CHAPTER 511: DROP THE BOMB

After the news that the youngest billionaire in England, Richard Maddox, purchased The Independent for the symbolic price of £1 was disclosed, related reports immediately poured in.

"The new owner of The Independent, Richard Maddox, said in an interview not long ago that after the acquisition, The Independent will continue to maintain its philosophy of ’pursuing the truth from a neutral standpoint’ and will not deviate from the original intention of the newspaper’s establishment..."

"After acquiring the loss-making Independent, Richard Maddox has become the youngest newspaper owner in Britain. Where will he take this once-glorious but now struggling newspaper?"

There were reports with all kinds of opinions, but most were not optimistic about the future of The Independent under Richard’s leadership. This was not surprising—he was too young and had no prior experience in newspaper management. These reports also made readers of The Independent uncertain about whether their beloved newspaper would continue to survive.

However, they soon found that in the latest issue of The Independent, a new fiction column had appeared, featuring the serialization of a novel called Harry Potter.

Everyone was shocked.

Harry Potter? Isn’t that a book being sold in stores? Why is the newspaper publishing it for free?

But after they read it, they quickly realized—since the story was still in its early Chapters, the plot had yet to unfold fully, so it was too early to judge. Still, readers were intrigued.

There were even rumors saying that Her Majesty the Queen loved the novel so much that she reserved time every morning to have her maid read the newspaper aloud to her—and that she always saved Harry Potter for last. While listening, she would sip black tea and enjoy her leisurely moment.

Of course, none of that was true.

But thanks to this kind of word-of-mouth hype, The Independent suddenly became the talk of the town. With multiple factors working in its favor, sales of The Independent jumped from 70,000 to 90,000 copies in the week after the novel was introduced—and the number kept rising...

That was before Richard dropped the bomb.

Fleet Street, London, 7AM in the morning.

A worker bought his usual morning newspaper, a cup of coffee in the other hand. It was a routine he had repeated countless times. But the moment he caught sight of the bold headline splashed across The Independent’s front page, he froze mid-sip.

His eyes widened.

What... what was this?

He blinked twice, as if making sure his sleepy mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. The headline was still there — loud, daring, impossible to ignore.

A rush of excitement — and a little panic — jolted him fully awake.

Yes, thanks to that bomb, the sales of The Independent increased from 150,000 to 170,000 copies a week after the novel was published, and it is still increasing.

London — the same night. A bitter cold wind snaked through the empty street.

Wiseman lay in bed, holding his wife close as he drifted into a deep sleep—until a piercing ring shattered the silence. Half-awake and irritated, he grabbed his phone.

The moment he heard the frantic voice on the other end, his heartbeat spiked.

"Sir—wake up! We’re in serious trouble!"

It was the FA Executive Director, Geoff Thompson.

Wiseman rubbed his eyes, annoyance flaring. "What time do you think it is? Have you lost all sense of decency? Why aren’t you asleep?"

"Sleep? Sir, the Board has already called an emergency session for the morning! They want explanations. And if this turns into a government inquiry.." He swallowed. "We won’t walk away clean. Nobody does. So,how could I sleep?!"

That long complain sobered Wiseman instantly. He shot upright, adrenaline flooding his system. The cold night somehow felt even colder. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. "You’re not making any sense!"

"It’s too long to explain over the phone. I’m outside—south side of the park. Come down now!"

"It’s the middle of the night."

"Every second counts! By sunrise, we’ll be crucified by breakfast!"

Wiseman had rarely ever seen Thompson like this—panicked, rattled. Suddenly, a cold déjà vu rippled through him.

’Wasn’t this exactly what happened to Kelly before he was kicked out?’

Wiseman’s heart skipped a beat. Even over the phone, he could imagine Thompson pacing, sweating bullets. Anxiety crept into his chest. He pulled on a jacket and hurried outside.

When Thompson finally spotted him, the two met on a deserted street corner, making sure to stay in the shadows.

"What took you so long?" Thompson hissed, voice sharp with nerves.

Wiseman waved him off, impatient.

"Speak."

Thompson yanked a newspaper mock-up—a pre-press proof—from his coat pocket and shoved it into Wiseman’s hands.

Wiseman stepped under a streetlamp to see clearly. The moment his eyes landed on the bold headline sprawled across The Independent’s front page, his breath caught.

"Senior FA official allegedly coordinated pressure campaign."

"Former chairman’s removal linked to confidential loan approvals."

This was reputational assassination. Wiseman’s hands trembled. He stood frozen in shock until Thompson dragged him back into the dark.

"Who raised this issue again?" Wiseman finally croaked. Heat flush up his neck.

Thompson gritted his teeth. "No idea."

"And how did you get this?"

"I’ve spoken to a few friendly journalists. They told me the story is already circulating on desks. If they verify even half of this..." He shook his head. "The headlines will multiply."

Wiseman steadied himself as the initial shock faded. He pushed for details, quickly confirming that the story hadn’t yet reached heavyweights like The Times

.

Thompson fumbled for his phone. "I’ll alert our media contacts—"

Wiseman’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. "Not calls," he hissed, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. "Face-to-face only. At this hour, every line could be tapped. We can’t risk a trace."

"...Indeed."

Wiseman stared at the headline again. That meant only one thing: someone was targeting them.

"This is a deliberate hit job," Wiseman muttered darkly.

Normally, big scandals landed first in major national papers—better connections, higher payouts. If the big dogs didn’t have it yet, the source wasn’t in it for money.

This was personal.

"Who wants to bring us down?" Thompson’s face twisted with panic.

Wiseman’s mind ran through the possibilities—internal enemies? No. This would damage the FA as a whole. Even rival factions knew there were limits. So it had to be someone outside...until he registered the name of the newspaper.

The Independent.

"Richard Maddox," Wiseman breathed.

Thompson blinked. "Him? Would he really risk turning the whole FA against him?"

Wiseman’s expression hardened.

"He doesn’t need to worry. There’s no direct evidence linking him. If we accuse him, we’ll look like we’re smearing him out of spite. And he’s already made allies in the FA. Think about it—ever since that incident, hasn’t his behavior been... strange?"

"Strange how?"

Thompson remembered the aftermath of the Manchester City vs Wimbledon disaster. All the staff—even the players—were suspended... yet they accepted the fines and bans quietly.

No appeals. No backlash. No fight.

Completely unlike Maddox. Too silent. A silence with teeth.

"For God’s sake..." Thompson whispered. "Is he really doing all this just because of one dispute?"

Wiseman exhaled, dread settling heavy in his bones.

"This isn’t a disagreement anymore," he muttered. "He’s trying to bury us alive."