Chapter 374: The Samurai Unsheathes his Blade!

Before February, two events shook the United Kingdom.

The first was the infamous Floodlights Scam, a plot designed to beat the bookies.

During a match at Maine Road, the floodlights suddenly went out—completely. Security personnel who caught sight of the two suspects alerted stadium officials, and with prompt action from the FA and police, the case was quickly unraveled.

The scam, orchestrated by a Far Eastern betting syndicate, combined two of the region’s favorite pastimes: football and gambling.

The suspects, Lim and Ong, were seen at Maine Road and were joined by Wai Yuen Liu, who had driven them to the stadium days before the City home match and acted as a facilitator for other members of the syndicate.

Investigations revealed that Liu was linked to the Triad gang Wo On Lok and connected to an illegal Hong Kong betting syndicate whose members had been arrested prior to the previous year’s World Cup. Lim, an electronics engineer who ran his own business in Penang, Malaysia, had the technical expertise to sabotage electrical systems. Like Ong, he was both a football fanatic and an avid gambler.

Police were convinced that the syndicate was responsible for sabotaging two other Premiership games.

Evidence from Maine Road indicated that wiring in the power room at Selhurst Park had been tampered with in the same manner as at The Valley. Additionally, Lim was found in possession of a ticket for the abandoned Wimbledon–Arsenal match.

The police were able to deduce this because they had a witness: a Selhurst Park security officer who had already been bribed with £5,000 to turn a blind eye to Lim and Ong’s entry into the ground days before the match.

As for Maine Road, they happened to find a loophole that allowed them to enter the stadium legally in order to prepare their sabotage.

When security eventually discovered them, the guards initially intended to question the suspects. But Lim panicked and shouted, which caused them to flee and ultimately ruined the operation.

While watching Manchester City vs Liverpool from the United States, Richard received news from Miss Heysen about the court results of the case, where the two men had even boasted of successfully sabotaging two other Premiership games

"..."

Richard said nothing, as what mattered to him was that his Manchester City remained safe.

The second case had nothing to do with football, yet it carried equal—if not greater—weight.

It touched the heart of the nation and the legacy of the monarchy: the death of Princess Diana.

Mohamed Al Fayed, father of Dodi Fayed, remained adamant that the crash in Paris was no accident.

"I am 99.9% certain my son’s death, and that of Diana, Princess of Wales, was the result of a conspiracy," he declared.

According to Al Fayed, Dodi had purchased an engagement ring shortly before the crash and had been preparing to propose to Diana. The suggestion that the Princess of Wales was about to marry a Muslim man, he claimed, was intolerable to the British establishment.

A lawyer in Egypt even went so far as to announce plans to sue both the Queen and Prime Minister Tony Blair, accusing them of orchestrating Diana’s death to preserve the monarchy’s dignity.

"What about Earl Spencer?"

When Richard heard these developments, he asked a pointed question. He wondered whether his efforts to persuade Diana’s brother to abandon further investigation had succeeded—or whether Spencer would insist on safeguarding her memory in other ways.

One plan being floated was to house Diana’s personal belongings at the St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel in London, while redeveloping the surrounding district as a kind of living memorial.

To Richard, this strange convergence of British royalty and pop culture sparked a new thought:

’Princess Diana and Harry Potter—that would be the jackpot.’

"I haven’t heard anything new about Earl Spencer," she said. "No statements, no interviews. The only thing I’ve picked up is that he’s been working quietly on a book."

"A book?"

Richard leaned back in his chair, mulling it over. Charles Spencer was writing, not rallying—proof that his persuasion had worked. With that, there was now a chance that Diana’s legacy could be quietly woven into Britain’s new wave of cultural exports.

"GOAAAALLL! Nakata! Nakata has found the net! Against all angles—Nakata finds the finish!"

On the television, Richard watched the Japanese midfielder disappear beneath a sea of blue shirts.

Just the slightest touch had been enough—the ball skipped once across the grass and rolled firmly into the back of the net.

"Goddamn, yes!" Richard burst out, unable to contain himself as the crowd inside the stadium erupted—half in ecstasy, half in disbelief.

"What?" Miss Heysen’s voice on the other end of the line was startled.

"Oh, nothing—it’s the match," Richard said quickly. Then, after a pause, he added more firmly: "Now, Miss Heysen, keep a close eye on what’s happening for me there. I should be arriving in Manchester in about two weeks."

"Two weeks? So you’ll be going straight to Barcelona after this?"

"Yes, that’s right."

Barcelona. At the Camp Nou.

For the first time under his management, Manchester City were about to step onto the European stage. And the challenge awaiting them was formidable.

"Understood," Miss Heysen said at last. They exchanged a few final words before bringing the call to a close.

After setting the phone down, Richard picked up the newspaper lying in front of him.

While television replays still ran endlessly, the press had already found its next story: Manchester City’s first appearance in Europe under Richard’s leadership.

"Blue Moon Over Europe,"

one paper declared. Another was more cautious:

"Baptism by Fire: City Draw Barcelona at the Camp Nou."

The English press buzzed with equal parts excitement and skepticism.

"City Face Their Everest,"

read one headline. Another was blunt:

"Camp Nou Awaits: Will They Sink or Swim?"

At the Camp Nou, eighty thousand would fill the stands. The Catalan press had already dismissed City as

"inexperienced"

and

"romantic dreamers."

For them, this was little more than a formality on the way to the next round.

Richard, however, refused to see it that way.

"Respect, yes," he murmured to himself as he folded the newspaper. "Fear, never."

They were formidable: Rivaldo’s elegance, Figo’s darting runs, Guardiola’s calm in midfield, and Anderson’s strength up front. But City were ready for them too.

The atmosphere at Maine Road was electric as the crowd erupted in cheers for Nakata’s goal.

City’s players gathered in celebration, lifting their heads high as they returned to their half. To them, equalizing seemed almost expected—a reflection of their experience and maturity in big matches.

Roy Evans, having seen the goal, only clenched his fist briefly before regaining his composure. He calmly clapped his hands on the touchline, urging his players not to lose heart. After all, conceding had simply brought the game back to square one.

Still, he was left speechless by the manner of the goal. Deep down, he knew City had just taught him a valuable lesson. Liverpool’s concession was not the result of individual mistakes or lapses in skill—it was born from City’s tactical plan.

Sometimes, tactics rely on surprise.

Had Liverpool pushed their full-backs forward from the start, Evans believed the flanks would have been closed down and the midfield strengthened. Instead, City’s earlier conservatism had lulled them into a false sense of security.

The slow tempo, the crowded midfield, the patient passing—it had all been a disguise. As Liverpool’s defenders grew overconfident and stepped forward to press, City suddenly shifted gears. One sharp movement, one unexpected surge, and Nakata delivered the final blow.

It was the perfect example of

winning through the unexpected

—a sudden change of pace that not only stunned Liverpool’s back line but also left the crowd breathless at the brilliance of its execution.

As play resumed from the center circle, City’s defense braced themselves against Liverpool’s renewed pressure.

Both full-backs stayed particularly alert to cover any wide attacks, while Cannavaro held deep and Makelele dropped back to reinforce the back line.

Playing with ten against eleven, caution was essential.

Seeing how quickly City reorganized, Evans—who had hoped to exploit their moment of confusion and grab another goal—shook his head and instead gestured for his players to stay patient and play it safe.

On the opposite bench, Mourinho focused intently on Liverpool’s tactical adjustments in the second half.

Years of watching football across Europe had sharpened his instinct to visualize formations and anticipate changes before they unfolded on the pitch.

City, whenever they regained possession, began attempting more long-range efforts on goal.

The tension inside the stadium was palpable. Both sets of fans were on edge, while Evans showed his adaptability. Rather than pushing his defensive line forward, he instructed his attackers to drop deeper.

Only Michael Owen remained high up the pitch, roaming freely in search of space, while the rest of the side retreated to crowd their own half, creating a defensive overload.

When Liverpool did win the ball back, their counterattacks sought to exploit the width of the field with long passes. But the effectiveness was limited—every time their full-backs surged forward to support the attack, they were tracked closely by City’s retreating wide players, blunting Liverpool’s momentum.

As each Liverpool attack unfolded, Manchester City’s defenders instinctively shifted their focus to the right.

When McManaman found himself trapped on the left, O’Neill’s eyes flicked toward the scoreboard: 88:00... 88:01...

His expression grew grim. The decisive moment was closing in.

Suddenly, the City supporters erupted in cheers—McManaman had lost possession on the flank to Makelele!

Paul Ince reacted quickly, driving the ball forward with a heavy clearance, while the weary McManaman braced himself to collect it again.

On the touchline, Roy Evans was already preparing a substitution, ready to waste precious seconds at the next stoppage. Only—before McManaman could even steady himself to receive the ball—a shadow cut across his path.

The tireless Makelele was there again, snapping at his heels, refusing to give him a moment’s peace.

He sprinted in from behind, using his chest to deflect the ball before making a swift pass to Nakata.

As Nakata received it, Liverpool’s defense instinctively closed in on him. But instead of holding the ball, he unleashed a powerful through pass to the left.

Henry!

They hadn’t realized how much space had been left open on that side.

For most of the match, Henry had been almost invisible, lingering wide, appearing almost casual. But now, Nakata’s perfectly weighted ball sliced through Liverpool’s backline, and by the time Kvarme reacted, Henry was already racing onto it at the goal line.

With composure, Henry cut inside from the baseline. His pulse quickened—he knew every eye in the stadium was locked on him. This chance wasn’t just his; it was the culmination of his teammates’ relentless effort. He could not waste it. Failure was unthinkable.

Chaos exploded inside Liverpool’s penalty area. Henry surged in from the left, Trezeguet darted to the near post, and Pires came charging from the edge of the box, forcing the defense to collapse in panic.

"Makelele wins it back—brilliant tackle! And now City break—look at Nakata, he’s got options... oh, what a ball! Through to Henry on the left!"

As Henry burst into the penalty area and squared up against Phil Babb, the crowd held its breath. Instead of trying to dribble past his marker, he stopped suddenly, scanning the pitch. With ice-cold composure, Henry slipped the ball backward—away from the congested six-yard box.

The Liverpool defenders gasped as they watched the ball’s trajectory. It wasn’t a cross into the box, nor a high ball floated into the area. Instead, the pass rolled cleanly back toward the edge of the penalty arc after leaving Henry’s foot.

And there he was—a black-haired figure, surging forward with purpose. Nakata.

Richard, along with everyone else, leaned forward on the edge of his seat, fists clenched, teeth gritted. He recognized that posture, that body language. The way Nakata’s thighs coiled, muscles taut like a bowstring, was unmistakable—like a samurai preparing to strike.

Boom!

Nakata unleashed a thunderous strike, his boot meeting the ball with devastating force. It tore through the air like a cannonball, swerving beyond David James’s despairing dive before exploding into the top-left corner of the net.

"GOOOAAALLL! Hidetoshi Nakata!! Hidetoshi Nakata again! He’s done it—2–1 to Manchester City! The Japanese star with his second of the match!"

The stadium erupted. Maine Road shook under the roar of the fans. On the touchline, José Mourinho dropped to his knees, punching the turf and then the sky in wild celebration, his voice drowned out by the chaos around him. On the bench, O’Neill and the coaching staff leapt to their feet, hugging each other in pure euphoria.

"This is unbelievable!" Martin Tyler’s voice cracked with excitement. "Nakata—cool, clinical, devastating! That is a strike worthy of the grandest stage!"

For the first time that night, Manchester City had not only matched Liverpool’s intensity—they had surpassed it. The goal was more than just a number on the scoreboard—it was a statement.

At that moment, City had found their spirit.

The perfect preparation before their next destination: Camp Nou.