Firdaus was awake before the sun.
The city outside his window was still asleep, wrapped in the last hour of darkness, but his mind was already racing. The Leeds match was over, but Leicester loomed—unforgiving, aggressive, and desperate to return to the Premier League. Cardiff's momentum was rising, but so was the pressure. He had always known success brought more eyes, more noise, and more shadows.
He sipped black coffee, opened his laptop, and scrolled through match data. Line movement. Defensive recoveries. Positional heatmaps. His eyes narrowed as he paused on a sequence where Wintle drifted too far left. Not critical, but enough to expose a future gap against a team like Leicester.
He replayed the moment three times, each time noting player distances, angles, and reactions. He scribbled down a correction drill for later. Margins. The game was always about margins.
His phone vibrated.
Ken Choo.
"Morning," Firdaus answered.
"You've made the front page of the South Wales Echo," Ken said without greeting. "Headline says: 'The Next Tactical Mastermind?'"
Firdaus exhaled softly. "I told you this would happen."
"You were right," Ken replied. "Just… be ready. There's more attention coming. We had two agents call the club this morning asking if you'd be open to interviews."
"I'm not."
"I know. Just a heads up."
Firdaus ended the call and closed the laptop.
No more talk. It was time to work.
The morning training session at the Vale was sharp. Fog lingered slightly over the pitches, the air damp and cool.
Firdaus ran passing drills, positional presses, and short-burst transition games. He barked short instructions, each word precise, clipped.
The mood was focused, but he noticed subtle shifts.
Callum Robinson, noticeably off his usual rhythm, was slower, less responsive, and lingered after drills. Frustration simmered just behind his eyes. During the pressing circuit, he mistimed two close-downs, something Firdaus rarely saw from him.
After the final session, as players grabbed water bottles and joked about the heat, Robinson approached Firdaus.
"Got a minute?"
Firdaus nodded and gestured toward the pitch.
They walked slowly, away from earshot.
Robinson spoke quietly. "I need more minutes, boss. I've been patient, but it's been three games starting on the bench. I'm not here to be a backup."
Firdaus kept his tone even. "I know. And I respect your hunger. But form and system come first. Colwill fits what we need right now. That could change."
Robinson looked away, jaw tight. "You know I can deliver."
"You've got the talent. But I also need the discipline. You'll play—but when the moment is right."
A long pause passed between them.
"I'm not trying to be difficult," Robinson said after a breath. "But I need to know I still matter here."
"You do," Firdaus replied firmly. "But this isn't about promises. It's about timing. And right now, the rhythm suits what we're doing."
The forward didn't push it further. He gave a short nod and walked off, his boots crunching over the dew-laced grass.
Firdaus watched him go, noting every step.
By midday, two reporters had shown up outside the training ground. Cameras were set up along the fences. One local outlet had already pushed a headline:
"Cardiff's Silent Commander: The Rise of Firdaus, Football's Southeast Asian Strategist."
Back inside, the locker room echoed with laughter as players passed phones around.
"Oi, gaffer!" Ojo called out. "You're famous now. Gonna need a bodyguard!"
Colwill added, "We should start calling you 'The Machine.'"
"Or Agent F," joked Ralls.
Firdaus allowed a smirk but didn't engage. He changed the subject quickly, switching attention back to tactical shapes for Leicester.
But even Riza noticed it.
"You good with all this?" he asked as they reviewed the squad list over a tablet.
Firdaus nodded. "I didn't sign up for attention. I came to build something that lasts."
Riza grinned. "Still… gotta admit. You're trending on football Twitter."
Firdaus didn't reply.
Later, as they exited the facility, one of the interns snapped a quick photo of Firdaus walking down the tunnel alone. It went viral online, captioned: "He walks like he already knows the outcome."
Hours later, as the sun dipped behind the stadium roof, the team gathered in the briefing room for the pre-match instructions.
The atmosphere was tense. Leicester City had a reputation: fast tempo, smart pressing, and a midfield that could punish mistakes.
Firdaus stood in front of the whiteboard.
"They'll press high. Especially after a turnover. Our escape is wide-to-central. One-touch passing only. Delay the first five, control the next ten."
He used magnets to show positional shifts, guiding Wintle's coverage lane and Ralls' press triggers.
He looked at each player.
"First contact wins this game. Win your duels. Make them rethink their game plan. Every second."
No shouting. No bravado.
Just steel.
The room was quiet, serious. Focused.
Firdaus clicked off the board and let the silence hang a moment longer.
"Let's go earn it."
As Firdaus walked out of the tunnel onto the pitch for warm-up, the crowd was already building. The stadium buzzed, the echoes of chants bouncing off steel and concrete. Flags flapped in the corners, the cool air filled with anticipation.
He scanned the stands with measured ease, noting patterns, banners, familiar staff.
Then he saw him.
Top row of the directors' box.
Black coat. Notepad. Sharp glasses.
Riza stepped beside him and whispered, "That's Andrew Marks. Sporting Director of Brighton."
Firdaus didn't react.
He simply adjusted his watch, tightened his jacket, and stepped forward onto the touchline. His eyes flicked once more toward the box, memorizing every face in the VIP seats.
Eyes were watching.
But he was already locked in.
To be continued...
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