Reincarnated As A Wonderkid-Chapter 560: A new challenge.

The training ground whistle blew. But this time, it was Alex blowing it.

It was ten years later. Alex was 38.

He wasn't running anymore. His knees had finally said "enough" after a career that spanned two decades (and three lifetimes).

He was standing on the sideline. He wore a tracksuit with the initials AF on the chest.

"Press!" Alex shouted. "Don't let them breathe! Squeeze the space!"

The Arsenal Under-18s were training. They were young, hungry, and terrified of their manager.

Not because he was mean. But because he was The Professor. The legend. The man who saw the game in code.

"Coach," a young striker named Ben said, panting. "We are tired. Can we stop?"

"Tired is a state of mind," Alex said. "Fatigue is just chemistry. Lactic acid. Push through it."

"He sounds like a robot," Ben whispered to his teammate.

"A robot who won five Ballon d'Ors," the teammate whispered back.

Mark was there too. Obviously.

Mark was the Fitness Coach. (The irony was not lost on anyone).

Mark was wearing a stopwatch around his neck and eating a protein bar that looked suspiciously like a chocolate bar.

"RUN FASTER!" Mark yelled. "IMAGINE A LION IS CHASING YOU! A LION MADE OF FIRE!"

"Coach Mark," Ben asked. "Why fire?"

"BECAUSE FIRE IS FAST!" Mark explained. "LOGIC!"

The session ended.

Alex walked to his office. It was filled with tactics boards, screens, and photos of the glory days.

There was a knock on the door.

It was the Club President.

"Alex," the President said. "We have an offer."

"For who?" Alex asked. "Ben? He is good, but raw."

"Not for a player," the President said. "For you."

He placed a contract on the desk. It had a crest on the top. A crest Alex knew very well.

Real Madrid.

"They fired Ancelotti's successor's successor," the President said. "They want a new manager. They want a Galactico manager."

Alex looked at the paper.

Manager of Real Madrid.

The biggest job in the world. The white house. The pressure cooker.

"Why me?" Alex asked. "I have only coached kids for two years."

"Because you beat them," the President smiled. "So many times. They figure if they can't beat you, they should hire you."

Alex picked up the pen.

He thought about London. His home.

But he remembered the lesson.

Growth happens outside the comfort zone.

He thought about Spain. The sun. The food.

"Mark!" Alex shouted. 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

Mark burst into the room. He was wearing a sweatband.

"YES BOSS?"

"How is your Spanish?"

Mark paused.

" Uno, dos, tres, pizza!" Mark said proudly.

"Pack your bags," Alex said. "We are going to Madrid."

Madrid. The Bernabeu.

It was even bigger than Alex remembered. The roof was closed. The air conditioning was humming.

The press conference room was packed. Journalists from all over the world.

Alex sat at the table. He wore a suit. He looked calm.

Mark sat next to him. He was wearing a suit too, but he had paired it with bright orange sneakers.

"Mr. Finch," a journalist asked. "You are young. Inexperienced. Can you handle the pressure of Real Madrid?"

Alex leaned into the microphone.

"Pressure is just force applied to an area," Alex said. "I understand physics."

The journalists scribbled furiously. The Professor Speaks.

"And you," the journalist pointed at Mark. "What is your role?"

"I am the Director of Velocity," Mark said seriously. "And Chief Tasting Officer."

"Tasting officer?"

"The canteen needs a review," Mark nodded. "The paella is good, but where is the pepperoni?"

The press laughed.

The first training session.

The Real Madrid squad was full of superstars. Mbappe was retired, but there were new stars.

There was Thiago, a Brazilian winger who could juggle chewing gum. There was Hans, a German midfielder who passed like a computer.

They looked at Alex with skepticism.

"He is the Arsenal guy," Thiago whispered. "He beat us in 2024."

"He is old," Hans muttered.

Alex blew the whistle.

"Okay," Alex said. "Forget everything you know. Today, we learn geometry."

"Geometry?" Thiago asked. "We play football, Coach."

"Football is geometry," Alex said.

He set up the cones. Triangles. Rhombuses.

"Pass in shapes," Alex ordered. "Create angles. If you stand in a straight line, you are dead."

They started to play.

At first, it was messy. They were used to freedom. Alex demanded structure.

But then, it started to click.

Click. Clack. Click.

The ball moved faster. The players moved smarter.

"It works," Hans whispered. "The angles... they open up space."

"Told you," Mark shouted from the sideline. "He is a wizard! A math wizard!"

Matchday 1. La Liga. Real Madrid vs Barcelona. El Clasico.

First game. Biggest game.

"No pressure," Alex said in the dressing room.

The players looked nervous.

Alex looked at them. He saw the fear.

He clapped his hands.

"Listen," Alex said. "They are Barcelona. They have history. But we have something else."

"What?" Thiago asked.

"We have speed," Alex said. He pointed at Mark.

Mark stood up. He was holding a whiteboard.

On it, he had drawn a picture of a cheetah wearing sunglasses.

"BE THE CHEETAH!" Mark screamed. "EAT THE GAZELLE!"

The players looked confused. Then they started to laugh.

The tension broke.

They walked out.

The Bernabeu was roaring. Hala Madrid!

Alex stood in the technical area. He wore a long coat. He looked like a general.

The game started.

Barcelona played possession. Tiki Taka.

But Madrid played "Finch-Ball".

Controlled chaos.

In the twentieth minute, Thiago got the ball.

He didn't dribble. He passed. A diagonal ball.

It cut the defense open.

Hans ran onto it. He squared it.

Goal.

One zero. Real Madrid.

The crowd went wild.

Alex didn't celebrate. He just nodded. "Variable calculated."

Mark ran down the touchline. He high-fived the mascot.

"WE ARE WINNING!" Mark yelled.

The game ended 3-0. A demolition.

The Madrid fans sang Alex's name. El Profesor! El Profesor!

Alex walked into the tunnel.

He felt a buzz in his pocket.

It was a text from Maya. She was still in London, running the data for Arsenal (and consulting for NASA on the weekends).

"La Liga analysis: Promising. Your xG was 3.2. Theirs was 0.4. Total dominance. Also, Milo is in Madrid. He says he has a business opportunity."

Alex sighed.

He walked out of the stadium.

Milo was there.

Milo was dressed as... a Flamenco Dancer.

He was wearing a red dress with polka dots and clicking castanets.

"OLE!" Milo shouted. "ALEX! I AM THE DANCER OF DEALS! I AM SELLING FANTONS! THEY ARE FANS THAT PLAY MUSIC! WHEN YOU WAVE THEM, THEY SING THE ANTHEM! ONLY FIFTY EUROS!"

"Milo, you are wearing a dress," Alex said.

"IT IS TRADITIONAL!" Milo yelled, stomping his feet. "I AM ALSO SELLING BULLHORNS! FOR THE CAR! THEY MOO!"

"Get in the car, Milo," Alex laughed.

They drove to a tapas bar.

Mark ordered everything on the menu.

"Patatas bravas!" Mark shouted. "Chorizo! Jamon! Give me all the ham!"

Alex sat back. He sipped a glass of water.

He looked at his friends.

Mark, the Emperor turned Coach. Milo, the Merchant turned... whatever he was. Rico (who was flying in tomorrow to teach the team how to dance).

They were older. Slower. Maybe a bit wiser.

But the spirit was the same.

"Do you miss playing?" Mark asked, mouth full of potato.

Alex thought about it.

He missed the feeling of the ball on his foot. The rush of the goal.

But then he looked at Thiago's goal. He saw the joy on the kid's face.

"No," Alex said. "I like teaching."

"You are good at it," Mark said. "You make them think. I make them run. We are a good team."

"The best," Alex said.

He looked out at the Madrid night.

A new country. A new language. A new challenge.

The Dynasty had moved location.

But the story continued.

"Hey Alex," Mark said.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I can get a discount on the ham if I say I am the Emperor?"

"No, Mark."

"Worth a try."

Alex smiled.