Defense sorted, sort of. That +5 boost from the system gives my backline a fighting chance—but if I want to win anything real, that won't be enough. Mid-table scraps aren't my ambition. I want silverware. And for that, I need top players, not just boosted ones.
Money isn't an issue. But access? That's the real wall. Players won't exactly line up to join a bottom-table club with a plastic pitch history. Even if we were spared relegation thanks to league expansion, our reputation still stinks of survival—not ambition.
After 15 minutes of digging through lists, stats, and staff notes, the harsh truth settles in.
Duke (firmly, calling in Dean):
"Dean, tell the scouting department I want a complete report. I'm talking every division—from First Division down to the Conference. Not just our league. Everyone."
Dean (a little confused):
"Alright, I'll extend the search to all of England—"
Duke (cutting in):
"No, Dean. The world. I want scouts in Brazil, France, Korea, Argentina, Yugoslavia, Ghana—everywhere. If there's a centre-back or midfielder kicking a ball professionally, I want their name in our file."
Dean (blinking, cautious):
"Sir… That's a huge cost. And logistically—"
Duke (waves hand):
"So be it. Start with what we can handle and expand every year. Hire more scouts, train locals if you have to. I'm not building a team—I'm building a footballing intelligence empire."
Dean (sighing, but taking notes):
"Understood. Also—Coach Jimmy came by. Do you want me to send him in, or—"
Duke (coldly):
"Terminate his contract. Pay the release clause. Thank him for his time, and move on."
Dean (pauses, then):
"Who should we approach next?"
Duke (leaning back, eyes narrowing):
"I'm thinking. But let's build the team first. We'll get a coach who can adapt to it—not the other way around."
Alright I know who to buy. lets go to france!!!
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Location: Private Hotel Lounge, Marseille Time: Two days later
Duke sits across from a lean, stylish figure—David Ginola, 23, an emerging winger with Toulon. His long hair is tucked behind his ears; confidence radiates as he lights a cigarette.
Duke: "David, let's cut to the chase. You fit our team, and you've got what we need."
Ginola: "Luton Town? It's… not exactly the Riviera."
Duke: "Fair. But it's a stage, and you need one. Perform well, and we'll give you not just a platform but a starring role."
Ginola: "I've had offers in France. But England… there's something about the atmosphere. The fans. The intensity."
Duke: "Exactly. If you want to be a global star—not just in France—you don't stay in Toulon. You light up England. Join us now, and you'll be the first pillar of something big. Not just a player—our symbol."
Ginola: "Alright. But you'll need to sort it with the club."
Duke (grinning): "Consider it done."
________________________________________
Location: Montpellier, Training Ground Office Time: Three days later
Laurent Blanc, elegant and sharp, studies Duke across the table. At 24, he's already a leader—intelligent, composed, and tactically astute, one of the finest centre-backs in football.
Blanc: "Why should I say yes?"
Duke: "Because I'm backing you with this." Slides contract across the table.
Blanc (reading, visibly shocked): "This is… unexpected."
Duke: "You're wondering why I'm offering so much. Simple—I believe you'll be one of the world's best. And I want you at the heart of my club."
Blanc (after a pause): "Okay."
Duke (standing, extending hand): "Then let's get to work. Welcome to Luton Town."
Location: Luton Town FC, Owner's Office
With the major signings secured—Ginola and Blanc—Duke knew the spine of the team was finally taking shape. The rest? That could be left to the transfer department, provided they had the right targets. Now, it was all about precision and oversight.
Duke (calmly, handing over a folder):
"Dean, this is the list. Pass it to the transfer department. Tell them: no delays, no excuses—just get it done."
Dean (opening the file, eyebrows lifting in surprise):
"These names… Sir, who are some of these players? And how did you even know about them?"
He looked down at the paper again, scanning unfamiliar names with curiosity and unease. Then shook his head slightly.
"Well… never mind. I'll take care of it."
Dean exits the office, still processing the unexpected mix of names.
A moment later, Duke glances at the pile Dean left behind—the full scouting report.
Narration (Duke's internal monologue):
The international scouting report was thorough—but one stack stood out: English players. I'd spent the past ten days buried in data, old match tapes, and obscure league notes, trying to match names from memory with potential.
It wasn't easy. My recollection of football between 1990 and 2000 was patchy at best. But with some educated guesses—and a bit of help from the system—I had built a realistic list of possible signings.
Duke (calling out again):
"Dean! One more thing—add this second list to the queue. Strictly domestic signings."
Dean (returning, blinking at the new papers):
"Another list, sir? All English this time?"
He flips through the pages. His expression shifts from confusion… to muted awe.
Dean (quietly):
"How the hell does he find these names…?"