Match day.
The morning air in Leeds was cooler than expected, laced with drizzle that clung to the windows of the team bus. Firdaus sat in the front row, earbuds in, eyes closed—not asleep, but steadying himself. The vibrations of the road, the occasional chatter at the back of the bus, the thrum of tires—it all faded into a low hum.
His playlist was on shuffle, but he wasn't listening to the lyrics. It was just background noise to anchor his racing thoughts. Today wasn't just about football. It was about proving that he belonged here.
He didn't check his phone. He didn't need to.
He already knew the internet was having a field day.
"Cardiff's interim manager looks like a substitute math teacher."
"Leeds gonna eat this no-name alive."
"He's too calm. I bet he's clueless."
Firdaus opened his eyes slowly and looked out the window. The stadium was drawing near, the massive structure rising through the grey sky like a monument of judgment. He adjusted his jacket collar, took a deep breath, and stood up just as the bus stopped.
When the team filed out, cameras flashed. Sky Sports reporters lined the entrance tunnel, mic booms overhead like vultures. A journalist called out, "Firdaus, any thoughts before your first match?"
He paused briefly, his face blank.
"Watch closely."
Then he walked past without another word, leaving murmurs behind him.
Inside the away dressing room, tension buzzed in the air. The players sat in their usual places, jerseys hung behind them. The smell of liniment and fresh kits filled the space. Some players scrolled through their phones, others laced boots or tugged socks up to their knees. Conversations were low and cautious.
Firdaus stood before them with a folded tactics sheet in one hand. No projector. No dramatic speech. Just him.
"You know what to do," he said quietly. "We practiced it all week. Trust the system. Trust each other. Stay compact. Be patient."
He turned to Joe Ralls and nodded. "You start the press. Don't wait. If Ampadu slows the ball, go."
Then to Ramsey. "Float. You don't need permission. Find the space. You'll know it when it opens."
His gaze moved to the back line. "No hero moves. If in doubt, clear it."
The room was still. No shouting. No big emotional crescendo. But the weight of his words carried through the silence. Players exchanged glances, the mood sharpening. Even Aaron Ramsey, who had played under world-class managers, gave a subtle nod of approval.
Assistant coach Omer Riza leaned over to goalkeeping coach Gavin Ward. "That's the quietest briefing I've ever seen."
Ward smiled faintly. "But did you see their eyes? He's got them listening."
As Firdaus stepped onto the Elland Road touchline, the stadium roared around him. Nearly forty thousand fans, mostly in white, jeering and clapping. Cardiff fans sang from the corner section, outnumbered but proud.
Firdaus walked calmly to the technical area, eyes scanning the pitch. He didn't look up at the stands. He didn't wave. He just stood still, focused.
"System," he whispered under his breath.
The interface blinked into view.
[LIVE MATCH MODE – ACTIVE]
[Stamina, Morale, Tactical Sync: Displaying in Real-Time]
[Opponent Analysis: Ampadu – Central Orchestrator, Vulnerable to fast cuts]
The players warmed up. Firdaus watched Kion Etete misplace a pass and scuff a finishing drill. Something was off.
"Substitute," he said calmly to Riza. "Switch Kion for Robinson. Start Yakou Meite on the left."
Omer blinked. "Now? Robinson wasn't in the starting plan."
"He is now."
The change was made without further argument. Firdaus didn't explain his reasoning—he didn't need to. The data spoke to him in ways others couldn't see.
Kick-off.
The match began with intensity. Leeds pressed immediately, their front four hunting the ball like wolves. Cardiff struggled to maintain possession. Passes went astray. Ethan Ampadu and Joel Piroe orchestrated from midfield, pinning Cardiff deep.
Firdaus didn't move. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.
But inside, alarms were going off.
[Pass Completion – 71%]
[Defensive Line Too Deep – Adjust? Y/N]
He tapped 'Yes'. The backline responded, stepping up slightly, compacting the space.
Another alert:
[Ramsey isolated – Suggest: shift formation to 4-3-3 or drop winger support]
Firdaus dismissed the suggestion. Instead, he stood up and called out calmly, "Joe, tuck in! Let Meite drop and cover!"
The shift balanced the midfield. Ramsey found the ball within seconds.
Leeds pushed again. Daniel James accelerated down the left, but Perry Ng tracked him stride for stride and forced a throw-in. Firdaus exhaled through his nose.
Minute 34. The scoreboard still read 0-0.
A long throw-in for Leeds. Piroe turned and smashed a volley. Mark McGuinness blocked it heroically. The ball deflected wide.
Cardiff countered.
Wintle to Ramsey. Ramsey spun away from a marker, slipped it to Robinson. One touch. Through ball to Meite. He broke clear. Shot—
Saved.
But the Cardiff bench stood. The chance was there.
Firdaus remained seated, but his fingers tapped against his thigh.
Omer looked over. "You really trust them that much?"
"I trust the work," Firdaus replied.
Another press from Leeds. High line. Ampadu moved into space again.
Minute 39. The system pulsed.
[Stamina Drop Detected – Suggest Rest Period via Possession]
Firdaus adjusted the tempo slider through the interface. Cardiff slowed play, passing between defenders and midfield to draw Leeds in.
It worked.
Minute 44.
Leeds slowed the pace. Ampadu collected the ball at the edge of his own third. Firdaus's eyes narrowed.
He'd seen the hesitation before.
"Trigger press," he muttered.
Joe Ralls burst forward. Ramsey followed.
Ampadu turned too late. Ramsey stole the ball, cut inside. One-two with Robinson. Meite drifted into space, received the pass.
He didn't hesitate.
Shot. Low and hard.
GOAL.
The away fans erupted. The Cardiff bench exploded. Omer jumped and punched the air. Even the substitutes rushed to the touchline.
Firdaus turned, walked back to his seat, and sat down.
But his fingers were trembling.
Omer looked at him with a mix of awe and suspicion.
"I don't know who this guy is," he muttered, "but he's not normal."
From the stands, a Sky Sports commentator leaned into the mic.
"Whoever doubted Ahmad Firdaus… may need to reconsider."
The camera zoomed in on Firdaus's face. Calm. Stoic. But his eyes said everything.
And then the referee blew for halftime.
Firdaus stood slowly, turning back toward the tunnel. He didn't look at the scoreboard. He didn't smile. But inside, the fire roared.
To be continued...
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