"I don't get it," Jamie Scott said, a huge, confused grin on his face as he peeled off his muddy socks. "We just got relegated... right? But we just thrashed them. So... are we the best-ever team to get relegated? Is there a trophy for that?"

Liam Doyle, the 'Badger', who had scored the final, defiant goal, just shook his head. "Don't care," he growled, though his eyes were shining with pride. "We won. That's all that matters. We won."

Samuel Adebayo, 'The Mountain', the young man at the center of the administrative disaster, was sitting in a corner, his head in his hands. Leon walked over and sat beside him, putting a hand on his colossal shoulder.

"This is not your fault, Samuel," Leon said, his voice quiet but firm. "This is my fault. My responsibility. I'm the owner. I'm the manager. I messed up."

"But gaffer..."

"No," Leon interrupted, his voice unshakeable. "Listen to me. Today, you were a giant. You played with heart, with pride, even after I told you it was all for nothing. I have never, ever been prouder of a player in my life. This," he said, gesturing to the 'L' on their league table, "is just a letter. That," he pointed to the muddy, exhausted, celebrating team, "is a family. And we'll be back."

He was about to say more, to give a speech about the future, about rebuilding, when his phone, which he had left in his coat pocket, began to vibrate with the furious, frantic energy of a small, angry wasp. It was Marco.

Leon sighed. He knew this was coming. The post-mortem. The "I told you so." The screaming. He stepped out into the quiet corridor and answered, bracing himself.

"Marco, I know. I messed up. It's..."

"LIONEL-MESSI'S-GHOST, LEO, YOU ARE A GENIUS! A MADMAN! A BEAUTIFUL, SUICIDAL, TACTICAL GOD!"

Leon just held the phone away from his ear, completely bewildered. This was not the reaction he was expecting. Marco wasn't screaming in anger; he was screaming in pure, unadulterated, hysterical joy.

"What... what are you talking about?" Leon stammered.

"I CALLED HIM, LEO!" Marco roared, his voice cracking with emotion. "I called him! As a joke! A final, 'hail Mary', 'the-world-is-ending' joke! I called Flavio! I told him the whole, stupid, beautiful, tragic story! The 42-point deduction! The impossible match! The 'Angry Badger' goal! The whole thing!"

"Marco, why would you do that?"

"BECAUSE HE IS A MADMAN, LEO! AND HE LOVES OTHER MADMEN! He didn't just laugh, Leo... he roared! He said it was the greatest football story he had ever heard! He said the English FA was a 'bunch of boring old men in grey suits who wouldn't know flair if it hit them with a diamond-encrusted briefcase'!"

A cold, strange, and utterly impossible hope began to bloom in Leon's chest. "Marco... what did you do?"

"I didn'T DO ANYTHING, LEO!" Marco shrieked. "HE DID! He hung up on me. And then," his voice dropped to a reverent, awe-struck whisper, "he called the president of UEFA. On his private cell. He called him 'Aleks'. And he told him that the English FA was 'destroying the beautiful, romantic soul of the game' and that he, Flavio Briatore, as a 'guardian of European flair', would not stand for it. He is, and I quote, 'unleashing the full, magnificent, and terrifying power of his legal team' on the Northern Premier League. HE IS GOING TO WAR FOR YOU, LEO! HE IS GOING TO SUE THE ENTIRE ENGLISH FOOTBALL PYRAMID!"

The news broke the next morning. It was not a football story; it was a global event. "FLAVIO BRIATORE DECLARES WAR ON THE FA OVER SEVENTH-TIER CLUB." The media went into a complete and utter frenzy. Pundits who had never even heard of Kirkby or Apex FC were now debating the 'legal nuances of international player registration in non-league football'. It was a beautiful, glorious, and utterly insane circus.

The Apex FC group chat, naturally, imploded.

[Julián Álvarez]: COMPADRES! I HAVE SEEN THE NEWS! A 'LEGAL WAR'! A 'BUREAUCRATIC BATTLE ROYALE'! This is more exciting than the Champions League! This is 'Law & Order: Football Edition'! But if a rule is broken, but the man who breaks the rule is friends with a bigger man with a bigger, shinier rulebook... which rule wins? The philosophy is a beautiful, legal mess!

[Dave the Baker]: Gaffer... does this mean we're... un-relegated?

[Liam Doyle]: Does this mean my goal actually counted? Because it was a bloody good goal.

Leon had no answers. He was a small, muddy rowboat that had just been tied to Flavio Briatore's giant, glamorous, and slightly unstable yacht. He was just along for the ride.

Life was in limbo. The season was over. The appeal was lodged. The entire non-league pyramid was in a state of suspended animation, waiting for a decision from a high-powered sports arbitration court in Switzerland.

Leon did the only thing he could. He kept building. He kept planning. He had two tactical notebooks: 'Plan A: The Fight for the Sixth Tier' and 'Plan B: The Glorious, Defiant Return to the Seventh Tier'.

He spent his time with Sofia, who was now six months pregnant and glowed with a beautiful, happy, and slightly terrified energy.

"So," she said one evening, as they were trying, and failing, to build another piece of bafflingly complex Swedish baby furniture. "Your new best friend is a flamboyant billionaire who is currently suing the entire country of England on your behalf."

"It would appear so," Leon said, trying to figure out which screw was 'Screw A' and which was 'Screw A-point-two'.

"And your old mentor, my father, is now your main academic rival in a tactical death-match in Switzerland."

"Also true."

She just shook her head, a slow, beautiful, amused smile on her face. "My life was so normal before I met you, footballer," she said. "It was all just... 17th-century art and quiet libraries."

"Sorry to ruin it with my... administrative-based international incidents," he grinned.

"No," she said, leaning over and kissing him, a gentle, perfect, paint-smudged kiss. "Don't be. It's the most fun I've ever had."

Weeks turned into a month. The silence from the arbitration court was deafening. Leon was in his office, planning his pre-season, a chaotic, Schrödinger's cat of a plan that had to account for two entirely different leagues, when the email finally arrived.

It was from the Court of Arbitration for Sport. It was heavy, formal, and full of legal jargon that made his head spin. He skipped to the end.

[...Therefore, the court has reached a unique, one-time-only compromise, in recognition of the 'extraordinary circumstances' and the 'profoundly unusual administrative error' made by all parties.]

[The 42-point deduction to Apex FC will be upheld. The club will be officially relegated from the Northern Premier League.]

Leon's heart sank. It was over. All that noise, all that fighting... for nothing.

But there was one more paragraph.

[However... in light of the 'spirit of the game' and the 'exceptional narrative contribution' of the Apex FC project, and following a... 'spirited'... appeal from associated European footballing bodies (namely, Mr. F. Briatore and the President of UEFA), the FA has agreed to a one-time-only structural exception. The Northern Premier League will, for one season only, be expanded from 22 to 23 teams. Warrington Rylands, the second-place team, will be promoted. And Apex FC... will also be promoted.]

[Furthermore, as a 'sporting penalty' for the administrative breach, Apex FC will begin the new season in the National League North with a... -15 point deduction.]

Leon just stared at the screen. They had done it. They had lost. And won. And been punished. And been promoted. All at the same time. It was the most beautiful, most chaotic, most utterly Julián Álvarez-esque solution in the history of football.

He was about to call his team, to deliver the insane, wonderful, terrifying news, when his phone rang. It was a number he didn't recognize.

"Leo?" a voice said, a voice he knew, but... older. Wiser. Calmer.

"Biyon?" Leon gasped. "Is that you? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, compadre," Biyon laughed, a low, gentle sound. "But my agent just got off the phone with yours. And... well... I think we're going to be teammates again."

Leon's blood ran cold. "What? At City? What are you..."

"No, Leo," Biyon said, his voice full of a strange, happy, and utterly profound new energy. "Not at City. At Apex. I'm coming home."

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