Chapter 839: Blues!

Manchester, England: Etihad Campus Training Ground

The rain never stopped in Manchester.

It fell in thin, persistent sheets that soaked the pitches and blurred the skyline until the whole world was the color of wet slate. Against the gloom, the Etihad Campus stood like a fortress of glass and steel and ambition.

Inside, the training ground seemed rather alive.

Considering the fact that the team was preparing for a war, it wasn’t that strange that the training ground had come alive.

The Champions League quarter-finals were two weeks away, and their opponent was Atlético Madrid, the defending champions and the team that had knocked City out the previous season. It was also the team that had Hiro Takahashi.

The media was already circling.

The English tabloids had been running the story for weeks.

"City vs. Atlético: The Battle of the Giants" — The Sun

"Deneuve’s Revenge: Can City Stop Hiro This Time?" — Daily Mail

"The Boy Who Beat Us: Hiro Takahashi Returns to England" — The Guardian

The narrative was rather simple. Just a year before, the red and white had eliminated the blues. Hence, this match wasn’t just any match for the Blues, but a chance to redeem their lost prestige.

Just at the edge of the pitch, stood a rather striking figure with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the players before him.

He was twenty years old, tall and lean, with sharp features and brown hair that clung to his brow in the damp air. His expression was unreadable, and his posture was perfectly still, like a statue standing in the rain.

But behind that calm face, something was burning.

Last season. The final. Paris. Hiro.

He remembered every moment. He remembered the way Hiro had baited him with a feint and drawn him into a lunge, and the way Hiro had then slipped through the space he left behind, so smoothly that it had looked like pure speed when it had really been a trap.

He remembered the decisive goal that followed. Above all, he remembered the celebration, which had not been arrogant but quiet and certain, the look of someone who already knew he was the better player.

Lucien’s jaw tightened.

He was better. That night... But this time it’ll be different.

He had spent the past year improving and refining.

He had left PSG for Manchester City, a new league and a new challenge and a fresh chance to prove himself, and he had studied the new Hiro, the Maestro the papers described, with the calculated movements and the surgical passes.

He had watched every match and every highlight and every interview until the lines of Hiro’s runs were burned into his mind.

He isn’t the same player. But neither am I.

A whistle blew, and he turned toward the pitch as the session began. Then his gaze fell on the blonde titan before him.

The first thing anyone noticed about Erling Haaland was the sheer size of him.

He was a mountain, six feet four inches of muscle and bone, built like something out of Norse legend and moving with the terrible grace of a predator. His blond hair was tied back, and his ice-blue eyes were fixed on the goal, and his face showed nothing at all.

The English press called him the Terminator, and they were not wrong.

Haaland needed no creativity and no flair. He needed one fleeting moment, and then the ball was in the net.

In this single training session, he scored four goals in twenty minutes, and each one was clinical and unhurried and inevitable, as if the outcome had been decided long before the ball was kicked.

Deneuve watched him from the touchline.

Haaland. The finisher.

City’s attack did not depend on one man. They had Haaland’s goals and Deneuve’s creativity, Enzo Fernández’s engine, Foden’s trickery, and Doku’s dribbling.

In the middle of the pitch, Enzo Fernández was doing what he always did.

He was running.

The Argentine midfielder was everywhere, pressing and tackling, intercepting and distributing, and he never stopped and never slowed. He was the heartbeat of the team and the engine that drove them forward, a relentless force that suffocated every opponent in his path.

Deneuve respected him deeply.

Over the season, the two of them had built an understanding that rested on mutual respect and a shared ambition. Enzo would win the ball, and Deneuve would create, and Haaland would finish.

It was simple, lethal, and unstoppable.

Then, at the end of the pitch, there was another menace. The man named Gianluigi Donnarumma, the wall of the Blues.

The Italian was six feet five, with the wingspan of a condor, and he was a wall. He had moved from PSG before Deneuve, looking for a new challenge and a new league and a new legacy, and the English press had already begun calling him the next Buffon.

They were not wrong about the nickname.

In the session, he made three saves that defied belief, a full-stretch dive to his left, a reflex block with his feet, and a commanding punch from a corner. Each one carried the calm authority of a man who had been doing this his entire life, and the rain streaming off his gloves only made him look more immovable.

Deneuve watched him, and a slow smile crossed his face.

With him behind us, we can’t lose.

Their side had some of the elite players, and each one excelled at their responsibilities.

Despite the departure of Rodri, the heartbeat of the team, the team looked even more terrifying.

The defense was secured, and with Enzo in the midfield, even the midfield was locked. Then there was Erling, the Viking.

The team had been nothing but dominant.

Just like their opponent, the blues had the chance to lift all four trophies. The FA Cup, the Premier League, the Carabao Cup, and the Champions League.

There had been some rumors circulating that Erling was discussing his departure at the end of the season.

However, for now, he was staying at the club, and his focus was on the match ahead of them.