Football Dynasty Chapter 512: Plot

In the early hours of the morning in Manchester, probably five hundred ters from Maine Road, the streets lay deserted. The soft glow of the moon mingled with the dim light of streetlamps, casting the surroundings in gentle, almost ethereal tones.

Richard slept soundly in his dormitory, lying on his side, cocooned in the heavy, blessed calm of slumber. Suddenly, the shrill ring of his phone on the bedside table pierced the silence.

Startled, he switched on the bedside lamp and glanced at the screen. The na on the incoming call was saved in his contacts:

Geoff Thompson

Richard pressed the answer button, holding the phone to his ear, then closed his eyes, hoping to drift back into sleep.

"Mr. Richard, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. It’s ... Wiseman. I need to discuss sothing with you in person. I’m right outside your door. I saw the light turn on—I know you’re awake..."

Thompson’s voice continued, but there was no response.

He lingered just outside the dormitory, concealed in the shadows cast by the streetlamp, careful not to be seen. His voice dropped deliberately, but Richard offered no reply. The silence pressed down on him, sending a chill down his spine. He hurried on, "Mr. Richard, there was so misunderstanding earlier. We can clear it up. Wiseman and I at the FA have always considered you a friend..."

Thompson’s mind raced, confirming Wiseman’s suspicion: Richard was indeed the manipulator behind the scenes. The purpose of coming here was simple. Richard wasn’t motivated by money—resolving the misunderstanding was key. He could also retrieve the information for a small price. Though the process was cumberso, it wasn’t impossible. With Richard’s influence in England, drafting a legal contract could be done in minutes.

Thompson’s throat went dry as he spoke into the empty street. The darkness and silence pressed in around him, and he began to doubt whether the phone was working at all.

Ten minutes after Richard had taken the call, Thompson’s flicker of hope sank into a dark abyss. Richard’s silence was heavier than a thousand bitter accusations.

With no other choice, Thompson called Wiseman back. Muttering to himself, he cursed, "What the hell is this guy waiting for, acting like a big shot?"

It was true: Wiseman had sent him to find Richard and plead on his behalf, while Wiseman himself seed too proud to set ego aside.

Now, Wiseman entered the neighborhood cautiously, anxious about being recognized. It was his turn to take over Thompson’s phone and confront Richard directly.

When a man of Wiseman’s stature spoke, the dynamic shifted. His tone was calm, deliberate, and authoritative. He began by reminiscing about the old days before slowly, almost imperceptibly, steering the conversation toward the earlier misunderstanding. But the problem is Richard remained silent, not uttering a word. He listened, but he didn’t speak.

Wiseman continued talking for five or six minutes, growing increasingly agitated as Richard remained silent. His voice hardened, turning threatening.

"Richard, even if you ruin my career, I have many friends in the FA. I have people behind . If I go down, you won’t have it easy either!"

BEEP~BEEP~BEEP~

The call ended. Wiseman slamd his phone down in frustration, ready to storm the Manchester City dormitory gate. Thankfully, Thompson, noticing the situation, quickly restrained him.

If not... he couldn’t even imagine the consequences.

The two had lingered too long. Soon, a security guard patrolling near the dormitory began to grow suspicious and approached from a distance. Sensing the danger, Thompson quickly grabbed the cursing Wiseman and dragged him toward the car, pulling him along before the guard could reach them.

They moved swiftly, hearts racing, the dim streetlamps casting long shadows behind them. Wiseman fud, muttering under his breath, but Thompson didn’t pause. Each step felt like a narrow escape, the quiet night amplifying the tension.

By the ti they reached the car, both n were out of breath. Wiseman slamd the door shut behind him, throwing a final glare at the dormitory. Thompson exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Next ti, we don’t wait this long," he muttered.

Wiseman could only growl in agreent, the night air heavy with frustration, fear, and the lingering taste of failure.

As they retreated, Thompson felt an unusual pang of sadness. Who would have thought that the mighty FA executive director and its chief would be skulking through the streets under the cover of night?

Back in his dorm, Richard opened a bedside drawer and pulled out his new Walkman. He slipped on the headphones and let the hypnotic strains of music wash over him, hoping to lull himself back into sleep.

Sleepless nights were nothing new. Especially on match days—returning ho late at night, as if he were still playing professionally—the thrill of victory brought exhilaration, while defeat or draws left a lingering gloom. Either way, restful sleep eluded him. Music had beco his only thod of regulating his mind, a private ritual to calm the storm within.

anwhile, Wiseman and Thompson trudged along the quiet streets, their heavy strides marking each step with the weight of their failure. Though the walk appeared casual to outsiders, it felt more like prisoners marching toward the gallows.

By dawn, they slumped onto a bench by the street, pale-faced, bracing themselves for the day ahead.

Manchester was already alive with activity. The city’s hum rose steadily as morning approached, streets filling with early commuters and delivery vans. News of the scandal spread like wildfire, and by three or four in the morning, nearly every outlet had received the explosive headline. So journalists abandoned entire pre-written editions to cover the breaking story in real ti.

As the sun rose, newspapers hit the stands, plastering a single ssage across every front page. It wasn’t entirely new news—the scandal had simred before, but now, after the criticized Manchester City and Wimbledon matches were stirred up again and linked to it, it instantly grabbed everyone’s attention.

"FA Board Accused of Plotting Against Forr Chief Graham Kelly: Secret Allegations Resurface"

"Insiders Claim Covert Maneuvers to Undermine Kelly’s Influence Amid Lingering Controversies"

Sources claid that the board had, in the past, orchestrated a quiet campaign to oust forr chief Graham Kelly, aiming to consolidate power under the current leadership. Behind the scenes, whispers of secret dealings, long-buried correspondence, and contentious decisions from Kelly’s tenure resurfaced.

Graham Kelly himself remained silent, maintaining a calm exterior, but those who knew him understood that the "secret behind Kelly" was far more complex than re financial or political disputes.

Outside FA headquarters, journalists gathered en masse. Chaos reigned inside. Wiseman and Thompson had yet to appear, and the spokesperson offered no comnt. The silence was damning—the FA seed to be tacitly accepting the accusations.

The public watched with a mix of amusent and indignation.

Recent news in English football had already been chaotic—Manchester United’s transfers stalled under governnt interference—and now the FA scandal had erupted once again.

Everyone knew the unspoken truth: Wiseman and Kelly’s bribery of the Welsh FA had long been an open secret. Backdoor dealings were the unwritten rules of the ga. Every World Cup bid involved maneuvering behind the scenes.

But what the public would not tolerate was the use of public funds for personal gain. And that was the line they had crossed.

Previously, Wiseman survived and Graham Kelly beca the fall guy. But now that the narrative had shifted—portraying Kelly as rely a scapegoat and Wiseman as the true mastermind—the story had taken a very different turn.

The FA was no longer the old FA. With finances in turmoil, it wasn’t just one or two rivals eyeing Wiseman’s seat. It seed as though the entire FA—like hungry wolves—wanted that position for themselves. And then from here, they aid for positions within FIFA. Internally, within the FA, their ambitions were no secret. Many supported them, believing that having an Englishman in FIFA would benefit the nation—but knowing and acknowledging were two very different things.

This sensational news dominated discussions not only across Manchester. London, Liverpool, and beyond. Foreign dia stationed in the city quickly joined the frenzy.

Richard, having been disturbed briefly during the night, woke later than usual.

He arrived at Maine Road later than usual, but before he could settle into his seat, Issy Heysen burst in, grabbing the remote and flicking the TV to BBC News. A live reporter stood before the chaos outside FA headquarters, caras flashing, journalists shouting. Issy practically cheered at the sight.

Richard remained composed. He finished his juice, tidied his table, and watched the circus unfold. After the match against Wimbledon, he had already made his decision: there would be no further dealings with Wiseman or Thompson.

But was that truly possible?

Wiseman was the FA Chief. Their paths would inevitably cross—especially if Manchester City lifted trophies. Victory ant banquets, ceremonies, and interactions with the FA. There was no avoiding that.

So Richard was left with only two choices: leave English football entirely...or make sure Wiseman and Thompson were removed. Was that even a choice?

The FA Chief was no saint. Like most who sat in high chairs, he had skeletons hidden in the dark. With England’s history of football scandals, it was only a matter of ti before those skeletons surfaced again.

Richard’s request to his lawyer, Adam Lewis, had been straightforward: Keep an eye on them.If they slip, let them fall. If they stay, sue them.

That was the plan.

He turned off the TV. Then, as if nothing had happened, he headed to the gym and joined the squad for training. His day proceeded like any other.

Routine. Controlled. No one would ever suspect his involvent.

By mid-afternoon, Wiseman appeared outside FA headquarters with Thompson trailing behind. Reporters surged forward like a wave collapsing on the shore. Security had to force a path through the crowd.

Hours later, well into the evening, after a frantic internal eting, a press conference was suddenly called. Wiseman stepped up to the podium. The room fell silent. His expression was stiff, his voice suffocatingly calm.

"Effective imdiately, I will resign from my position as Chairman of the Football Association."

No excuses. No explanations. Just surrender. He had no choice—remaining in power would doom England’s bid for the 2006 World Cup.

Thompson resigned alongside him. In one day, the FA’s two most powerful figures were erased from the hierarchy.

As they exited the building, Wiseman ignored every question hurled his way, ducking into his car and vanishing into the night.

Thompson paused, offering caras a thin, bitter smile. "Sotis," he said quietly, "one small mistake can bring the most painful consequences."

The public believed he was referring to the Welsh FA bribery.

But insiders knew better. This wasn’t about Wales. Or money. Or even corruption.

This was a reckoning. A quiet execution. A debt collected.