Chapter 9: Ripples in the Aftermath

The locker room buzzed with exhausted energy as the players slumped onto the benches, sweat glistening on their brows and jerseys clinging to their backs. For the first time in weeks, Burton Albion had tasted victory. But the euphoria was tempered by the weight of what it had taken to win.

Victor Kane entered last, his footsteps measured as he took in the scene. The room fell silent as his gaze swept across the players. He wasn't the type to burst into applause or drown them in congratulations. His mere presence carried more weight than words ever could.

Quinn spoke first, his voice hushed but resolute. "We did it, lads." He paused, letting the words sink in before looking toward Victor. "But I reckon we wouldn't have without him."

The players murmured their agreement, though some, like McFadzean, remained skeptical. Allen looked up from lacing his boots, his voice hesitant but curious. "Boss… that tactic… how'd you know it would work?"

Victor's expression didn't change. "I didn't."

The room froze, the players exchanging glances. Victor leaned against the wall, his gaze cool. "I didn't know it would work. But I knew it could. And that's what matters. You don't need certainty in this game—just trust and execution."

The players nodded, absorbing his words as if he'd handed them a piece of himself. Even McFadzean couldn't argue with the results.

Meanwhile, the fanbase outside the stadium was in upheaval. Social media platforms buzzed with debate over Victor's performance. For every fan declaring him a tactical genius, there was another labeling the win a stroke of luck.

One tweet read: "Victor Kane? More like Victor Snake. That tactic was straight out of Hogwarts. Let's see if he can do it again."

Another argued: "Unreal game! Haven't seen Burton play like this in years. Kane's gotta be onto something. Sidewinder Drift is magic!"

Victor, of course, paid little attention to the noise. For him, the voices of fans were like waves crashing against the cliffs—constant but ultimately inconsequential.

Later that evening, Victor sat in a boardroom with Arthur Wilkins, the club chairman, and the rest of the management team. The atmosphere was tense, though Wilkins wore a thin smile.

"Well done," Wilkins said, his voice a mixture of relief and caution. "That win buys us some breathing room. But don't let it fool you into thinking we're safe. Four matches left. Two more wins are non-negotiable."

Victor crossed his arms, his gaze steady. "You hired me to keep this club in League One. That's exactly what I'll do."

Wilkins studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Just remember—this club doesn't survive on promises. It survives on results."

Victor didn't flinch. He didn't need Wilkins to remind him of the stakes. The pressure wasn't an opponent to fear—it was a familiar companion.

As night fell, Victor found himself alone in his office. The day's triumph hadn't dulled the weight pressing against his chest. He opened the notebook gifted to him upon his arrival in this world. The serpentine cover glinted under the fluorescent light, the word TACTICS entwined by snakes of all shapes and sizes.

He flipped through the pages, tracing diagrams and notes with his fingers. For all its mystery, the notebook was more than a cheat—it was an extension of his mind. It didn't hand him answers; it gave him possibilities.

Victor closed the notebook and stared out the window at the quiet stadium. He wasn't just coaching a team—he was building something more. Something unheard of, something others couldn't comprehend. And that thought made him smile.