one of the proposals.

After just one glance, this professional manager, accustomed to grand occasions, felt his breath caught in his throat.

The content of the proposal was enough to make any seasoned business elite question reality.

There were no humble pleas.

Nor was there any flashy, insubstantial boasting.

Only cold, precise, and terrifyingly convincing data.

Lin Feng directly used the [Market Analysis] module to predict Hartlepool United’s performance in the new season.

League One champions.

FA Cup and League Cup, at least reaching the fifth round, and eliminating an upper-mid table Premier League team.

Below these predictions were even more terrifying things.

Media exposure growth curves accurate to single digits.

A tiered model for the commercial value increase of players.

Analysis of the age structure and spending power of the fan base.

Finally, all of this was quantified into a specific number—brand return on investment.

A tempting number that no brand could refuse.

Sweat seeped into Arnold’s palms.

He felt as if he wasn't looking at a business plan.

He was looking at a script from the future, with the ending already written.

Lin Feng ignored his subordinates’ shock.

His thoughts had already leaped to another battlefield.

At the same time, in another realm unknown to outsiders, his business empire was quietly being founded.

His “Northern Capital” completed several seemingly unrelated acquisitions.

The golden finger of [Market Prediction] flashed in his mind.

He accurately bought out a new energy company on the verge of bankruptcy, yet possessing core patent technology for next-generation batteries.

He also acquired a small local logistics company in Hartlepool.

His plan was to transform it into a “Northern Dragon Distribution Network” covering the entire North of England.

This was laying the imperial arteries in advance for the club’s future massive official merchandise sales.

These enormous profits, obtained outside the football world, were continuously flowing into the club through complex financial channels.

They became the rebar and cement for the second phase of the Phoenix Training Center.

They also became the attractive salaries on the contracts of new recruits.

Late at night.

Old accountant John Stone sat in his home study, wearing reading glasses, looking at two independent financial statements on his computer screen, feeling his heart about to burst from his chest.

On the left, Hartlepool United Football Club’s account funds were steadily growing in a healthy manner.

On the right, “Northern Capital”’s cash flow was like a surging river, expanding wildly in an almost barbaric fashion.

He felt as if he wasn't just doing accounting.

He was recording the great work of a deity creating the world.

He was completely captivated by Lin Feng’s commercial genius, transforming from a diligent accountant into the most fervent and loyal executor.

The office of the Hartlepool Mail was brightly lit.

Sophie Green was troubled by an in-depth report.

She felt like she was chasing a ghost.

This man named Lin Feng had no past, only a future.

She tried to uncover his bottomless source of funds.

She wanted to know how this man had transformed a small, near-bankrupt club in just one year.

Her network of connections was deeply entrenched in the England sports circle, yet she couldn't dig out the true source of his funds.

Every investment was as clean as freshly printed currency.

She learned a startling piece of news through her friend at Sky Sports.

Lin Feng was already secretly negotiating the naming rights for the “Northern Dragon Arena” with several top international multinational corporations.

This gave her a clearer, and more fearful, understanding of Lin Feng’s ambition.

He wanted to build a true empire.

Just as Lin Feng was reviewing the initial bids for several new season shirt sponsors, his assistant knocked and entered.

Her expression was somewhat unusual, as if she was holding a hot potato.

“Boss, this invitation was just delivered by a special courier wearing white gloves.”

It was a finely made black envelope, emitting a faint fragrance.

On the envelope, a simple “K” crest was embossed with silver thread.

Lin Feng pulled out the invitation inside.

Top-grade art paper, gold-embossed lettering.

It invited him to a top-tier charity gala to be held next week at Kensington Palace in London.

At the bottom of the invitation, the inviter’s signature was penned, elegant, with a hint of sharpness.

Keira Knightley.

Lin Feng instantly understood the true identity of the mysterious text message “K.K.”.

And also understood the source of that psychic probe.

He looked at the exquisite invitation, a playful smile curling on his lips.

The smile was like seeing through the opponent’s most secret tactical trap in the last second of a match.

He picked up his private phone and directly called Sophie Green.

A slight commotion came from the other end of the line, as if something had been knocked over.

“Hello, Mr. Lin.”

Sophie’s voice carried professional calm, but Lin Feng could hear the ripples beneath that calm icy surface.

“Sophie, this is Lin Feng.”

His tone was casual, like inviting a friend for a drink at a bar.

“Are you free next week?”

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat.

“Accompany me to a gala in London.”

Lin Feng’s voice carried a sense of command that brooked no refusal, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

“Perhaps you can find inspiration for your next front-page story there.”