The shrill ring of Rafael's alarm cut through the stillness of the morning, dragging him from a dreamless sleep. He groaned, blindly swiping at his phone until it stopped. Sunlight leaked through the blinds of his new Reading flat, pale and cold — the kind of light that didn't warm you but told you the day had already begun.
As he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the now-familiar blue screen flickered to life at the foot of his bed.
[New Ability Unlocked: Ruler's Authority]
Description:
All individuals under your leadership will now instinctively respect your authority. Resistance to your decisions will lessen. Confidence in your leadership will grow, even without prior reputation.
Rafael stared at the text for a moment, blinking.
"Well," he muttered, voice raspy, "might as well just give me the treble now if you're handing out cheat codes."
The system paused for a second, as if processing his sarcasm.
Then another message appeared.
[Difficulty increased: Legendary]
He choked on his own breath.
"You've gotta be kidding me."
But the screen didn't waver.
[As you improve, the challenge must match. Legendary difficulty activated. Opposing AI will now adapt, exploit tactical weaknesses, and respond dynamically.]
Rafael ran a hand down his face and groaned. "I take it back. I take it all back."
Still, beneath the groaning and reluctant muttering, there was a flicker of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
After splashing cold water on his face and throwing on a clean tracksuit, Rafael made his way to the small kitchen of his flat, nursing a quick bowl of cereal as he opened his laptop. The morning sun hadn't yet burned through the Reading grey, and his body still felt heavy with the weight of the day ahead — his first full day in charge.
He pulled up the schedule the club secretary had sent him last night.
09:30 – First Team Training – Squad Introduction & Warm-up Session
13:00 – Coaching Staff Meeting – Tactical Planning & Department Overview
Rafael leaned back in his chair, letting the words sink in. This was it. Today he stopped being the young newcomer lurking around offices and started being the actual gaffer.
He'd meet the squad — officially, this time. No passing conversations or cautious glances. Today he'd speak to them as their manager. Not Mark Dempsey, not an interim. Him.
After training, he had a meeting scheduled with the rest of the backroom staff. Assistant coaches, fitness heads, analysts — everyone who played a role in the machine behind matchday. He'd need to understand the structure, the people, and most importantly, who he could trust.
Rafael glanced at the clock again. Almost time to leave.
He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and paused by the door for a moment. That blue screen from earlier still lingered in the back of his mind.
Ruler's Authority. Legendary difficulty.
He exhaled a quiet laugh. "Well, here goes nothing."
The cold morning air bit at Rafael's cheeks as he stepped out of his car and approached the training ground entrance. His breath fogged in front of him, boots crunching softly on the gravel. He adjusted the strap of his bag and took one last calming breath before heading through the glass doors.
Inside, the warmth hit him immediately, along with the familiar scent of turf, sweat, and disinfectant. Mark Dempsey was already there waiting by reception, clipboard tucked under his arm, coffee in hand.
"Morning, gaffer," he said, offering a slight grin as they shook hands.
Rafael smiled back, "Morning. Everyone inside?"
"Squad's getting changed as we speak," Mark said, motioning toward the hallway leading to the dressing rooms. "They'll all be in the assembly room in ten. Usually we just go straight out, but figured today they should hear from you first."
"Good," Rafael nodded, pulling a small USB stick from his coat pocket. "Here — there's a presentation I want to show them. Should be all set up before they come in."
Mark raised an eyebrow as he took it. "A presentation?"
"Formation breakdown, tactical expectations, attitude, what I want from them this season," Rafael said. "It's basic. Just enough to get them thinking."
Mark gave an approving nod. "Alright. I'll get it loaded up."
As Mark turned and made his way toward the media room where the projector was, Rafael lingered for a moment, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the hallway. The air buzzed faintly with voices and laughter coming from the changing room — his players, his squad.
This was the moment it all started to feel real.
He straightened his posture and followed after Mark. Time to make his first impression count.
…
The changing room buzzed with the usual sounds — the thump of boots being pulled on, the rustle of shirts being dragged over heads, muffled banter rolling through the space. Despite the routine, there was a charged undercurrent in the air, a quiet anticipation that came with the arrival of someone new.
In the corner, one of the younger lads glanced across the bench at Andy Yiadom as he laced up his boots.
"Skip," he asked, keeping his voice low, "what d'you think this new manager's gonna be like?"
Andy didn't answer right away. He finished tying his boots, sat up straight, and let out a short breath.
"He's young. That's the first thing," he said, resting his elbows on his knees. "But Dempsey said things are gonna change around here. New system. New energy."
That last bit caught the attention of Andy Carroll, who had been quietly taping his wrists nearby. He raised a brow and looked up.
"New system?" he repeated, a rough edge to his voice. "We've been five at the back all season. What's he planning on doing, tearing it all up halfway through?"
Yiadom glanced at him, calm but direct. "Apparently, Moretti's not a fan of the five. Wants to switch to a back four. Maybe a whole different shape."
Carroll leaned back, frowning. "So who's getting dropped then?"
Yiadom shrugged. "No idea. But Dempsey made it sound like the starting eleven's getting a shake-up."
A few players exchanged looks. The silence that followed was heavier than before — not outright tense, but loaded with unspoken questions.
Carroll scoffed. "Hell of a move for someone who's barely older than some of the lads."
"Doesn't matter," Yiadom replied, standing and tugging down his top. "He's the gaffer now. We give him the same respect we'd give anyone else. We're sitting 23rd — maybe it's time something changed."
No one had much to add to that. The boots hitting the floor echoed louder as they began filing out toward the assembly room. The usual pre-training noise faded into a quiet curiosity, as the team got ready to hear exactly what kind of manager Rafael Moretti was about to be.
….
The low hum of voices fell silent as Rafael stepped up to the front of the assembly room. All eyes turned to him — some curious, some skeptical, a few outright unreadable. It was a full room. Twenty-something players, first team and fringe, boots tapping against the floor, arms folded, waiting to hear what the 19-year-old gaffer had to say.
He stood tall, jaw set, and let the silence stretch just long enough to command the room before he spoke.
"My name's Rafael Moretti," he began, voice calm but cold. "I'm your new manager. And no, you're not imagining things — I'm young. Probably younger than all of you in this room. I'm not going to waste time proving I deserve to be here. The board already decided that. Now it's on you to prove you deserve to be here."
Some brows raised. A few players glanced at each other. Rafael didn't flinch.
"I've watched the games. I've seen the tape. I've read the reports. Twenty-third place, twenty-two points, and a squad that looks like it's sleepwalking to relegation. That ends today."
He clicked the remote, and the projector screen came alive with a tactical diagram — a 4-2-3-1, bold and clean.
"We're scrapping the back five. It's done. That passive, sit-back-and-hope system? I want no part of it. We're going to press higher. Play faster. Take risks. That means change. And yes — that means some of you are going to be dropped."
Now there was a murmur. Arms shifting. Backs straightening.
"I don't care how long you've been here. I don't care how many minutes you've played. Your name, your history — it means nothing to me."
He took a step forward, eyes sharp.
"If you're not fit, if you're not hungry, if you don't want to run until your lungs burn — you're not in my eleven. Simple as that."
He turned his gaze across the room.
"You don't have to like me. But you will respect this club. And if you give me everything, I'll give you something to fight for. But the days of comfort and coasting are over. You want to play? Prove it."
Silence.
The screen went dark.
"Training starts in ten," Rafael said flatly. "Show me something."
….
Upstairs, tucked away in a quiet corner of the training facility, Paul and David sat in the boardroom, eyes fixed on the grainy feed from the assembly room's overhead camera. The audio was crisp enough, catching every word Rafael delivered to the squad. Neither man said a thing until the screen went black and Rafael's speech came to an end.
Paul leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest. He let out a low breath, a mix of surprise and reluctant admiration. "Well," he muttered, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed."
David, still watching the now-dark screen as if Rafael might suddenly reappear, didn't respond right away. His fingers tapped silently against the edge of the table. He finally gave a slow nod.
"He's got presence," David admitted. "I didn't expect that."
Paul turned to look at him. "You thought he'd freeze up, didn't you?"
David scoffed lightly. "He's nineteen. What would you expect?"
"Not that," Paul said, gesturing at the blank monitor. "He had them listening. Really listening. And not because he shouted or made empty promises. He told them the truth. That's not something you see often."
David sat back, frowning in thought. "Still a long road ahead."
Paul smiled faintly. "It always is. But I'd say… he's off to a solid start."
The two men fell into silence again, both aware that whatever came next — Rafael had at least earned their attention.
…
Rafael left the assembly room after the team meeting, the last of his words still hanging in the air as the squad sat in silence, absorbing the weight of what had just been said. "Training starts in ten," he'd told them. "Use that time wisely. I've got something to take care of."
He made his way through the halls with purpose, the hum of the facility barely registering. As he pushed open the door to his office, he was met with a familiar figure — tall, sharp-featured, with that unmistakable mop of jet-black hair.
"Cesare," Rafael said, a small smile pulling at his lips.
The Italian teenager looked up from the windowsill he'd been leaning against, a flicker of surprise in his expression. "Rafael? No way. You're actually my manager now?"
"Looks like it," Rafael replied, stepping inside. "It's been a while since the academy days, huh?"
Cesare smiled, but his tone turned more solemn. "Shame about the injury, man. I heard it was bad."
Rafael shrugged, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. "Yeah. It's whatever now. Life moves on."
He moved behind his desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a folded paper. Then he looked up at the young midfielder. "Come in, close the door."
Cesare did, curiosity in his eyes.
"I want to invite you to train with the first team today," Rafael said plainly.
Cesare blinked, taken aback. "Wait—seriously? Look, Raf… I appreciate it. I really do. But I don't want this to be some sort of favouritism thing. Just because we used to play together—"
Rafael raised a hand. "This isn't about that."
Cesare paused.
"You've been turning heads in the U21s," Rafael continued. "I've gone through the footage. You're more composed on the ball than half the midfielders we've got right now. You've got vision, you've got control. You're not here because I owe you anything. You're here because I think you're ready."
For a moment, Cesare said nothing. Then his expression shifted — pride, hope, and maybe just a little disbelief.
"Alright then," he said, nodding. "Let's get to it."
Rafael smirked, grabbing his whistle from the desk. "Let's see what you've got."
…
Later that night, as Rafael sat on his sofa in his new flat, a steaming cup of tea in hand, he flipped on the TV. It didn't take long for the screen to be flooded with the familiar faces of football punditry—Sky Sports' primetime panel.
"Welcome back to Monday Night Football," the host began, the title screen fading into a live shot of the studio. "Big news in the Championship this week—Reading FC have made a bold move, appointing 19-year-old Rafael Moretti as their new manager. Reactions have been mixed across the footballing world, and tonight we're joined by Roy Keane, Jamie Carragher, and Micah Richards to discuss this shocking decision."
Roy didn't wait long to make his opinion known. He leaned forward, that trademark scowl already forming. "It's nonsense, to be honest. Reading must be desperate. You don't just hand the reins of a professional football club to a teenager with no real managerial experience. The Championship isn't some development league. Players won't respect him. I wouldn't."
Jamie nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I have to say I'm with Roy on this one. Look, I admire the ambition, but there's levels to this game. Being a former youth prospect doesn't mean you're ready to manage grown men in a relegation battle. It's a massive gamble by the board."
Micah chuckled, clearly trying to balance the tone. "Come on, lads. Look, I get the concern, but the club clearly saw something in him. You don't make a move like this unless the kid showed something special. And from what I've heard, he's got a sharp footballing brain. Maybe he surprises us."
Roy raised an eyebrow. "He'd have to be a miracle worker. The dressing room will eat him alive."
Rafael muted the TV, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It wasn't the first time he'd been doubted—he doubted it'd be the last.
Let them talk. He had work to do.