Chapter 4: Be Bold, Be Innovative, and Get Yourself a Mansion!

London's Canary Wharf—22 square kilometers of pure financial muscle, glass skyscrapers, and enough wealth to make a pirate weep. By day, it's a business paradise; by night, it's a glittering spectacle where tourists float along the Thames, admiring the skyline and wondering why their bank accounts are so small.

Among the many luxury yachts docked along the pier, one stood out like a billionaire at a flea market: The Blue Sky. A beast of a boat, sleek and black-hulled, its three white decks gleamed under the city lights. At the stern, a fleet of tenders hinted that this wasn't just any yacht—it was the yacht. And considering Canary Wharf charged nearly £10,000 a day just to park your floating palace, only the richest could afford it.

Inside one of its lavish second-floor cabins, a man with the kind of money that could buy small countries was staring at a map of London.

Roman Abramovich. Russian tycoon. Israeli passport holder. Football enthusiast. And, at this moment, a real estate predator with a very specific target.

"I'm buying land in Cobham," he announced, tapping a finger on the map. "And I'm considering a property on Kensington Gardens Street…" He paused dramatically before adding, "But what I really want… is Bayswater."

His gaze locked onto the man across from him: Pini Zahavi, Israeli football agent and professional deal-maker.

"Pini, this is your job."

Pini Zahavi, ever the smooth operator, didn't flinch. Well, maybe a little.

"Don't worry, those Chinese guys won't last long," he said with a reassuring smile.

Abramovich raised an eyebrow. "I heard they found some money?"

"Two million pounds," Pini confirmed. "But they took a loan—three million due in two years."

Abramovich scoffed. "That's adorable."

"They're desperate," Pini continued. "No manpower, no deep pockets… It's just a matter of time before they sell the land. Or the whole club."

Abramovich nodded, satisfied. "If we can buy the land, perfect. If not…" He swirled a glass of expensive red wine. "Then we buy the club."

With that, he returned his attention to the map, his finger resting on Bayswater—just north of Hyde Park.

"Prime real estate. How did those Chinese guys get it?"

Pini had asked around. No one had a clue. It was like one of those mystery novels where the butler turns out to be the killer, except the butler here was a random group of underfunded football enthusiasts.

"This is the best stadium location in the world," Abramovich mused, eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. "I want to build the greatest football stadium ever seen."

Pini nodded, though he knew one thing for certain—when Abramovich wanted something, he got it.

And right now, he wanted Bayswater.

---

Meanwhile, in a much less luxurious setting, Lin Zhongqiu was very anxious.

But Yang Cheng? Not so much.

Having coached European football for over 30 years in his past life (not that anyone believed him, of course), Yang Cheng had seen the rise and fall of many great teams. If he had learned anything, it was this:

Panic solves nothing.

Especially now.

Building a football team wasn't hard—throw money at the problem, and voilà, you have a squad. But building a competitive team? A team that could dominate? That was another story.

And Yang Cheng wasn't interested in a mediocre team.

He wanted a Premier League-level team. Not just any Premier League team, but one that could rise to the top.

Thankfully, he had an advantage no one else did: a brain stuffed with 30 years' worth of football knowledge.

His first target? Franck Ribéry.

Talented? Absolutely.

Reliable? …Not so much.

The man had a reputation for being difficult—like trying to hold onto a wet bar of soap. But Yang Cheng had coached him before (in his past life, anyway), and he knew how to handle him.

And right now, in the summer of 2003, Ribéry was at rock bottom.

After getting kicked out of Lille's youth academy in 2000, he bounced between lower-league teams, only to find himself unemployed. At this very moment, he was probably helping his dad move bricks at a construction site.

Yang Cheng smirked. Perfect timing.

But Ribéry wasn't the only one on his list. There was another player—someone even more important.

Someone who would become the heart and soul of European football for the next two decades.

But, well… that was a secret for now.

---

Later that evening, after returning from a meeting, Lin Zhongqiu anxiously called home to report on Yang Cheng's concerning behavior.

"He borrowed money," Lin Zhongqiu whispered into the phone, as if saying it too loudly would summon debt collectors.

Instead of getting mad, Yang Jianguo—Yang Cheng's father—actually laughed.

"This kid can find money? That's a skill!"

Lin Zhongqiu blinked. "...Huh?"

Still, out of fatherly duty (and mild curiosity), Yang Jianguo decided to call his son for a chat.

Before he could even ask about the loan, Yang Cheng jumped right in.

"Dad, how's business back home?"

Caught off guard, Yang Jianguo answered honestly. Things were fine—better than the mess in London, at least.

"I've been thinking," Yang Cheng mused. "Brand building is important, but real estate? That's where the money is."

Yang Jianguo frowned. "Real estate? Our city's housing market isn't exactly booming."

Yang Cheng chuckled. "Not yet."

Silence.

"Trust me, Dad. Be bold, and in a few years, you'll have a mansion."

Yang Jianguo wasn't sure whether to be impressed or horrified.

This was the same son who once hesitated for an hour over buying a pair of sneakers. And now he was talking about multi-million-pound investments like he was ordering a coffee.

"Okay, but what about London?" Yang Jianguo finally asked. "How are you going to pay back three million pounds in two years?"

Yang Cheng's answer was swift, confident, and borderline insane.

"Simple. We get promoted to the Premier League."

Yang Jianguo nearly dropped the phone. "...In two years?!"

"Two years," Yang Cheng confirmed. "And that's just the start. After that, we'll build a club so strong that even the biggest teams in Europe will fear us."

Yang Jianguo stared at the phone, trying to process the sheer audacity of that statement.

Was his son delusional? Overconfident?

Or… was he actually onto something?

Yang Jianguo had been a businessman long enough to know one thing—fortunes favored the bold.

And Yang Cheng?

Well, if nothing else, he was definitely bold.

"Alright," he finally said, a grin creeping onto his face. "Dad will support you unconditionally."

Yang Cheng smirked. "Good choice."

And just like that, the craziest football revolution in history had begun.