Chapter 6: Come with Me to London!

Yang Cheng had already thrown the bait; now it was up to Vbanovic to bite. And honestly, refusing wasn't much of an option unless Vbanovic suddenly decided he didn't want to be best friends with Yang Cheng.

From the entire conversation so far, one thing was crystal clear—Yang Cheng wasn't just another smooth talker. This guy had the aura of someone who knew European football like the back of his hand, especially when it came to rubbing shoulders with the big shots.

So, Vbanovic did what any reasonable businessman would do in the presence of a potential goldmine—he nodded eagerly and said, "Deal!"

One quick call to Mamic later, the agreement was sealed: Luka Modric was free to go with Yang Cheng. The price? A very "reasonable" 2.5 million kuna.

Which, when translated into more sane currencies, amounted to about €350,000, or 3.5 million yuan.

Or, if you preferred the Queen's finest pounds, a neat £230,000.

Ah, the joys of currency exchange! In Croatia, 2.5 million kuna for a player like Modric—a skinny, underappreciated youth—was considered a fair deal. But from a European football perspective, it was like buying a luxury sports car for the price of a bicycle.

But wait! There was a catch.

How exactly was Modric supposed to get to England and, you know, actually play football?

Mamic, being the seasoned broker he was, immediately raised the concern: "League Two teams still need a work permit for foreign players. Croatia isn't in the EU, and Modric hasn't played for the national team, so… how exactly do you plan to make this happen?"

Yang Cheng's response? A mysterious, borderline villainous chuckle.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said, waving dismissively. "I have my ways. I just need Damir to do me a small favor."

Mamic and Vbanovic exchanged looks. Yang Cheng had been in Croatia for precisely two days, yet somehow, he spoke like a seasoned puppet master pulling strings behind the scenes.

What was he really planning?

Whatever it was, one thing was clear—if this was just the warm-up act, the real show was going to be spectacular.

With the deal locked in, Yang Cheng finally got to meet Luka Modric in person.

Seeing him on the training ground was one thing, but meeting him off the pitch? Wow. It was no wonder Dinamo Zagreb wasn't exactly throwing confetti at the thought of keeping him.

The kid was… scrawny. Like, 'forgot-to-eat-breakfast-for-the-last-five-years' scrawny.

Of course, "not favored" was a relative term. Modric was still part of Croatia's youth national teams—just not as a main player. This was a problem that would haunt him for a while.

His technique? Top-notch.

His ball control? Excellent.

His speed? Uh… let's just say he wasn't winning any 100-meter sprints anytime soon.

Put him on the wings? No chance. His impact would be like throwing a pebble into a lake and expecting a tsunami.

Midfield, then? But how? Traditional No.10s were supposed to be either hulking playmakers like Zidane or Gullit or short, explosive geniuses like Maradona and Aymar. Modric was neither.

Even years later, when he had already conquered the European Championship and the Premier League, people still questioned if he was cut out for Real Madrid.

But Yang Cheng? He knew exactly how to use him.

In his previous life, his first major signing as Real Madrid's manager was Modric, the Croatian genius who became the backbone of the midfield. Sure, Yang Cheng never won the Champions League himself, but the team he built? That's what led Madrid to break Barcelona's dream team and win three Champions League titles.

Even years after he left Madrid, Modric still called him now and then.

So yeah, Yang Cheng knew what he was doing.

"You know your situation, right?" Yang Cheng asked, staring at the young Modric.

The teenager nodded. Smart kid.

"Right now, you have two choices."

"First, stay here in Zagreb. Keep playing in the second team, waiting for someone to notice you. You know what that means."

"Or… take a risk."

Modric was quiet, but his eyes showed he was listening.

"If you go to Bosnia, you'll just be loaned out. Sure, you might feel more comfortable there, but… is that really what you want?"

"Or…" Yang Cheng leaned in slightly. "You can come to England."

"Sure, it's only League Two, but trust me, it's better than Bosnia."

"Our goal? The Premier League in two years."

Yang Cheng's voice turned firm.

"And when that happens, Luka, my friend, you'll only be 20 years old—already playing in the Premier League!"

Modric's eyes lit up.

For a Croatian teenager, the Premier League was the promised land. It meant fame, a national team spot, a fat contract, and most importantly—his family's life would change forever.

Wasn't that why he played football?

But then, just when Yang Cheng thought he had Modric completely hooked, the teenager suddenly spoke up.

"Sir, did you know I studied tourism management?"

"…Huh?"

"Yeah, after primary school, I went to a vocational school. I even worked as a waiter at the Ocean Restaurant in Zadar. People said I was good at pouring wine."

"…What?" Yang Cheng blinked.

"When I moved to Zagreb, I took evening classes in hospitality management."

"…Luka, are you trying to sell me a vacation package?"

Modric ignored the question and continued, "But you know what? I hate washing dishes. I hate pouring wine. And I hate bowing to hotel guests."

"…Okay?"

"But I had no choice! I had to make my parents feel safe, make them believe that even if football didn't work out, I could still survive."

Yang Cheng was stunned.

Then, Modric locked eyes with him, his voice suddenly firm.

"But sir, the truth is… football is all I have. I have no backup plan. I have to succeed."

For a moment, Yang Cheng was silent. Then, a slow smile spread across his face.

This was it. This was the Modric he knew—the future midfield genius, the resilient fighter who never gave up.

"I see," Yang Cheng finally said, grinning. "Luka, come with me to London."

"I promise you, one day, you'll look back at this moment and know it was the best decision of your life."

Modric's decision was easy. His parents had given him full control over his career.

After a long, detailed tactical discussion with Yang Cheng, he agreed without hesitation.

"But the Premier League is really physical, right?" Modric asked.

Yang Cheng smirked. "Think you can handle it?"

Modric didn't hesitate. "I'll adapt. I promise."

And thus, the first piece of Yang Cheng's grand plan fell into place.

Now, all that was left was dealing with work permits.

But first, Yang Cheng had a flight to catch.

Next stop? A small, struggling club in France where a certain right-back named Laurent Koscielny was waiting for a miracle.