The morning air in Cardiff was damp and grey. Rain clung lazily to the rooftops, sliding down windowpanes as if the city itself had just woken up and couldn't be bothered to get moving. Inside a modest studio flat tucked above a quiet corner shop, Ahmad Firdaus stood on his narrow balcony, arms folded across his chest, hoodie pulled tight over his head. He wasn't interested in breakfast. Or checking his emails. Or even preparing for the next module in his UEFA B License course. He just stood there, staring at the grey clouds, silently wondering what the hell he was even doing here.
Twenty-seven years old. Malaysian. Unmarried. Half-broke. Alone in a foreign country where his name was either mispronounced or forgotten entirely. To most people around him, Firdaus came across as cold. Disinterested. Maybe even arrogant. He didn't smile much. Didn't talk unless necessary. When his fellow coursemates went out for drinks, he stayed in. When they discussed tactics or football philosophies, he listened, nodded occasionally, but rarely shared his thoughts.
He had opinions—plenty, in fact. He had late nights filled with obsessive notetaking, reading obscure coaching manuals, watching tactical breakdowns on YouTube until his eyes burned. But he kept all that to himself. It wasn't humility. It was habit. Years of growing up in a culture where you kept your head down unless you were told to speak.
Back home, his younger sister once teased him during a video call.
"You're such a tsundere, abang," she giggled, using the anime term like it was everyday slang. "Acting like you don't care when you actually care the most."
He didn't laugh. But he did smile.
The buzz of his phone snapped him out of the haze. Unknown number. He squinted at the screen. Probably another scam or some random cold caller. He let it ring out.
Buzz. Again. Same number.
He frowned and walked back into the flat, letting the call go unanswered. Third time, the phone buzzed again. Persistent.
This time, he picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Is this… Firdaus? Ahmad Firdaus?" The voice was quick, anxious. British accent.
"Speaking. Who's this?"
"Daniel Ricketts. Head of Football Operations at Cardiff City. We got your contact through the FAW coaching license database. Look—this is going to sound crazy, but we need someone. Short-term coaching emergency. You've got credentials, local presence, and… well, we've run out of options. Are you available to come in today?"
Firdaus blinked. "Wait, is this a prank?"
"No, no. I get that a lot. Listen, I don't have time to convince you over the phone. Just show up at Cardiff City Stadium. Noon. You'll be briefed there."
Before he could respond, the line went dead.
Firdaus stared at the screen.
Cardiff City? The Championship side?
This had to be a joke.
He paced around his flat, trying to make sense of it. Why him? He wasn't even a full license holder yet. There were hundreds—maybe thousands—more qualified than him.
But then again…
It wasn't everyday Cardiff City came calling.
The stadium loomed like a silent giant as Firdaus approached its side entrance. He wore a black windbreaker, jeans, and his old running shoes. Nothing screamed professional coach. He walked past a mural of Cardiff legends, tried not to stare. Tried not to feel small.
A security guard barely looked at him before waving him through.
Inside, a woman with a clipboard greeted him briskly and led him through winding hallways until they reached a plain grey room with a long table, half a dozen chairs, and the smell of stale coffee lingering in the air.
Daniel Ricketts was already there, sleeves rolled up, dark circles under his eyes.
"You actually came," he said, standing to shake Firdaus' hand. "Appreciate that."
"I wasn't sure if this was real," Firdaus muttered.
"Neither are we, to be honest. But desperate times. Our manager walked out yesterday. Mental health reasons. The board's scrambling. We've got Leeds in six days and no one to lead training. We just need someone to keep the ship steady. You're not here to reinvent the wheel. Just hold the damn thing upright."
Firdaus nodded slowly.
"Will I be alone?"
"You'll have the existing staff—assistant coach, fitness guys. But tactically, it's your call. You're interim, not invisible. You'll be paid. Contract through the month. Longer if things go well. Sound good?"
Firdaus hesitated. Every instinct screamed this was too sudden. Too unstable. But something inside him stirred. A familiar itch.
"Alright. I'm in."
By the time he arrived at the flat provided by the club, Firdaus was running on caffeine and disbelief. The place was cleaner, more spacious than his old one. He barely noticed.
He dropped onto the couch, let his bag slide off his shoulder, and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
This was insane.
A knock at the door pulled him out of his daze. A staffer delivered a box—club-issued jackets, matchday wear, even a pair of training boots.
He opened it slowly, pulling out the top layer.
Cardiff blue.
Still feeling detached from reality, he sat down and held the jacket in his hands. The club crest was stitched into the chest, bright and proud.
He scoffed under his breath.
"System… this is mad."
And then, everything changed.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
He froze.
A translucent blue interface hovered in front of his eyes. Sleek. Polished. Unmistakably digital. Data flashed across it—names, stats, fixtures.
[Welcome, Manager.] [Football Manager Pro System: Fully Activated.] [Profile Linked: Ahmad Firdaus – Interim Coach, Cardiff City FC.] [Do you wish to proceed with Tactical Initialization?]
His heart thudded in his chest.
He looked around. The room was silent. No projector. No glasses. No headset.
Just him… and the screen.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
[Please confirm to begin squad analysis and fixture synchronization.] [Upcoming Match: Leeds United (A) – August 6, 2023.]
The fixture popped up with player condition data beneath it—fitness levels, morale, tactical suggestions.
Firdaus swallowed hard.
There was no explanation. No manual. Just the glowing screen and the question.
He reached out, hesitating for only a second, and tapped the air.
[Initializing... Loading Tactical Framework.]
The system pulsed.
His vision adjusted. And just like that, Ahmad Firdaus stepped into a world he never thought possible.
Not just a coach anymore.
A manager.
To Be Continued...
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