The path to the manager's office wasn't through the grand corridors of the main stand, but down a narrow, utilitarian hallway that smelled of deep heat muscle rub and freshly cut grass.
Framed photos of past teams lined the walls, their faces grim with determination or beaming with the joy of a hard-won victory.
Each photo was a ghost, a reminder of the legacy Michael had just inherited.
"Remember," Arthur murmured as they walked, his voice low.
"David Wallace is Barnsley through and through. He bled for this club as a player. Firing him would be like firing the mascot. Politically, it's a minefield. We're here to assess, to reassure. Not to decapitate."
Michael just nodded, his hands feeling slightly clammy.
But as they approached the door marked 'Manager', Michael focused his will.
The numbers floated into existence, stark and unforgiving.
[David Wallace: Managerial CA 58 / Managerial PA 81]
The numbers confirmed Arthur's assessment perfectly.
58 was a respectable ability for League One—a motivator, a man who could foster a good team spirit. But 81… that was his ceiling.
He could, at his absolute best, become a decent manager in the league above. He was not the man who could lead them to the promised land. He was a bridge, not a destination.
They knocked. A gruff, "Come in," echoed from inside.
The office was small and cluttered, a testament to a man who lived and breathed his job.
A tactics board covered in magnets and scribbled lines dominated one wall.
Shelves overflowed with old matchday programs and coaching manuals. Behind a large, worn wooden desk sat David Wallace.
He was a man in his fifties, built like a retired bull, with a craggy, expressive face and the watchful eyes of someone used to commanding a room. He stood as they entered, his handshake firm and calloused.
"Mr. Sterling," he said, his voice a low rumble. He nodded to Arthur.
"Arthur. Didn't expect to see you back here so soon."
"The game has a way of pulling you back in, David," Arthur replied smoothly.
"So," Wallace said, getting straight to the point as he sat back down.
He gestured for them to take the two small chairs opposite his desk.
"The rumors are true. A new king sits on the throne." There was no hostility in his tone, just a weary pragmatism.
"I prefer the term 'custodian,' Mr. Wallace," Michael said, choosing his words carefully. He needed to show respect, even if he knew this man's days were numbered.
"Call it what you want, son. It's your train set now," Wallace grunted.
"The lads are nervous. I'm nervous. What's the plan? Are you here to rip it all up and start again?"
"The plan," Michael said, leaning forward, "is to build. The foundation you have here is strong. Especially the academy. But the game is changing. The old ways aren't enough to compete with the money and the data coming down from the top flight."
Wallace's eyes narrowed slightly. "We do our homework. We have scouts. We watch videos."
"Of course," Michael said. "But I'm talking about a complete philosophical shift. A top-to-bottom integration of analytics. Performance metrics, recruitment algorithms, biometric data to predict and prevent injuries. We need to be smarter, faster, and more efficient than everyone else, because we can't outspend them."
He was translating the certainty of his system into a language Wallace would understand.
Wallace listened, his expression unreadable.
"That's a lot of fancy words. Football is simple. It's about passion. It's about getting eleven lads to run through a brick wall for each other and for that crest on their shirt."
"Passion is the fuel, Mr. Wallace. I agree," Michael countered smoothly.
"But you still need a well-engineered engine to win the race. Passion alone doesn't beat a well-drilled tactical system."
They talked for another twenty minutes. Michael asked about his plans for the pre-season, his top transfer targets, his assessment of the current squad.
Wallace answered every question with the honest, gut-driven instinct of a true football man.
He spoke of "heart" and "desire," of players who "want it more." He was a warrior, not a scientist.
And Michael knew, with the cold, hard certainty of his secret numbers, that it wasn't enough.
"Mr. Wallace," Michael said, his tone shifting. The pleasantries were over.
"David. You have been a phenomenal servant to this club. Your name is written into its history, and nothing will ever change that."
The manager stiffened, sensing the turn. Arthur shot Michael a sharp, warning look.
"What you've done as a player, and what you've done to stabilize this team as a manager, is commendable," Michael continued, his voice steady and clear.
"But the vision I have for the future… it requires a different skillset. A different approach. And that is why, with the utmost respect, I have to inform you that we will be going in a different direction. Your contract will be paid in full."
The silence in the small office was absolute. Arthur looked like he'd swallowed a wasp.
David Wallace just stared, his face a stony mask, but Michael could see the deep hurt in his eyes.
He had been a king in this castle for thirty years, and an eighteen-year-old boy had just dethroned him in five minutes.
Wallace stood up slowly, his chair scraping against the floor. He didn't shout. He didn't argue. He just looked at Michael with a profound, weary sadness.
"I hope you know what you're doing, son," he said, his voice raspy.
He walked to the door, paused, and then left without another word.
The door clicked shut, leaving Michael alone with a stunned and furious Arthur.
"Are you insane?" Arthur hissed, his voice a low, controlled fury.
"You just fired a living legend two days before pre-season! The fans will crucify us! The players will revolt! What were you possibly thinking?"
Michael turned to face him, his own heart pounding. This was the second part of his gamble.
"I was thinking that the right man for the job wasn't out there in the market,"
Michael said calmly. He looked at Arthur, and he let the system show him everything.
He'd seen Arthur's CEO stats, the 92/92.
But what if the system was contextual?
What if it could see other roles?
He focused, not on Arthur the CEO, but on the hidden football brain behind the shrewd negotiator.
New numbers flickered into life above Arthur's head, numbers Michael had never seen before.
[Arthur Milton: Managerial CA 77 / Managerial PA 91]
The numbers took Michael's breath away. 77 Current Ability.
He was already a top-tier manager, far better than Wallace, without even having the job. But his potential… 91. That wasn't just good.
That was world-class.
That was the level of managers winning league titles and European trophies. The potential had been dormant inside him all this time, a sleeping giant.
"What are you talking about?" Arthur demanded, his anger still simmering.
"We have no manager! Who are you going to get at this short notice?"
Michael took a deep breath.
"I was thinking that the man who created the most successful data-driven recruitment system in Northwood's history, the man who understands analytics and tactics better than anyone I've ever met, the man who has a football mind that my father was too blind and too proud to ever properly utilize, has been standing in this room the whole time."
Arthur stared at him, confused.
"What are you rambling about?"
Michael looked him straight in the eye, his expression unwavering. The gamble wasn't just firing Wallace. It was this.
"I'm not asking you, Arthur. I'm telling you. The press conference is tomorrow. You won't be announced as the CEO."
"Then what will I be?" Arthur asked, exasperated.
"You'll be the new manager of Barnsley Football Club."