CHAPTER 38: MAGICIAN IN THE DEN [2]

Michael was halfway out of his seat, his hand outstretched, a silent "NO!" strangling in his throat.

He gripped the armrest of his seat so hard his knuckles turned a bloodless, stark white.

Down on the pitch, time, which had slowed to a crawl, suddenly snapped back to vicious, real-time speed.

The kick-off pass went straight to Raphael Santos.

"The Butcher" Harris, Millwall’s hulking captain, charged him like a freight train, his studs high, his face a mask of pure, malicious intent.

[Evasive Dribbler: ACTIVATED!]

At the last possible, infinitesimal millisecond, as the defender’s boot was scything in to snap his ankle, Raphael did something impossible.

He shifted. His body, imbued with the system’s supernatural skill, seemed to become almost liquid.

He rode the challenge, his leg lifting just high enough to hurdle the leg-breaker, his balance so perfect that he landed on one foot.

He wasn’t fast enough to avoid the collision entirely. The defender’s momentum, a runaway truck of pure muscle, slammed into his small frame.

Raphael hit the deck hard, tumbling head over heels in a painful-looking heap.

The Den erupted. 20,000 fans roared their approval at the brutal, bone-crunching hit. The referee, in a stunning display of incompetence, didn’t even blow his whistle. He just waved "play on."

Michael’s heart stopped. He had killed the kid. He had sent a lamb to the slaughter.

But then, as "The Butcher" Harris turned to jog away, a smirk on his face, Raphael Santos got back up. He was wincing, rubbing his shoulder where he’d hit the turf.

He was muddy, he was rattled, but as he stood up, he looked directly at the man who had tried to end him.

And Michael, even from the director’s box, could see it.

The fear was gone. It had been replaced by a cold, burning fire in his eyes.

What followed was not a football match. It was, as the commentator would later scream, chaos.

The Butchers, incensed that their first attempt on the "magic boy" had failed, doubled down. They were flying into tackles, pulling shirts, leaving elbows in. It was a dirty, cynical, violent display.

And Barnsley, the "Barnsley Braves," hit back. Not with fists, but with speed.

It was like watching a bullfight. Millwall were the bulls—all rage, power, and blind aggression.

And Barnsley, led by their trio of teenage matadors, were just... dancing.

Raphael Santos [PA 93] was at the center of it all.

The [Evasive Dribbler] skill had transformed him.

He received the ball in tiny, impossible spaces, surrounded by three hulking defenders, and would just... weave his way out.

He wasn’t fast. He just had insane, supernatural ball control. He’d use a defender’s own momentum against them, a quick roulette here, a La Croqueta

there, leaving them tackling air, their ankles broken by his impossible agility. He was, just as Arthur had commanded, dancing. And he was embarrassing them.

This freed up the other two.

On the left, Jamie Weston [PA 89], now brimming with the confidence of his Old Trafford goal, was a pure, unadulterated missile.

Every time he got the ball, he put his head down and just ran, his [Power Shot] an ever-present threat.

In the 20th minute, he cut inside, 35 yards from goal, and unleashed a rocket. The Millwall keeper, seeing it late, let out a terrified shriek and just managed to punch it over the bar.

On the right, Finn Riley [PA 90] was a blur. He was a pure, chaotic whirlwind, his pace leaving the Millwall left-back, who was supposed to be a ’hard man,’ completely in his dust, gasping for air.

Michael sat on the edge of his seat, his heart a frantic drum, as he listened to the live radio feed he had on his earpiece, the commentator losing his mind.

"Good heavens!" the voice screamed, barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "I don’t know what I’m watching! This isn’t League One, this is chaos ball! Raphael Santos is dancing through three... four... five players! Weston is firing rockets from another postcode! Riley is a blur! What on earth has Arthur Milton built at Barnsley?! This is incredible!"

But with every dazzling move, the game got uglier.

The referee, a man clearly out of his depth, had completely lost control.

In the 35th minute, Finn Riley did it again. He exploded past his man, cut into the penalty box, and was just about to shoot when the defender, beaten for the tenth time, lunged in from behind and scythed him down.

It was the most obvious, stonewall penalty Michael had ever seen. The entire Barnsley team, the bench, Arthur, and Michael himself all screamed for it.

The referee, just five yards away, waved his hands.

"Play on!"

"WHAT?!" Michael roared, leaping to his feet.

"ARE YOU BLIND?!"

The injustice was so blatant it was staggering. And it got worse.

In the 40th minute, Barnsley put together a move of pure, divine beauty. It was the trio at their best. Raphael, with a magic, no-look pass, found Finn. Finn, with a one-touch cross, found Jamie. Jamie, with a clever header, nodded it down to the feet of Danny Fletcher.

Danny [PA 91], who had been the calm eye of the storm, took one touch, spun, and hit a perfect, unstoppable volley into the top corner.

A goal of the season. A beauty. 1-0!

Danny was off, wheeling away, his teammates piling on top of him. But then, the crowd’s roar of fury grew. The linesman had his flag up.

Offside.

The referee blew his whistle and chalked off the goal.

Michael, absolutely livid, looked at the instant replay on the small monitor in his box. Danny... Danny wasn’t just onside. He was five yards onside.

Down on the touchline, Arthur exploded.

The calm, collected, tactical genius was gone. In his place was a man of pure, unadulterated rage. He burst out of his technical area, screaming bloody murder at the fourth official, stabbing his finger towards the linesman. "ARE YOU JOKING?! ARE YOU ACTUALLY JOKING ME?! HE WASN’T EVEN CLOSE!"

The referee, his authority in tatters, sprinted over and angrily flashed a yellow card right in Arthur’s face.

The 20,000 home fans were loving it, roaring their approval at the chaos.

And in that moment, with Arthur screaming, the players protesting, and the crowd in a frenzy, Barnsley... switched off.

While everyone was distracted, screaming at the officials, a Millwall defender took the free kick quickly. A long, hopeful, ugly punt down the field.

"The Butcher" Harris, who had been a non-factor for 40 minutes, suddenly came alive. He charged forward, steamrolled Dave Bishop in an obvious (but uncalled) foul, and won the header.

The ball bounced to their striker.

He just scuffed a weak, bobbling shot toward the goal. Barnsley’s keeper, wrong-footed and distracted, slipped. The ball rolled, almost apologetically, over the line.

1-0 to the Butchers.

The stadium erupted in a way Michael had never heard. It wasn’t a sound of joy. It was a sound of pure, spiteful, ugly triumph.

The referee blew his whistle. Halftime.