Football Dynasty-Chapter 560: Bloodied Il Dragone

Richard and David sat by the roadside, chatting casually while holding bottles of mineral water.

David told Richard that earlier this summer, he had planned to try out for a local amateur club in Valencia, hoping it would be his first step toward a professional career.

As expected.

Richard nodded slowly, finally understanding. He had already mapped out everything for David's development—but David's father, it seemed, had done the same for his son's future.

Valencia CF.

The conclusion was obvious.

Richard shook his head with conviction and said, "Even though you're only turning thirteen this summer, getting proper training early will make a huge difference. The training systems at amateur clubs and professional clubs are completely different."

David smirked and glanced at him. "Do you really think Valencia is an amateur club?"

"Not Valencia," Richard replied patiently. "Your current one—San Fernando. And even then, every club has its own tailored training system."

Ultimately, he was worried that David might backtrack. His words subtly hinted at it—joining Manchester City truly was the best choice.

But he would not force him.

At the end of the day, the persuasion had failed, and they still had to face the final hurdle.

Mr. Fernando Jiménez.

David's father.

After their last conversation, Richard had made a promise to David. He told him that Manchester City would be facing Aston Villa in the next Premier League fixture.

"And also, I think Real Madrid will face Valencia this Saturday—after Manchester City. Let's watch it together."

Good timing!

Playing away against Real Madrid was never easy. The Bernabéu had a way of crushing confidence, especially for visiting teams. So the real question was simple: How likely was Valencia to beat Real Madrid on their home ground?

Historically, the odds were not in Valencia's favor.

That gap existed not just because of squad quality, but because of atmosphere, referee pressure, and Madrid's ability to punish even small mistakes.

Let him compare them!

So, they parted ways temporarily.

By the time Richard arrived at David's family home, it was already 2:30 p.m. As usual, he had come with Marina and took a ride back to her place afterward.

However, the moment he stepped out of the car, he overheard raised voices. An argument. The sound immediately made him uneasy.

David stood at the doorway, one foot inside the house and the other on the front step. His father was holding onto David's travel bag, knuckles white, his expression tight with frustration.

"Valencia—always Valencia," David said, his voice shaking despite his effort to sound firm. "You keep saying my future is there, but I'm almost thirteen. Has anyone from Valencia ever called? Ever come to see me? No. So stop acting like it's already decided."

"That's not how it works," Mr. Jiménez snapped back. "You don't get invited at twelve. You grow, you wait, and you get noticed. You will be noticed—trust me. And even if you don't want an amateur club, that doesn't mean you run off to England."

David pulled at the bag, but his father wouldn't let go.

"Why not?" he replied. "Mr. Maddox didn't wait. He came here himself. All the way from England. He watched me, talked to me, believed in me. That means more to me than promises that never turn into anything."

Mr. Jiménez fell silent, momentarily stunned by his son's words. It was only then that he noticed Richard standing off to the side with Marina, both of them wishing they could disappear into the ground.

Richard felt deeply awkward—like an intruder who had walked in on a family dispute that was never meant to be seen.

For a few seconds, he considered turning back. But the argument had already stalled, and the silence was heavier than the shouting. With no other choice, he stepped forward.

"David," Richard said carefully, keeping his voice low and even, "let's slow down for a moment. I know you're upset. Your father is worried about you—about your future. Let's all take a breath and talk this through properly."

David hesitated. His grip on the bag loosened slightly. He didn't look convinced, but the edge in his voice faded.

Mr. Jiménez exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand across his forehead. The anger hadn't disappeared, but it had softened into something closer to fatigue. He looked at Richard for a long moment, weighing whether this stranger had any right to speak at all.

Finally, he released the bag.

"Come inside," Mr. Jiménez said, curt but controlled. "We shouldn't be doing this on the doorstep."

David stepped back into the house, shoulders tense, eyes downcast. Richard followed, acutely aware that he had crossed from observer to participant.

As the door closed behind them, Richard knew this conversation would decide far more than a single argument.

Premier League matches aired in the afternoon, with a typical kickoff at 3:00 p.m. local time. This made it possible to watch both leagues on the same day, as La Liga matches dominated the evening, usually kicking off at 8:30–9:00 p.m. on the mainland.

Big match!

Aston Villa vs. Manchester City.

The 1998–99 English football season marked Aston Villa's seventh consecutive year in the Premier League and was also manager John Gregory's first full season in charge.

Before the season even began, Villa's prospects looked uncertain. The early sale of Dwight Yorke to Manchester United appeared to end any realistic hopes of challenging for a European place. However, those doubts were quickly dispelled. New signings Dion Dublin and Paul Merson revitalized the attack, and Villa surged up the table, spending much of the first half of the season among the Premier League's top teams.

Aston Villa usually lined up in a 4-4-2 system — the classic formation of English football at the time, focusing on a flat back four, balanced midfield, and two forwards.

Goalkeeper: Michael Oakes

Defence: Watson, Southgate, Ehiogu, Wright

Midfield: Hendrie, Draper and Merson, Barry

Attacker: Stan Collymore, Dion Dublin

"Do you see the number fifteen for Aston Villa there?" Richard asked quietly.

David nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"That's Gareth Barry," Richard continued. "He's eighteen this year. He came from City academy, moved to Aston Villa, and broke straight into the first team."

David's eyebrows lifted slightly. "In his first?"

"He didn't wait years," Richard said. "He trained in the right environment, at the right level, and when the opportunity came, he was ready. That's what proper development does—it shortens the distance between potential and reality."

Gareth Barry tracked back on the screen, calm on the ball, unfazed by the pace of the match.

"For someone his age to be trusted in a Premier League midfield," Richard added, "that tells you everything you need to know."

David said nothing, and so his father. Both watched number fifteen more closely now.

As for Manchester City, they lined up in a 4-3-3 formation.

Goalkeeper: Paul Robinson

Defence: Zambrotta, Cannavaro, Thuram, Ashley Cole

Midfield: Pirlo, Zidane, Stanković

Attack: Pires, Ronaldo, Henry

PHWEEEE~

As the match kicked off, Mourinho was already standing on the touchline, arms crossed, radiating confidence. In contrast, John Gregory remained seated on the bench, watching calmly, his expression unreadable.

From the very first minute, City displayed exceptional sharpness—clear evidence of meticulous preparation.

Aston Villa, playing away, initially focused on tightening their defensive shape. They did not rush to contest possession, choosing instead to stay compact and disciplined. What they did not expect, however, was that in an era dominated by attacking midfielders, City's playmaker was a defensive midfielder—Pirlo.

Pirlo's passing was crisp and incisive. Every City attack carried a sense of danger, his vision allowing him to probe and exploit even the smallest weaknesses in Villa's structure. Of course, this was relative—Aston Villa's defense had been one of the league's most solid that season, conceding very few goals and earning a reputation for resilience.

But today, City had come prepared.

Very prepared.

Draper and Merson began to look unsettled.

What exactly were City trying to do?

Were they simply passing the ball around aimlessly?

From the very start, their attacks leaned heavily to the right flank. Zidane drifted wide. Pires and Ronaldo followed. Even Stanković joined the overload. Again and again, Pirlo shifted play in that direction, stacking City's most dangerous players into a tight pocket of space. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Quick exchanges followed—one-touch passes, sharp angles, sudden bursts of movement.

Then, space.

Villa's midfield hesitated for a fraction of a second, and City threaded passes through the gap, leaving defenders scrambling and momentarily stunned.

Strangely, the opposite flank lay completely empty.

No City shirts. No support.

Were they inviting a counterattack?

Under mounting pressure, Draper and Merson were forced to step forward to help defend, stretching Villa's shape and pulling them out of position.

City sensed it.

Their movement intensified.

Henry, Ronaldo, and Pires—each blessed with pace and exceptional dribbling—rotated constantly, their runs sharp and unpredictable. Southgate was forced into double duty, tracking runners while trying to hold the defensive line together.

Ten minutes in, another City move broke down and Villa cleared their lines. But the reprieve lasted only seconds.

Zambrotta recovered the ball near the right touchline and immediately fed Pirlo.

Pirlo drove forward, drawing Draper toward him.

At the precise moment the pressure arrived, Pirlo released the pass wide.

Ashley Cole burst forward, accelerating into space, eyes up, reading the movement in the box.

Then he delivered it—

A perfectly weighted, half-high diagonal ball arcing toward danger.

At that moment, Henry and Ronaldo held their positions instead of attacking the box. Rather than charging forward, they stayed just outside the danger area, subtly drawing defenders toward them. It was deliberate. Neither of them was particularly strong in the air, and City had no intention of forcing an aerial duel.

Pires was different.

While Henry and Ronaldo acted as decoys, Pires drifted across the pitch—from right to left. The purpose was simple: to stretch Aston Villa's defensive line as wide as possible.

As Pires drifted across the pitch, Zidane and Stanković made their move. Both had read the situation early, anticipating Pirlo's delivery before it was even struck. Their runs were diagonal and subtle, timed to arrive rather than rush in.

Southgate spotted the movement—but he was already a step behind.

Stanković accelerated toward the back post, his burst of speed decisive. Southgate turned and chased, stretching every stride to recover, but Stanković had momentum on his side.

The ball dropped and bounced once inside the box.

Stanković attacked it.

Realizing he couldn't reach him in time, Southgate threw himself into a sliding challenge, aiming to disrupt the finish. His boot swept toward the ball, inches from making contact.

But Stanković was already airborne.

He launched himself forward, body nearly parallel to the ground, meeting the ball with his forehead. His eyes never left it—not for a second—as he directed the header toward goal.

Michael Oakes had already been heroic, producing three outstanding saves to deny Henry and Zidane earlier in the match. But this time, the movement was too precise, too well disguised.

Pirlo's delivery and Stanković's run felt almost telepathic.

Oakes stretched at full length, fingertips straining, but the ball skimmed past him, brushing the inside of the post before rippling the net.

"Goal! Goal! Manchester City take the lead at Villa Park! What a finish—and what a moment! Stanković arrives at the back post and powers the header home! This is no accident. Since the begining, Stanković has been given far more freedom to attack. That goal has been coming from the very first minutes of this match."

"Look at the replay—Pirlo's delivery, the movement, the anticipation. It's almost instinctive. Villa's defense never fully picks him up. But—wait a moment.... Stanković is down!"

"He's holding his forehead… he scored, but he hasn't gotten back up. Cannavaro and Thuram are already signaling to the referee and medical staff to slow things down. Here's the slow-motion replay—oh dear. You can see Southgate's boot catching him as he dives for the header. It's accidental, but that's a nasty collision."

Stanković had barely registered the moment when pain exploded across the left side of his forehead.

Southgate had tried to pull out of the challenge—but it was too late. His studs clipped Stanković as he landed, and blood immediately began to flow, streaking down his face.

The impact echoed.

BOOM.

Villa Park erupted—not in celebration, but in a shocked, collective roar as the severity of the collision became clear.

The goal stood.

But the cost was written in blood.

On the touchline, Mourinho clenched his fists in celebration as the goal went in. The coaching staff surged forward instinctively—but the movement stopped almost as quickly as it began.

Stanković wasn't celebrating.

He was still on the ground.

A sense of unease rippled through the City bench.

Nearby, Southgate immediately raised a hand in apology, his expression tight with concern. He knew how bad it looked. In truth, his foot hadn't been especially high, and Stanković's diving header had brought his head dangerously close to the turf. Stanković had reached the ball first; Southgate had committed to the tackle only because there was no other option left.

Now it was in the referee's hands.

A foul was inevitable.The goal, however, was beyond dispute.

To disallow it and award a penalty instead would not merely be a questionable decision—it would be indefensible, the kind of call that could define a referee's career for all the wrong reasons.

City's players rushed toward Stanković, forming a protective circle around him.

Aston Villa's players followed, but their approach was measured. They spoke calmly, gesturing to explain what had happened, helping to steady tempers on both sides. This was not the moment for confrontation.

They were experienced enough to know the situation. Playing away, already a goal down—losing another player to a sending-off would push the match beyond recovery.

Slowly, Stanković moved.

He sat up.

Then, with support, he rose to his feet. He didn't need to be carried. He stood on his own.

The camera caught him in close-up before pulling back.

Half of his face was smeared red with blood. He looked less like an injured player and more like a fighter now. Fitting, perhaps, for the man they called the Dragon. And as he stood there, bloodied but unbowed.

Seeing this, the first to react was David Silva.

"What happened?" Richard asked immediately.

David glanced at him before asking, "Who is he?"

"What?"

"That one," David said, pointing at the screen. "The guy who went down."

Richard raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised by the question."Which one?"

"The one who scored."

Realization dawned on him. "Dejan Stanković," Richard said. "An attacking midfielder."

David's eyes stayed glued to the screen. "He's… really cool."

That caught Richard off guard.

"You like Stanković?" he asked. "Why him?"

After all, City had Zidane, Pires, and Henry—players most kids would immediately gravitate toward.

David shook his head slowly, as if searching for the right words. "It's not just the goal," he said. "It's the way he carries the ball. The way defenders can't take it from him."

Hearing that, Richard immediately understood.

It wasn't admiration for the goal or the bloodied heroics that had caught David's attention. It was something far more subtle—something most people never noticed. That was the reason David Silva's dribbling would one day feel untouchable.

"No wonder..."

No wonder people found it difficult to steal the ball from him later. With that, Richard decided to explain.

"Stanković didn't rely on speed or flashy tricks. He used his body—his center of gravity, the angle of his movements… everything mattered."

The lesson was clear, even without words: the game wasn't just about running or shooting—it was about seeing, anticipating, and understanding.

"That's how you get better—not just by practicing, but by thinking while you watch."