Ambition

Vroom~

The Porsche sped quickly from The Holiday Inn, where Richard had been staying, toward Maine Road. It seemed that he might need to buy a house here, or perhaps staying at his new office in the Maine Road stadium would be a good option for now, since he would be very busy.

RING~

His phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts. It was his brother, Harry.

"Wait, do you actually own City now?"

Harry held up the phone, clearly taken aback by the news that his younger brother had taken full control of Manchester City.

"Why? You shocked? How's it feel knowing your little brother's doing better than you?"

Harry shot back, "Ha, Division Two? What's there to be proud of?"

Richard smirked. "Hahaha, come on, admit it—you're jealous."

"What? You—"

The two brothers continued their playful banter before Harry asked, "So, what's your plan for me?"

Richard raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Huh? Didn't you send me to Oxford to help you out?"

Richard pondered for a second. "At first, I imagined that once you made it with your supermarket business, you could help me by getting your football agent license and taking over all the players under me. But it seems that's not feasible anymore."

"Is this about your case recently?"

Richard shrugged. "Yeah, better safe than sorry."

"...So, that's it then?"

"Are you still going ahead with your supermarket idea?"

"No, I've gained so much enlightenment during my time here. I don't think I can go head-to-head with Tesco and Sainsbury's for market share."

"Is that so?" Richard raised an eyebrow.

'But this is also good,' he pondered for a moment before sharing his idea. "Well, the bad news is that this year, I'll have to release all the players under me and shut down my agency before things get worse."

Harry nodded. "And the good news? If there's bad news, there's gotta be something good, right?"

"The good news is that the agency I was planning to build hasn't launched yet, so it'll be easier for me to let go of all the players. Some of them have special clauses, but I'll make sure to get the best out of them this year."

Harry's confusion deepened. "Then what does that mean? What do you want me to do?"

"What I mean is, when my agent license is terminated, I want to create a new agency, but it won't be related to football."

"And what kind of agency are we talking about?"

"My plan is to switch my agency from football to entertainment—singers, bands, actors, actresses, models, or athletes—as long as it's not football. I need your help managing it."

"...You're kidding, right?"

"Since when have I ever joked?"

"You know, running an agency like that requires a much bigger budget, and we're starting from zero."

"You know your brother currently has a billion in capital, right?"

"A billion? With a B?"

"Yes, a billion."

£300 million in cash + £700 million loan (collateral: £300 million in property + £400 million in WWE PPV shares with Maddox Capital brand name)

'Yeah, even if 700 million of that is a loan, the value's still the same, right?' Richard reassured himself.

"Good brother! Alright, count me in," Harry said decisively.

"Good decision," Richard replied, then they chatted briefly before both ended the call.

When he arrived at Maine Road, the scene unfolded just as before.

Fans had gathered, but this time, there was no chaos. They stood quietly, waiting, until the familiar vroom~ of an engine filled the air.

The midnight blue Porsche, the same one they had seen the day before, appeared.

"Here he comes," they whispered.

As people stepped aside to make way for the car, they were surprised when the Porsche suddenly slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road instead.

Many fans didn't fully understand the internal workings of City, especially the long-standing covenant that had been in place since 1964. What they wanted to know was simple: who was the next owner, and could they bring City back to the top division?

That was all that mattered. As for the championship?

Forget it.

Just surviving would be a blessing.

So, when they heard Richard Maddox's name—rather than another faceless investor or some greedy businessman—there was a mix of excitement, relief, and a bit of skepticism.

After years of heartbreak and disappointment, there was finally hope for the club's future. But Richard also hadn't proven himself yet, had he? After all, he had been absent all this time.

At least however, they knew Richard was responsible for discovering some of the brightest talents for City over the past years: Chris Armstrong, Rob Jones, Graeme Le Saux, and Steve McManaman, not to mention all the players he represented as an agent.

Fans were stunned—everyone had been successful, even glaringly so.

'Is it a coincidence?" they wondered. "Twelve players shaking up the Premier League, each gunning for the top scorer spot every year? Unbelievable!'

It sparked hope.

"What's everyone doing here so early in the morning?" Richard asked with a smile, his tone lighthearted as he stepped out of the car.

While the crowd was still deep in thought, a sudden voice snapped them back to reality. Their eyes lit up, and in an instant, they swarmed toward him, eagerly holding out their City jerseys and markers, hoping for a signature.

After chatting with fans outside the gates and shaking hands with them, Richard reassured them, promising to rebuild City from the ground up. But when a young fan, probably around 14 years old, nervously asked about the future of his favorite player, Richard's answer left him stunned.

"Mr. Maddox, what about Kinkladze?" the boy asked, holding out a City jersey for Richard to sign.

Richard glanced at him while uncapping his marker. "Are you his fan?" he asked.

"Yes," the kid nodded eagerly.

Gio Kinkladze—his first season, 9 goals. His second, 17. On paper, an outstanding record for City. But there was a problem. Despite his numbers, Kinkladze was wildly inconsistent.

One match, he'd score a hat-trick; the next three, he'd go missing. Then, suddenly, another flurry of goals. It was a frustrating cycle. In football, no matter how many goals you score in a match, you still only get three points.

Any coach would prefer a striker who scores steadily—one goal per game—rather than someone who explodes with three goals one match and then goes silent for weeks.

Richard paused for a moment, weighing the pros and cons, then shook his head. "There's no place for him next season."

The young fan froze, his mouth slightly open in shock.

Richard continued, "The first squad, coaching staff, and management will likely change. When that happens, some familiar faces may no longer be here. All I ask is for your patience. What matters most is that we deliver results—and we will. I will."

Then, lowering his voice, he raised his hand, fingers spread wide.

"Five years. Give me five years, and I'll bring home the trophy. That's my promise."

Stay rational. Stay grounded. The FA Cup and League Cup? Achievable. But the Premier League? Possible—just highly unlikely, especially with Manchester United dominating.

'Unless the club's finances are in perfect shape… ugh.' Richard ran a hand through his hair, frustration creeping in as he thought about the club's situation.

Silence fell over the crowd.

Richard let the weight of his words settle before glancing at security and giving a small nod. Then, turning back to the fans, he offered a reassuring smile.

"Alright, guys, I truly appreciate your support, but I have to go now. Once again, thank you for standing by us."

Even the security guards seemed momentarily speechless before snapping back to attention, following Richard's cue to clear a path for his car.

"Take care, everyone! Don't stay out too long, and don't forget to grab some breakfast, alright? See you soon!"

With that, he got into his car and drove into the stadium.

Vroom~

It was a harsh reality no City fan wanted to face: for the first time in their history, the club was starting a season in the third tier of English football, following a painful relegation from Division 1.

This setback meant the Blues now had to climb two divisions to return to the top tier. If only they had managed to survive in the Premier League—at least then, they would have reaped the benefits of the lucrative television contract and secured a few key signings. Now, the Blues were forced to tighten their belts and say goodbye to their stars.

Richard didn't care at all.

BANG!

"…?"

A loud, familiar sound pierced the air.

Richard instinctively turned his head toward the source. Of course, he knew that sound—the sharp, satisfying crack of a ball being struck

The closer he got, the clearer the sounds became—footballs being kicked, shouts, and commands being barked.

How long had it been since he'd heard these familiar noises?

Since Manchester City had been relegated, the club had imposed a harsh consequence: the players' summer break had been cut short.

They were required to return early for preseason training to prepare for the long road ahead. Of course, Richard hadn't set that rule. That was the job of the current manager, Alan Ball.

"Hmm."

When he arrived at the training ground, Richard narrowed his eyes.

"Hey! Move back, move back!"

"If you can't hold onto the ball, pass it quickly! They're pressing you!"

Shouts rang out across the pitch, voices sharp with urgency and frustration.

He decided to observe for a bit longer. This was the first training session after the offseason break and, more importantly, the first time he was watching the first team train in person.

The players sprinted across the pitch, passing swiftly, engaging in rondos, and sharpening their movements with every touch. But what really caught Richard's attention wasn't the players—it was the man overseeing them.

"Ray Donard and Joe Royle."

The head coach and the first-team coach.

Richard's expression darkened.

'All these people… they've already received their summons letters, yet they never responded. And now, the moment the players arrive, they suddenly show up? What the hell?'

With that, he approached them, who were deep in an intense discussion.

"The two wingers—they're both capable with their weaker foot, right? Not as strong as their dominant one, but decent enough?"

"The opposing defense is quick. If they try to dribble down the line, they'll get caught. Tell them to cut inside instead. Their ball control is good enough."

"What?" Richard suddenly interjected, intentionally drawing their attention.

The two men turned around, blinking in surprise.

"…Who are you?"

"..."

"I said, who are you? And how did you even get in here?"

Richard's mouth twitched, but he didn't bother repeating himself. Instead, he let out a slow, disappointed sigh.

"Pathetic. Horrendous. It gives me chills," he muttered, lowering his voice but unable to hide his frustration as he observed the training session.

Donard and Royle exchanged glances, clearly taken aback. Who the hell was this guy?

"Passing? Weak. Physical duels? Nonexistent. Speed? Laughable. Clearances? A disaster," Richard continued, his eyes never leaving the pitch.

'Want to compete with Manchester United with this squad? Hah!'

It seemed he had no choice but to invest heavily in the squad next season. But as he glanced toward the Kippax Stand and the Platt Lane Stand—both battered and barely holding up after the fury of the fans in the past two seasons—a bitter smile crept onto his face.

It meant that he couldn't rely too much on ticket sales and stadium revenue next season. After all, who would want to watch a third-tier match?

'This is a good thing, though. It can be guaranteed that there won't be any pitch invasions next season, like there were last year.'

"Are you the new owner?"

A deep, gruff voice pulled him from his thoughts. Standing before him was a stocky man with ginger hair, a round, weathered face, and a compact frame.

Alan Ball.

"I'm Alan Ball," he said, extending his hand.

Richard glanced at Ball's outstretched hand for a moment before finally shaking it. But he didn't let the moment pass without a jab.

"A good manager just stands on the touchline, arms crossed or hands in their pockets during training? They should be involved, pushing the players, guiding them, not just watching from the sidelines like a spectator."

"..."

But he wasn't done yet. Richard took a deep breath, then locked eyes with Ball, his expression turning serious.

"Mr. Manager, let me ask you something—why did you bring your wife to training today?"

'And there she was, standing by the Platt Lane Stand, casually watching the training as if she owned all of them. Also, why was she still wearing the World Cup medal around her neck? Don't tell me she's been like this for the past two years, or is it because of him? Interesting.'

Showing off?

Trying to stamp her husband's authority by parading that medal around?

"What's truly unacceptable is abandoning your post and turning the training ground into a dating spot. Hey, coach, you do realize that's a complete failure of professional responsibility, right?"

Ball scoffed. "Donard and Royle are overseeing the session."

Richard merely gave him a long, deep look.

"There will be an annual grand meeting next week. Don't be late," he said before leaving.