The London rain descended upon Kenji Sato like a shroud, yet he was too numb to feel the dampness seeping through his coat. As the doors of the opulent Premier League club headquarters closed behind him, the Sporting Director's voice still echoed in his ears.
"Your reports are flawless, Kenji. You are an analytical genius. But being a Manager? That is a different arena. Your 'aura' doesn't fit the touchline. The fans want to see a general down there, not a calculator."
Kenji walked toward the tube station with a bitter smile. He knew exactly what they meant by "aura." It was a polite way of saying, "You're an Asian nerd, not a leader." Finishing top of his class at the Hennes-Weisweiler Academy, or the tactical revolutions he had sparked in the Bundesliga... none of it had been enough to shatter that wall of prejudice.
As he descended into the station, he blended into the crowd. He kept his head down, because if he looked up... he would see.
It was his curse: "The Prism."
Since childhood, he hadn't seen the world like others did. When he focused on people, a thin, translucent stream of data superimposed itself over his retina. It was as if invisible micro-processors were whirring inside his brain, instantly decoding the biological entity before him into raw code. He saw a player's muscle fibre tension, mood swings driven by hormone levels, even their injury risk, all displayed as scrolling text like a HUD (Heads-Up Display) etched into his field of vision.
In the past, he had tried to explain this "hardware" to others, and he had paid a heavy price. In Germany, when he told a Head Coach, "Don't sign that centre-back, the cartilage in his right knee is at 15% integrity, it'll snap after two sprints," he was treated like a lunatic. When the man inevitably got injured, Kenji was branded a "jinxing prophet" and fired. Since that day, he had kept this neurological secret to himself.
The vibration of the phone in his pocket interrupted his thoughts. The screen flashed: "Emir Kozcuoğlu."
"They slammed the door in your face again, didn't they?" Emir's voice was crackly, but his usual chaotic energy was intact.
"Not now, Emir," Kenji said, passing through the ticket barriers.
"Forget those snobs. I got you a gift, Kenji. Not a birthday gift, a destiny gift. I'm in England. I bought Blackriver United."
Kenji stopped in his tracks. Time seemed to slow down as people flowed past him on the escalator. "Blackriver? That club is moments away from raising the white flag of bankruptcy. Their stadium is a ruin, and they are rock bottom of League One."
"That ruin is our fortress now," Emir said, his voice turning serious. "The keys are yours. You are the Manager. No budget, no star players, but no one is going to tell you 'You're just a mathematician.' You are the sole boss. Are you in?"
Kenji closed his eyes. The processors in his mind went silent for a moment. The opportunity he had waited years for was being offered on a rusty platter. The dying ember inside him suddenly flared up. "I'm in," he said. "But I won't come alone. I'm going to assemble my own 'War Council'."
Kenji took shelter under an awning and opened his contact list. He was heading into a wreckage, and he needed not shining knights, but wounded souls who had nothing left to lose, people who owed him a "life debt."
Target One: "The Wall" – Lukas Müller. When he picked up, the background noise of a baby crying and a woman shouting "When are we going to pay the rent, Lukas?!" summed up the situation. Lukas was an assistant coach in the German 2. Bundesliga, but his license was about to be revoked due to a bar fight.
"Hello?" Lukas's voice sounded like a machine suffering from metal fatigue.
"Lukas, it's Kenji. Do you remember the day at the Academy, in front of the disciplinary board, when I lied so your license wouldn't be burned?"
Lukas let out a deep breath. "I haven't forgotten. If you hadn't saved me that day, I'd be behind bars right now."
"I didn't lie; I just defended your potential. Now I've come to collect that debt. I'm in England. My defensive line is like paper. I need that old German steel to turn that line into concrete. And I think you need money for your daughter, Hanna."
There was a brief silence. Then, the weariness in Lukas's voice was replaced by a grim determination. "I can convince Clara. If you're at the helm, this ship won't sink. I'm coming."
Target Two: "Pixel" – Hiroto Tanaka. The genius analyst with social phobia, living in a dark room in Tokyo. When he answered, the only sound was the rhythmic beep-beep of a respirator.
"How is Oba-san, Hiroto?"
" The meds... are too expensive, Kenji-san," Hiroto whispered. "Freelance work isn't enough. I'm losing her."
"You won't lose her. You're coming to England. The club will cover your grandmother's entire treatment. I'll give you a sanctuary far away from people, where you'll be alone with just the data stream. Remember, when everyone at university called you a 'data thief', I was the only one who proved your innocence."
Hiroto's breath hitched. "You saved my life, Kenji-san. If my grandmother will live... I would follow you to the depths of hell."
Target Three: "The Healer" – Dr. Elena Rossi. When she answered, Elena was returning from a boring reception with her fiancé. Even the classical music in the background seemed to be suffocating her.
"Ciao, Kenji. I'm just listening to Marco's rich friends complain about their gout again. I'm a surgeon, Kenji, but here they treat me like an expensive accessory."
"Then take back your scalpel, Elena. I have a squad of eleven scrap players. All chronically injured, all finished. You are the only person who can fix them, using both your surgery skills and big sister compassion. In that match in Italy, when the player swallowed his tongue and everyone froze, I was the only one who shouted 'Intervene!' to you."
Elena laughed softly. She had caught the scent of freedom. "Marco might leave me, but if I'm stuck in that clinic, I'll leave myself. Book my ticket, Kenji."
Two days later, they were in the city of Blackriver. The city looked like a grey painting left over from the Industrial Revolution, covered in soot. Their stadium, "The Nest," sat on the banks of the pitch-black river, its rusted ribs resembling a giant skeleton.
Emir met them at the gate. "Welcome, lads... and lady. Here is our kingdom."
Kenji walked onto the pitch. The grass was unkempt, patches of dirt showing through. Only eleven players remained on the field. Shoulders slumped, eyes on the ground, they looked like men who had long accepted defeat. Emir leaned in and whispered: "It's a disaster. Only these kids are left. Anyone useful has already fled."
Kenji looked at Emir for a moment. He wanted to tell him everything, to say, "Emir, when I look at these kids right now, I see their bone density, lactic acid levels, and potential as streaming ribbons of data." But he stayed silent. Even if it was his best friend, he didn't want to see that "crazy" look directed at him ever again. He would carry this burden, this machine in his mind, alone.
"It's not bad," Kenji said, correcting his tone. "Just... raw."
He turned back to the pitch. He narrowed his eyes slightly and flipped that invisible switch in his mind.
[ SYSTEM INITIALIZING: PRISM ACTIVE ]
The world suddenly shifted. The grey sky and pale grass were pushed into the background. Neon-coloured lines, biometric grids scanning skeletal structures, and flowing data appeared over the players.
First, he focused on the goalkeeper. A red warning box flashed on his retina:
Target: Goalkeeper
Reflex Reaction Time: C- (Inadequate)
Biomechanical Warning: Restriction in left shoulder rotation. Tear risk 85%.
(Inner Monologue: Can't use this guy. His shoulder will come apart in his hands on the first hard shot.)
Then his eyes drifted to midfield, to that scrawny young lad who looked like he might blow away in the wind. The boy was shivering. Kenji increased his focus (Zoom-in). The data began to cascade like a waterfall:
Name: Liam
Muscle Mass: D- (Critically Low)
Skeletal Durability: Weak
Ball Control: B
The data was disappointing, until the neurological scan results hit the screen. The interface in Kenji's mind flashed a GOLDEN warning.
Neuro-Processing Speed (Vision): S (WORLD CLASS)
Special Algorithm: "Metronome"
Definition: Instinctive ability to calculate the tempo of the game and the ball's position 3 seconds in advance.
System Note: Wrong Position (Left Winger). Recommended: Central Playmaker.
Kenji's heart raced. An "S Class" vision—rarely found even among the hundred-million-pound stars of the Premier League... Physically, this kid was on the pitch, but mentally, he was three seconds ahead of everyone else. But he was so slight that he probably got crushed with every shoulder barge and was deemed talentless.
Kenji turned to Emir with a faint smile. "That scrawny kid, Liam... Leave him to me."
"Him?" Emir said, surprised. "The wind knocked him over in training yesterday, Kenji. He was on the list to be released."
"No," Kenji said. His voice was absolute. "He will be the brain of this team. Just... trust my calculations, Emir. I'll show you all what's what."
He brought the whistle to his lips. The sharp sound echoed through the rusty stands.
"Lads!" he shouted. His voice filled the pitch. "Until today, you've been told you're rubbish. They're right, statistically, you are rubbish right now. But I am a recycling expert. Training starts now!"
The legend of Blackriver United had begun in that rusty stadium, with a lie and a miracle.