92: The “Game” of Capital

The day after the victory, Hartlepool, a small northern town perennially shrouded in sea breeze and grey, was ignited by an unfamiliar fervor.

The front page of the Hartlepool Mail used the largest font available to the newspaper.

In the photo, Jamie Vardy, in a sea of white, held a single index finger to his lips, his eyes filled with cold provocation.

The headline was just one word, yet it carried more power than any lengthy discourse.

“Manifesto.”

In stark contrast to the outside world's clamor, Lin Feng's office at the Phoenix Training Center was so quiet that one could hear the faint hum of the central air conditioning.

He stood in the center of the room, looking down at the three-dimensional virtual stadium formed by light beams at his feet.

The match footage was being replayed pixel by pixel by the system in a way that transcended the era.

The heatmaps of each player's movement, like burning flames, marked their zones of dominance on the virtual turf.

The path of every pass transformed into streaks of light; blue for success, dazzling red for errors.

Sprint counts, success rate in duels, heart rate fluctuations, sweat loss... countless cold data streams converged before him into an ultimate report on the battle.

In his mind, the azure interface quietly appeared.

“Mission: First Championship match won, completed.”

“Mission evaluation: Perfect.”

“Reward: System Energy +500.”

“Special trigger: Player Kyle Walker, Player Ryan Shawcross, have a compatibility of over 90% with the “Geometric Warfare” tactical system, and their potential development speed is permanently increased by 15%.”

Lin Feng's gaze did not linger on the reward.

He lightly swiped his finger in the air, and the image instantly froze.

Leeds United captain Alan Thompson's face, distorted by anger, was infinitely magnified.

His sliding tackle was slowed down by the system at a thousand frames per second.

The moment his studs contacted Henderson's shin guard, the crack patterns on the carbon fiber plate were clearly visible.

This was not a tactical foul.

This was malicious intent aimed at destroying an opponent's career.

Lin Feng picked up the internal phone, his voice devoid of any warmth.

“Richard.”

“Send this video, in the highest definition format, along with the most professional injury assessment report, and the strongest appeal letter from our club's legal department, to The FA immediately.”

“We have only one stance.”

“Additional suspension, maximum penalty.”

He wanted the entire England football world to understand that anyone who tried to harm his players with violence would pay the most painful price.

Hanging up the phone, he opened another report.

It was from John Stone.

Regarding the anonymous five-million-pound capital injection into the Northern Capital account.

The investigation results were as clean as a blank sheet of paper.

The funds came from a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands, named “K.K. Holdings.”

All clues were blown away by the warm Caribbean sea breeze, leaving no trace.

K.K..

Lin Feng's fingertips unconsciously tapped these two letters on the smooth mahogany tabletop.

In his mind, the elegant and sharp signature he had seen on the charity gala invitation appeared.

And the face of the international superstar, with a hint of playful and provocative smile.

This was no longer a test.

This was Keira Knightley, using her most adept method, the method of capital, to forcibly participate in his game.

She wanted to tell him in this way that she could not only see his miracle but also become a part of it.

Lin Feng did not return the money.

He didn't even have John Stone suspend the use of these funds.

He simply sent a brief instruction to his assistant.

“In the name of Northern Capital, send an email back to Miss Keira Knightley's agent.”

“The email content is as follows:”

“Thank you, Ms. K, for your support of Northern football.”

“Every investment you make will become part of the cornerstone of future champions.”

This was a stance so calm it bordered on arrogance.

You place your bet, and I accept.

But the rules of the game are still set by me.

You think you are investing in me; in reality, you are merely adding bricks to my empire.

Phoenix Training Center.

The players who had just stirred up a storm at Elland Road still had an unwaning excitement on their faces.

They gathered in small groups, savoring the exhilarating victory, their brows revealing an undeniable smugness.

Old John, with his hands behind his back, walked to the center of the training ground.

He cleared his throat, and a seriousness entirely different from his usual amiable demeanor appeared on his weathered face.

“In the 34th minute of the first half, after Walker's forward run, Shawcross failed to cover in time, and our right flank had a defensive vacuum lasting three seconds.”

“In the 71st minute of the second half, Henderson made a misplaced back pass; if Leeds United's forward hadn't been exhausted, that would have been a fatal counter-attack.”

Old John's voice was not loud, but it was like a bucket of ice water, extinguishing everyone's pride.

Every detail, every timestamp he spoke, was chillingly precise.

The players' smiles froze on their faces, replaced by a hint of surprise.

They didn't know that Old John's eyes were reflecting the huge holographic screen in Lin Feng's office.

After training, the medical team's experts handed detailed reports to each starting player.

Physical function indices, lactic acid accumulation levels, muscle fatigue grades.

There was even a personalized nutritional recovery plan, tailored to individual data, precise down to every gram of protein intake.

Shaun Maloney, who had just joined, looked at the document in his hand, which was more detailed than any report he had received at Aston Villa, his eyes filled with shock.

This was not the kind of setup an League One team should have.

This was the logistical support of a top-tier giant.

The team's next opponent was the upcoming first round of the League Cup.

Plymouth from the Championship.

Old John, holding the starting lineup Lin Feng had just sent via encrypted email, walked into Lin Feng's office.

His face was filled with hesitation and confusion.

“Boss.”

Old John placed the lineup on the table, pointing at a few names on it, his voice tinged with worry.

“For this match, our opponent is a Championship team; their physical confrontation and match tempo are completely on another level.”

“We're pairing Chris Smalling and Peter Hartley, this young duo, as center-backs.”

“And Liam Bridcutt is starting as a defensive midfielder.”

“This… isn't this too risky?”