Chapter 13: Calculated Chaos

The morning was quiet, with the faint mist of dew clinging to the blades of grass on Burton Albion's training ground. It wasn't peace that lingered over the players, but the heavy air of preparation. Each player moved with a distinct purpose, knowing that time was their enemy.

Victor Kane stood at the edge of the pitch, arms crossed, his sharp eyes tracking every movement. To the untrained eye, it might seem like the team was coming together. But to Victor, cracks were still visible. Rotations didn't flow fast enough, runs were mistimed, and small moments of hesitation crept into their play. He wasn't angry—it was the irritation of a perfectionist watching potential be wasted.

"Quinn, close the rotation faster!" Victor barked, his tone cutting through the rhythm of the drill. "Templeton, adjust your angles, you're running too flat! Akins…" He paused, locking eyes with the winger. "Use the space—or don't run at all."

Templeton muttered something under his breath but shifted his positioning. Stephen Quinn, ever the stalwart, nodded and pushed himself harder. Jamie Allen, already breathless, gave a thumbs-up to Victor but couldn't resist muttering, "Does the man ever let up?"

Victor heard him. He didn't answer, though his expression made it clear—no, he didn't.

The players huddled on the pitch for a water break, beads of sweat dripping from their brows. Tension lingered in the air, but beneath it all, there was a spark of camaraderie. Lucas Akins, sprawled on the grass, glanced at Quinn and smirked. "Bet you ten quid the boss doesn't say one nice thing today."

"Twenty," Quinn replied, grinning. "But only because you're giving away free money."

The group erupted into laughter, even as Victor's presence loomed in the background. It was moments like these that kept them grounded, knowing they weren't machines but teammates trying to survive an impossible standard.

In the briefing room that afternoon, the projector whirred softly, casting the image of Rochdale AFC onto the wall. Their manager, Simon Hargreaves, had built them into a team of calculated aggression. They pressed high and fast, using their stamina to overwhelm unprepared opponents.

Victor paced slowly, the slides changing with each subtle tap of the remote. He didn't need to raise his voice. His presence alone commanded the room.

"Rochdale are fast," Victor said, his voice deliberate. "They want us to panic. But aggression has a cost—gaps." He tapped the screen, where a frozen frame highlighted a significant gap between their midfield and defensive lines. "That's their weak point. The faster they push forward, the more vulnerable they become."

He turned to Quinn and Allen. "The moment they overextend, I want you two to rotate into this space. Draw their central defenders out." His gaze shifted to Akins and Templeton. "Once the gaps open, exploit them. Cross, cut inside, take your shots."

Templeton raised an eyebrow. "And if they don't open up?"

Victor allowed himself a small smile. "Then we make them."

At Rochdale's training ground, Simon Hargreaves ran his players through their paces. Their pressing drills were sharp, compact, and relentless. Hargreaves had studied Burton Albion's win against Fleetwood with interest. The so-called Sidewinder Drift was intriguing, yes, but it was also, in his eyes, fragile.

"It's all show," Hargreaves muttered to his assistant. "Flashy movements to distract you, but there's no real substance. Cut off their rotations, and they're done."

His assistant nodded, though his agreement lacked conviction. They didn't notice the cracks starting to form in their own structure—the overextensions that Kane had already spotted.

As the players finished training for the day, Victor remained in his office, flipping through the pages of his notebook. The glowing Sidewinder Drift diagrams stood out on the page. Below them, the activated buff bonuses displayed their impact clearly:

Team Synchronization: +30% – Players' movements would flow without hesitation.

Passing Precision: +25% – Risky passes would become high-reward plays.

Game Awareness: +40% – Opponents' weaknesses would stand out like cracks in glass.

Confidence Boost: +20% – Mental sharpness under pressure would be unmatched.

As Victor read through the stats, his mind ran scenarios. There were three skills still grayed out beneath the buffs, awaiting their time to unlock:

Coil Maneuver (Locked) – A defensive strategy designed to absorb pressure before launching counterattacks.

Fang Sequence (Locked) – Rapid, diagonal attacking sequences to overwhelm defenses.

Venom Surge (Locked) – A tempo shift that would utterly destabilize slower teams.

Victor smirked at the possibilities. The Drift wasn't finished evolving—it was merely taking its first steps.

The players, still sweaty from training, gathered in the locker room that evening, their laughter echoing off the walls. Templeton, ever the joker, imitated Victor's sharp tone during the tactical briefing, earning roars of laughter.

"I want you to rotate faster—no, faster than that!" Templeton mocked, pacing like Victor. "And if you mess it up, well… we're all doomed."

Quinn shook his head, chuckling. "You're brave, I'll give you that."

Their laughter was interrupted by a familiar voice. "Templeton, if I'd known you were this good at impersonations, I'd have sent you to theatre school."

Victor stood in the doorway, arms crossed. The room fell silent for a heartbeat before erupting again—this time, with Templeton leading the laughs.

Victor shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.