The Football Legends System

Chapter 71 – Back to Battle

The gates of Carrington swung open under the cold kiss of a Manchester morning.

Mist clung low over, but inside the training ground, there was warmth. Laughter echoed off the walls, boots squeaked against polished floors, and the thudding rhythm of a ball being juggled filled the indoor dome.

They were back.

The euphoria of the dramatic qualification night still lingered faintly—smiles, banter, tired high-fives. But it wouldn’t last long.

Amorim didn’t believe in standing ovations after battle. Not for long.

"Alright!" His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and direct. "Celebration’s over. We face Wolves in five days. Everyone’s playing."

Just like that, the mood changed.

Smirks were replaced by furrowed brows. Casual touches became sharper, faster. Conversations turned to tactics, matchups, spacing. The shift was smooth.

✦ ✦ ✦

Emre Demir’s first full session began in a tight rondo square—seven players, two in the middle.

The ball zipped—tak-tak! tak-tak-tak!—

But then—THUD! Emre stopped it with the sole of his foot, flicked it up casually, and spun it through Wan-Bissaka’s legs with an audacious no-look pass.

"Ehh?! Oi!" Aaron blinked, stunned.

Laughter erupted.

Nathan couldn’t help but clap. "Alright then, Turkish star. You’ve got flair. Now show me what you’ve really got."

Emre just winked. "You’ll see soon."

That wasn’t arrogance. It was confidence. Nathan recognized it instantly—he’d felt the same thing once, walking into Carrington as the new kid.

And maybe, deep down, he knew: this wasn’t just about teammates anymore.

Manchester United entered the matchday sitting fifth in the table.

The league had been unforgiving.

And today—under the Old Trafford lights against a resilient, counter-attacking Wolves side—Amorim’s message was clear.

"Today’s match isn’t about the opponent," he told the squad in the tactical meeting. His voice was low but firm. "It’s about us. About getting our rhythm back. Our confidence. Stop thinking like you’re recovering from something. Start playing like you’re chasing the top."

The room was silent.

Nathan sat at the back, earbuds dangling around his neck. He stared at the digital board showing Wolves’ setup. He wasn’t worried about them.

In the locker room, just minutes before kickoff...

Ding!

Nathan blinked.

A small icon hovered in the top-right of his vision like a HUD flickering in a video game.

[Random Skill Unlocked: Kingsley Coman’s Dribbling][Status: Activated]

His heart skipped.

He knew Coman’s style—tight control, low center of gravity.

Nathan stood up and bounced lightly on his toes.

"Oh... quick close dribbling?" He grinned to himself. "I love this style."

✦ ✦ ✦

The whistle blew.

And the match began.

United controlled possession, passed with poise. Wolves sat deep, five at the back, two midfielders scrambling like guard dogs in front of them.

And Nathan?

He glided.

Tch-tch-tch!Short touches.Flick left. Glide right.Cut inside—whoosh!—a defender lunged and missed.

Nathan skated through gaps. The ball was stitched to his feet. Even the crowd could feel it.

"OHHHH!"

He danced past one, then two—crack!—a third defender barely got a foot in.

But... the final ball didn’t come.

No shot. No through pass.

It’s like I’m painting... but not finishing the canvas...

Up in the commentary booth, it didn’t go unnoticed.

"Nathan’s playing a tune with his skills... but the rhythm’s missing the goal!"

United moved forward again.

Valverde threaded a needle pass.Zirkzee held up the ball, spun, laid it off—Bang! Bruno’s shot whistled over.

Still nothing.

Then came Wolves’ sting.

The 37th minute.

A long ball broke past Dalot’s line. Pedro Neto tore down the left, blazing with speed. The stadium held its breath.

Boom! Boom! Boom!—his boots hammered the turf.

He squared it to Cunha at the penalty spot—BANG!

"SAVE BY ONANA!!"

A full stretch stop. One hand.

Old Trafford. "OOOOOOHHHHH!"

Amorim slapped his clipboard on the bench. "WE NEED SOMEONE TO CHANGE THE PACE!"

✦ ✦ ✦

Minute 50.

The LED board flashed red under the drizzle-soft light.

#7 OFF

#19 ON

Rúben Amorim turned his head slightly and called out, calm:

"Nathan, come closer... Emre’s coming on for Mount."

Nathan jogged toward the touchline, slowing just before Emre stepped onto the pitch.

The Turkish midfielder looked calm—serene, even—as if he’d been here a hundred times before.

Nathan patted his shoulder. "Show them why you’re here."

Emre nodded. "I will."

Then he crossed the white line.

Minute 52.

The first touch.

Wan-Bissaka intercepted a loose pass and sent the ball down the right with a crisp, rising ball.

Thud! Emre brought it down with a silken touch—his first in a United shirt.

The Wolves defender lunged.

Tch! A quick flick through the legs. Gone.

Second man stepped in—strong, fast.

Crack! Another touch, this time behind his heel—he spun out like a dancer.

Old Trafford gasped.

Emre raced to the edge of the box, barely breaking stride. With his left foot, he wrapped the ball low—whip!—bending just outside the keeper’s reach.

THUD!

Bottom corner.

GOAL.

"EMRE DEMIR!!" the commentator shouted, voice trembling with disbelief.

"What a moment, kid! First touch, first goal!"

Nathan, still catching his breath near the halfway line, stood frozen for a heartbeat—then burst into a run, laughing.

"Are you serious?!"

He caught Emre near the corner flag, pulled him into a hug, and yelled into his ear.

"You’ve got fireworks in your boots, man!"

Emre smiled, humble but glowing. "That one was for the start."

United came alive.

The stadium surged with belief. Every pass felt sharper. Every duel, more intense.

Nathan, with adrenaline coursing through him, dropped into space on the left flank, demanding the ball.

Bruno found him—Boom!—switching play with a looping pass that cut through Wolves’ pressing line.

Nathan controlled it near the sideline—two quick touches to stabilize, one to push forward. He feinted right, dragging the full-back out, then powered forward into the channel.

His boots sliced through the turf. Haaah...!

Then came the moment.

Emre sprinted into the half-space between midfield and defence, waving a single hand.

Nathan saw him—sent it across.

Tch-tch! One touch to control. A twist of his hips. A drag past his marker.

And then—boom!—a dazzling backheel into space.

Perfect weight.

Nathan ran onto it, alone, keeper charging out.

Time slowed.

Pick your spot... don’t rush... just breathe.

He took one steadying touch.

Eyes on the corner.

Then—CRACK!—he rolled it calmly past the keeper’s outstretched leg.

2-0.

Nathan didn’t raise his hands.

He just sprinted to Emre again, arms open wide, laughing like a kid in the rain.

"I needed that goal."

Emre, breathing heavily, smirked. "You needed the pass."

"Fair."