It was not yet four o'clock in the afternoon, and Kenilworth Road was already full. This was the first match of the new season. Even though the outside world was almost certain Luton would be relegated, the fans still came to the stadium to show their support.
John Aston was directing the players as they warmed up on the pitch, while Gao Bo stood in a box at the top of the stadium stands. From this position, he could overlook the entire ground. Beside him was the club owner, David Morton.
"This match should be fine, Gao…" David Morton stood up, pacing back and forth in the box a few times before checking his watch.
"Don't worry, David. You've seen the effect of our pre-season matches. No team in League Two is our opponent." Gao Bo was calm. He looked at the players warming up on the pitch and then glanced at the sky.
It seemed the weather would hold.
Satisfied, Gao Bo nodded and rolled up his sleeves.
"The warm-up is almost done. I'm going to the dressing room." Gao Bo turned to leave the box. At the door, he paused. "David, you'd better start thinking about how to celebrate after we win."
Seeing such confidence from his head coach, the agitated David Morton finally settled down a little.
This was not only Gao Bo's first official match as manager—it was also his first match with David Morton as the club's owner.
On the media stand, Rae was still dressed in a black professional suit, her blonde hair tied up, giving her an even sharper look. She watched the Luton players warming up on the pitch. She couldn't judge their strength from warm-ups alone, but from appearances, Rae felt nothing but pessimism about this match.
The first player she noticed was Kanté—short, thin, and visibly nervous. There wasn't a hint of a star in him. Drinkwater looked decent at a glance, but the youth in his face made Rae shake her head.
Vardy's build was strong and his expression fierce. But football wasn't fighting. What use was fierceness?
Rae frowned. She had no confidence in Gao Bo's team. If Luton wanted to pull themselves out of trouble, they needed a manager with real experience on the touchline—not that infuriating bastard.
At the thought of Gao Bo, Rae felt her temper flare again.
...
...
"We only needs to pay attention to Kevin Nicholls. The others aren't worth mentioning. Those amateur players Gao Bo brought in won't survive at this level!"
In the visiting dressing room, Sam Parkin's voice carried a harsh confidence, loud enough that a few teammates exchanged excited grins. Facing Luton in the opening match had clearly lit a fire in him.
Sam Parkin was riding high. Meeting his old club in the very first game of the season felt like divine favour. In his mind, God Himself had given him the chance to slap Gao Bo's hated face right in front of everyone.
The Port Vale manager didn't feel overshadowed by Sam Parkin's presence. If anything, he was relieved. Having an "insider" saved him hours of scouting work. Parkin spoke with such certainty that even the coaching staff quietly nodded along.
The rest of the Port Vale players listened attentively. Most of them barely knew what Luton looked like after relegation from League One, but Parkin had been in that dressing room. If anyone understood their strengths and weaknesses, it was him.
Gao Bo, of course, knew nothing about the bravado happening next door. And even if he did, he would have sneered.
He had watched several Port Vale matches last season. They were a typical lower-league English side — direct football, long balls, heavy targeting of the striker, and a midfield built on second-ball scraps. In raw quality, they were a mid-table League Two team at best. Nothing in their style demanded special attention.
In Luton's dressing room, Gao Bo focused entirely on his own group.
There was no need for tactical adjustments now. Over the past few weeks, they had trained intensively, repeating patterns until the team moved like a single unit. The structure was drilled, the spacing was familiar, and the players understood each other's habits.
This was the final push before stepping onto the pitch.
"Look at these newspapers!" Gao Bo raised a stack of them, spreading them out like evidence in a courtroom.
Every headline spelled the same message:
Luton are finished. Luton will go down. Luton won't survive the season.
"They think we're doomed!" Gao Bo barked. "They think we'll drop out of the professional league next season!"
He threw the newspapers onto the floor. They scattered across the tiles.
"To hell with their predictions! Only we decide our fate! Every match — every three points!"
He wiped the tactical board clean with one aggressive swipe and wrote a large number: –30
"This is our current points total," he said coldly. "And after this game…"
Below it, he wrote another number: –27
"Ten matches!" Gao Bo lifted his hand, fingers spread wide.
"We need ten wins! Ten matches to wipe out the deduction and start the season properly!"
"This match is the beginning. Ten straight wins — think about it. Think about what people will say then. Some think we're already relegated!"
His voice rose, sharp and direct.
"Go out there and shut their mouths! Fight back with your football!"
Gao Bo punched the air.
"Victory!!!"
Vardy shot up from his seat, fist raised, eyes blazing. "Victory!!!"
One by one the players joined, the dressing room erupting with shouts and adrenaline.
Their voices echoed off the narrow concrete walls of Kenilworth Road's cramped changing area.
When both teams lined up in the tunnel, the announcer began reading Luton's lineup.
"Our captain comes out first! Kevin—"
"Nicholls!!!"
Thunderous cheers rolled around the small stadium. Nicholls raised a hand in acknowledgment, face stern and focused.
George Pilkington received strong applause too, and the academy graduates each heard their names met with warm support.
But when the announcer reached the new faces, the mood shifted.
"Jamie—"
A short pause.
"…Vardy!"
The volume dipped sharply. Eventually, a few fans clapped, but most simply watched with uncertainty.
The same muted reaction followed when Kanté and Charlie Austin walked out. Fans didn't recognise players pulled from amateur football; their names meant nothing yet.
In the media booth, Rae's lips curled into a smug smile.
See that, bastard? Even your own fans don't believe in your players.
Then came the announcement for the manager.
"And now — our head coach, Gao Bo!"
Kenilworth Road fell into an uneasy silence before scattered boos spread through the stands. Some fans crossed their arms. Others muttered. A handful booed outright, and more voices quickly joined them.
The hostility intensified.
The English were conservative and proud; many didn't even trust continental European managers — much less a young Chinese manager from thousands of miles away.
As Gao Bo walked toward the dugout, the boos reached their peak, a sharp contrast to the warm applause given to Nicholls moments earlier.
His expression didn't change.
Unmoved, unreadable, he walked straight into the storm of noise and took his place on the touchline.
...
Sam Parkin grinned as the boos spread through Kenilworth Road. He was still on the pitch with the rest of the Port Vale players, doing the last light passes before kick-off, but his attention stayed fixed on Gao Bo. The Luton manager walked to the dugout without reacting to the noise and shook hands with Vale's head coach before taking his seat.
Parkin found the moment satisfying.
Even your own fans can't stand you.
A few meters away, Vardy pressed his boot onto the ball. His expression tightened as the crowd's reaction hit him. The hostility wasn't directed at him, but it still irritated him, and the sight of his manager being jeered only added fuel. He stared at the Port Vale goal, sharp and focused, refusing to let the moment distract him.
The booing faded quickly. This was Gao Bo's first match, and although some supporters had been influenced by negative reports in the papers, most felt uncomfortable turning on their own manager before the season had even begun. After a brief burst of noise, the stands settled.
Inside the guard booth at the entrance of the training ground, Magis switched on the radio. He had followed every step of Gao Bo's work throughout pre-season and listened closely.
"…Before the match started, Luton's new manager, Gao Bo, was booed by parts of the home crowd…"
Magis frowned and shook his head.
"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath. He knew exactly how much preparation and discipline Gao Bo had brought to the squad, yet a few sensational headlines were enough to turn people against him.
The broadcast moved on to the lineups, delivered with the tone of a proper match build-up.
"…Luton's starting eleven looks very different from last season. Only Kevin Nicholls and George Pilkington remain from the regular side. The rest are new or recently promoted players. Dean Brill starts in goal. The back four is Tiernan on the right, Pilkington and Bruma in the centre, and Preston on the left.
"In midfield, Nicholls plays on the right, with Drinkwater and N'Golo Kanté in the middle and Lewis Chapman on the left. Up front, Jamie Vardy partners Charlie Austin."
The commentator paused briefly before continuing.
"…It is a young team. Several players have never played senior professional football before this season. The sixth new signing, Matt Smith, is among the substitutes today. Manager Gao Bo has experience with Chelsea's youth side but none at first-team level. It is a bold approach for League Two."
Magis leaned back, his irritation fading into a quiet confidence.
"They'll see soon enough…" he said softly.
Across the street, inside Kenilworth Road, the referee checked both sides and raised the whistle to his lips.
The match was moments away from beginning.
...
...
Luton took the kick-off. Vardy rested his foot on the ball, and Charlie Austin stood beside him. Austin rolled his wrists and bounced lightly on his toes, still trying to settle his nerves.
"Don't overthink it, Charlie," Vardy said, noticing the tension on his teammate's face. "They're just another League Two side."
Vardy looked completely focused, his energy building rather than tightening.
Austin, nineteen and new to this level, couldn't hide his nerves so easily.
"Aren't you nervous at all, Jamie?"
"Nervous?" Vardy grinned. "Why would I waste energy on that when I've finally got a chance like this?"
He glanced straight at the Port Vale goal, eyes sharp.
Before Austin could reply, the referee blew the whistle. Vardy tapped the ball to Austin and immediately sprinted upfield.
Austin laid the ball off to Drinkwater, who lifted his head, spotted Vardy's early run, and clipped a direct pass over the Port Vale back line. Their central defender read it well and met the ball cleanly, heading it away.
But Kanté was already moving.
He stepped in before anyone else reacted and collected the second ball as if he had known exactly where it would land.
He didn't hold onto it. He shifted it quickly to the left, where full-back Liam Preston had pushed up to receive.
Preston tried to drive forward, but Port Vale's number 7 stepped in sharply and took the ball off him. Before the midfielder could look up for a pass, Kanté was suddenly in front of him again.
There was no contest. Kanté took the ball straight off him for a second time.
"…Two interceptions in less than a minute from Kanté in Luton's midfield. On early evidence, he looks more than capable of handling League Two," the commentator said over the radio in Magis's booth.
Magis smiled faintly, humming part of Luton's team song under his breath.
"There's plenty more where that came from," he murmured.
On the touchline, Gao Bo stood up the moment Kanté made the second interception. This was exactly the situation he had drilled into them repeatedly: lose-ball, win-ball transitions, fast break forward, punish the gaps.
Port Vale had stepped forward expecting a counterattack of their own, and Luton had taken the ball straight back. Their shape was wide open.
Kanté didn't hesitate. He fed the ball straight into Charlie Austin, who laid it back first time. Drinkwater met the return pass in stride and threaded a quick through-ball into the space behind the defence.
Vardy had timed his run perfectly. He broke the line, entered the penalty area, and took the ball with his right foot as the goalkeeper rushed out to close him down.
A one-on-one.
Vardy didn't panic. He opened his body and sent the ball low toward the far bottom corner.
The keeper got down, but not fast enough.
The ball slipped under his arm and rolled into the back of the net.
Goal!
For a moment, the crowd didn't react — the move had been too fast. The first explosion of noise didn't come from the stands but from Luton's bench, where substitutes and staff leapt to their feet.
Vardy didn't hold back. Scoring his first professional goal sent a surge through him. He sprinted straight to the touchline and wrapped his arms around Gao Bo.
To him, Gao Bo was the man who had dragged him out of non-league football and given him a real career — the one who had believed in him when nobody else had.
His celebration was his answer to the boos from earlier.
In the stands, the supporters who had jeered Gao Bo minutes before now shouted and applauded without hesitation. Their earlier reactions were suddenly forgotten.
For the moment, all that mattered was the scoreboard.
Luton led 1–0.
...
"Gooooaaaall!"
The wooden door of the small guard house at the training base flew open with a loud bang. Magis burst outside, fists raised, shouting toward the sky. His shirt had ridden up over his stomach, a leather belt struggling underneath the weight. Anyone seeing it would have felt sorry for the poor thing.
Inside Kenilworth Road, the stands erupted. Arms went up everywhere as the noise rolled across the stadium.
Port Vale's players stood stunned. They had been told Luton were fielding amateur-level players. They had convinced themselves this match would be a formality. Yet barely a minute had passed, and they were already trailing.
Sam Parkin froze as well. Everything he had bragged about before the match now felt like it was slapping him in the face.
Impossible. There's no way a bunch of non-league players put together an attack like that.
It must have been luck. A lucky punch.
He forced himself to calm down and shouted at his teammates.
"That was just luck! Settle down. One goal gets us right back in it—they'll fall apart!"
The Port Vale players, unwilling to admit they had been outplayed, quickly latched onto Parkin's explanation. Football always has its moments of chaos; even weaker sides can score at times. That thought helped them regain their confidence—at least for the moment.
In the stands, Rae shot to her feet with everyone else. Instinct pushed her to cheer, but she stopped herself halfway.
If she celebrated openly, it would look like she was siding with that infuriating man.
After hesitating, she settled for a short, reluctant applause.
A good goal is still a good goal, she told herself.
But once the match restarted, Port Vale realised how wrong their earlier assumptions had been.
Luton pinned them deep immediately. Their press was coordinated, aggressive, and suffocating. Vale struggled to string two passes together. Every attempt at building play turned into a long, hopeful ball from the back, and even then their forwards rarely won the first header. Whenever they did, the second ball fell straight to Luton.
In the centre of it all was Kanté.
He moved constantly, reading every loose touch and intercepting almost every attempted break. No one managed to dribble past him. When Vale tried to carry the ball through midfield, Kanté shut the door every time.
"It's Kanté again! Another clean tackle!" the commentator shouted.
The broadcast camera switched briefly to Gao Bo, who applauded sharply.
"Well done, Kanté! Faster! Push the tempo!"
The commentator added, almost in disbelief, "I don't know where Gao Bo found this lad, but his tackling is immaculate."
They didn't know what Gao Bo was seeing.
A faint light curtain appeared in front of his eyes, and inside the system interface, the blue card slotted into place.
[Tackle Success Rate +13%]
Even without a system bonus, Kanté's defensive talent was exceptional. After two months of intense training, his defensive stats were already high. With the card equipped, his timing and success rate were close to what he would eventually become at his peak.
A midfielder winning balls like this would trouble any League Two side—and even many in the higher divisions.
Luton struck again.
After another interception in midfield, Kanté immediately switched the play to the right. Nicholls received it, cut in from the flank, and struck a powerful shot from distance. The ball swerved toward the top corner, forcing the Port Vale goalkeeper into a desperate fingertip save.
But the parry dropped straight into the centre of the box, where Charlie Austin reacted quickest, poking the rebound into the net.
2–0.
Gao Bo raised both arms in triumph. Beyond the scoreline, he felt something else: confirmation.
The system he had built—the structure, the lineup, the training, the cards—was working. This squad was his starting foundation, his first chance to build something real in professional football. Two hard months of work were beginning to bear fruit.
Port Vale were overwhelmed. They had no answers for Luton's speed, pressing, or structure.
Before long, the third goal arrived.
Luton countered quickly again. Liam Preston overlapped down the left and whipped a cross into the box. Three orange shirts attacked the delivery. Drinkwater rose between two defenders and guided a firm header past the keeper.
3–0.
Gao Bo sprinted along the touchline in celebration, and Drinkwater ran to the dugout, followed by half the bench and substitutes. The stadium shook with noise.
Luton, written off by the entire football world, were showing something very different from resignation.
The second half only made things worse for Port Vale.
Vardy headed in another goal early on, finishing a cross at the near post. The Port Vale players looked beaten.
Luton kept coming.
In the sixty-eighth minute, Charlie Austin's shot was heading straight toward the bottom corner when a Port Vale defender threw himself across the box and stopped it with a deliberate hand. The referee had no hesitation: he pointed to the spot and produced a straight red card for denying a clear goalscoring opportunity.
Nicholls stepped up, sent the keeper the wrong way, and scored cleanly.
5–0.
It still wasn't over.
In the seventy-sixth minute, Drinkwater's corner was met by Bruma, who rose highest and powered a header into the net—his first goal in professional football. The Dutch teenager sprinted away in pure joy.
Vardy added another soon after, chipping the keeper from a pass by Nicholls to complete his hat-trick. And near the end, Lewis Chapman broke through from a perfectly weighted ball by Kanté and curled a composed finish into the bottom corner.
When the final whistle approached, the scoreboard read:
Luton Town 8 – 0 Port Vale.
A demolition.
Before stoppage time was even completed, Gao Bo stood up and walked toward the Port Vale bench. Their manager refused to shake his hand while the ball was still in play. Gao Bo simply gave a thin, dismissive smile and turned into the tunnel.
There were no boos now—only loud, sustained applause.
In the span of one match, the young Chinese manager had already won over Kenilworth Road.