The knowledge that there were other managers out there, other brilliant minds to compete with and learn from, was an exhilarating motivator.

He spent the next day in a state of focused calm. His shift at CostMart flew by, his mind occupied with tactical conundrums and the memory of Maya's brilliant, infuriating smile. He got home, ate dinner with his family, and then, with a sense of clear purpose, he headed for the pod.

It was the day before the Fleetwood match. It was time to work.

He materialized on the virtual training ground.

The digital sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pristine grass.

His players were finishing up their final, light session before the game, their movements sharp, their passes crisp.

The disastrous loss to Accrington felt like a distant memory, a necessary fever that had broken, leaving the team stronger and more immune to the disease of arrogance.

Before calling the team meeting, Ethan retreated to his office for a moment of quiet analysis.

He pulled up the squad development screen, his heart beating with a familiar, hopeful rhythm.

The week of intense, focused training after the defeat had been brutal. He needed to see if it had paid off.

He clicked on Viktor Kristensen's profile.

The Danish striker's stats glowed on the screen. His finishing was sharper, his composure higher.

Ethan's eyes went straight to the most important number. Current Ability. After the Bolton match, it had been 70.

He held his breath.

The number was now 71.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. Consistent progress.

Excellent.

Then, he clicked on Emre Demir's profile. He was expecting a similar, small increase. But what he saw made his jaw drop.

The Turkish magician's stats had exploded.

His passing, his vision, his technique—all had seen significant jumps. He looked at the main number.

After the training boost, it had hit 70.

The number was now 72.

"No way," Ethan breathed.

A two-point jump in a single week was almost unheard of. It meant Emre wasn't just developing; he was evolving at an exponential rate.

He was adapting, learning, and growing into the SSS-Rank monster the game had promised.

He walked out onto the training pitch, a new, unshakeable confidence radiating from him. He gathered his players, who were toweling off after their session.

"Good week, lads," he began, his voice calm but firm.

"I've seen the focus. I've seen the hunger. The lesson from last week has been learned."

He looked directly at Emre, who was standing quietly at the back of the group. "Emre. A word."

The young midfielder stepped forward.

"Yes, gaffer?"

"Your new role," Ethan said, "the deeper, more disciplined playmaker position. How does it feel?"

"It's different," Emre admitted, choosing his words carefully. "Less... freedom to run at players. But I can see the whole game in front of me. I can see the runs before they happen. I like it."

"Good," Ethan said. "Because that's who you are now. You are the brain of this team. Everything goes through you. The others," he said, his gaze sweeping across the rest of the squad, "are the body. The arms, the legs. They do the running, the fighting. But you, Emre, you tell them where to go. It's a huge responsibility. Are you ready for it?"

Emre Demir looked at his manager, and for the first time, the shy, humble teenager was completely gone. In his place was a young man of supreme, unshakeable self-belief.

"I was born ready, gaffer."

A low murmur of approval went through the senior players.

They saw it too. Their little magician was becoming a king.

The next day, it was matchday. The away dressing room at Fleetwood Town's Highbury Stadium was small, cramped, and smelled faintly of damp grass.

It was a classic lower-league ground, a world away from the Premier League glamour of Molineux.

But the Apex players were not intimidated. They were a team on a mission.

"Right, remember the plan," Grant Hanley, back from his suspension, was saying to his defensive partner, the now S-Rank James McCarthy. "Their striker is a big lad, but he's got a terrible first touch. Don't dive in. Just give him a yard, and he'll give the ball back to you."

"Got it, skip," McCarthy said, a focused look on his face.

Ethan stood before them, ready to give his final team talk. "You all know what we have to do," he said simply. "We respect them, but we do not fear them. We play our game. We are patient, we are professional, and we are ruthless. We lost our last match. It happens. Today, we start a new winning streak. Let's go."

The team walked out into the roar of a passionate, hostile home crowd. The stadium was small, but the noise was immense, the fans right on top of the pitch.

Ethan took his place in the dugout, a calm, focused expression on his face. He was ready.

"A very warm welcome to the windswept Fylde Coast for what promises to be a fascinating League One encounter!" the commentator's voice exploded from the gantry, filled with a manic, high-pitched energy. "It's the plucky underdogs, Fleetwood Town, against the team that has taken the division by storm, the team everyone is talking about, the teenage dream, the miracle workers, the comeback kings, the league leaders... APEX UNITED!"

The commentator took a huge, theatrical gasp of air.

"And what a story they have been! Six games played, five wins, and that one, solitary, frankly bizarre defeat last week to Accrington Stanley! A defeat that saw them score in the first minute and lose to a 90th-minute own goal of such spectacular, tragic beauty that it's already a contender for goal of the season! Can they bounce back today? Or was their perfect start just a flash in the pan? They sit top of the table on 15 points, but the chasing pack is closing in! The pressure is on for the young, enigmatic manager, Ethan Couch!"

The whistle blew. The match began.

And from the very first second, it was clear that the commentator's manic energy was a perfect match for the game that was about to unfold.

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