Michael's grin was met with a look of intense, almost unnerving focus from Arthur Milton.
The weary, semi-retired man who had walked into the café an hour ago had vanished.
In his place sat a general surveying a battlefield.
"Right," Arthur said, the single word sharp and decisive.
What happened next was a blur of efficiency that left Michael speechless.
Arthur reached into his tweed jacket and pulled out not one, but two phones.
One was a sleek, modern smartphone.
The other was an old, battered-looking block phone that looked like it had survived a war. The burner phone.
His thumbs became a whirlwind, flying across both screens simultaneously.
He rattled off a series of short, cryptic text messages. "Activate Project Phoenix." "Liquidate Sterling Junior assets. Full discretion." "Market analysis, L1. Now."
He then put the burner phone to his ear, the call connecting instantly.
"It's me," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I need the complete financial audits for every club in League One and the bottom six of the Championship. Cross-reference for debt load, stadium ownership, and parachute payment status. I want it in my inbox before my coffee gets cold."
He ended the call without saying goodbye, immediately dialing another number on his smartphone.
"Jessica, it's Arthur. I'm back. Pull my files from deep storage. And get me a list of every unattached, high-potential scout in the UK and Western Europe. I want résumés and salary expectations by five o'clock."
Click. He hung up.
He fired off another dozen texts. He took another call, speaking in what sounded like fluent German for about thirty seconds, then hung up again.
The entire whirlwind of communication, a flurry of commands that would set dozens of people into motion across the country, took no more than a minute.
Michael could only stare, his jaw practically on the table.
He had just witnessed a dormant machine of immense power roar back to life.
This wasn't just his father's old assistant; this was a puppeteer pulling strings he never knew existed.
Arthur placed both phones face down on the table, the storm suddenly passing.
He looked up at Michael, his expression as calm as if he'd just been ordering another coffee.
He picked up his now-lukewarm cup and took a thoughtful sip.
"Right then," he said, setting the cup down with a soft click. "Your fifteen million. As I said, it's a start, but it defines our hunting ground. We're not buying a lion; we're buying a cub with the potential to become one. The Premier League and most of the Championship are out of reach. We're shopping in League One."
Michael nodded, his mind still reeling from the display of sheer competence. "League One. Okay. I can work with that. It's a lower entry point, but it also means more room for growth. Higher potential ROI."
A flicker of approval crossed Arthur's face. "Precisely. Less media scrutiny, lower player wages, and a chance to build something from the ground up without the entire world watching. I've already been tracking a few clubs. Distressed assets, but with good bones."
Arthur picked up his smartphone and slid it across the table. It was open to a secure, encrypted file. The screen was divided into four quadrants, each containing a club crest and a summary.
"These are your primary options," Arthur began, his tone all business. "First, Derby County."
Michael leaned in. He knew the name, of course.
They were a big club, a founding member of the Football League who had fallen on desperately hard times.
"They just got relegated back to League One last season after a tough fight in the Championship," Arthur explained.
"The good: massive, passionate fanbase and a top-class stadium. The bad: they're still recovering from financial administration. They're fragile. Their valuation is around twelve million pounds, which would leave us with very little operating capital. But they have a gem: a 19-year-old central midfielder named Liam Shaw. Creative, reads the game like a veteran. He's the kind of player you build a team around."
Michael absorbed the information. High risk, high reward. A potential sleeping giant.
"Option two," Arthur continued, tapping the screen. The crest of Peterborough United appeared. "They finished mid-table. A well-run club, famous for their transfer policy: buy young, develop, sell high. They don't have the history of Derby, but they're financially stable. They're valued at a much more reasonable eight million."
"What's their asset?" Michael asked, getting into the rhythm.
"A 20-year-old striker. Name's Danny Cole. Scored 18 goals last season. He's quick, ruthless, and every scout from the Premier League is watching him. If we buy the club, we buy control of his future. We could sell him for a fortune or build the attack around him."
Michael's eyes lit up. That was his language. A clear, high-value asset with a proven track record.
"Third," Arthur said, switching to the Barnsley FC file. "Another club relegated from the Championship two seasons ago. They finished 10th last year. They have one of the best youth academies outside the top flight. They consistently produce quality players. Their weakness is holding onto them. They're on the market for about nine million. They don't have one standout star, but they have four or five teenagers in their system who are considered elite prospects, especially a young center-back named Ben Carter."
This was also appealing. It wasn't about one golden ticket, but a whole portfolio of promising futures. It was a safer, long-term investment.
"And finally," Arthur said, bringing up the last file. "Bolton Wanderers."
Another former giant, now a stable League One presence. "Similar to Derby in terms of history and fanbase, but without the recent financial meltdown. They finished just outside the playoffs. A solid, if unspectacular, club. They want ten million for a full takeover. Their key young player is a 21-year-old winger, Marcus Bell. Incredibly talented, blistering pace, but inconsistent. On his day, he's unplayable. The problem is, you don't know when 'his day' will be."
Arthur leaned back, letting the information sink in. "So, there you have it. The fallen giant with a thoroughbred midfielder. The savvy operators with a goal machine. The talent factory with a crop of future stars. Or the steady ship with a wildcard winger."
Michael stared at the screen, the four crests representing four possible futures, four different paths to his empire.
His mind raced, processing the variables.
Derby was the emotional choice, the one with the grandest story of revival. But the price was dangerously high. Peterborough was the smart financial play, a clear path to profit.
Barnsley was the sustainable, long-term build.
Bolton was the balanced choice, a mix of stability and potential.
His father would have chosen Derby. He would have been seduced by the history, the sleeping giant, the romance of the comeback story.
He would have poured money into the emotional black hole and called it passion.
Michael felt a surge of clarity. He wasn't his father.
"The players," Michael said, looking up from the phone. "The assets. Shaw at Derby, Cole at Peterborough, Carter and the others at Barnsley, Bell at Bolton. That's where the real value is. Not in the rusty stadiums or the black-and-white photos on the wall."
"That's the core of the modern game," Arthur agreed with a nod. "Player assets are everything."
"I need to know more about them," Michael said, his voice humming with excitement. "Not just stats and scout reports. I want to know what they're like. Are they hungry? Are they leaders? Do they have the mentality to reach the top?"
He looked Arthur straight in the eye, his decision made.
This wasn't just about buying a club. It was about finding the right foundation.
"Which one of them has the most to prove?"