The match carried on, and the broadcast replayed Luton's goal on the big screen. From a different camera angle, Vardy's entire movement became obvious.
He was quick—shockingly quick.
Lin Sen couldn't help but admire him. Just before the cross, Vardy had still been outside the penalty area; once he accelerated, his whole body sprang forward like a cheetah lunging at its prey, eyes sharp and predatory, locked on the ball. The defender marking him looked as if he had simply been erased from Vardy's world.
Lin Sen felt something stir inside him, as if a weight he'd carried had suddenly dropped away.
That gaze… it was truly enviable.
He glanced at the small notebook resting beside his pillow. Inside was his coaching certificate—a modest D-level badge. But for Lin Sen, a pure football lover, starting from the lowest rung was the only way to eventually climb toward the A-license needed to coach a professional team—even if that certificate came from the Chinese Football Association.
The broadcast cut back to the live action, and Lin Sen pulled his attention to the match again.
Luton's suffocating high press continued to give their opponents no room to breathe. For most League Two teams, such intensity was something they simply weren't built to handle. Especially in England's lower leagues, where tactical sophistication had always lagged behind the continent, managers relied more on grit and physicality than structured systems. Old-school English coaching dominated, and "conservative" remained the league's signature.
So far, no coach in League Two had managed to offer any real targeted counterplan against Luton's aggressive style under Gao Bo.
The pond in this division was just too small; he needed to get the team promoted as quickly as possible.
Gao Bo remained on the touchline, laser-focused. This match marked an important milestone for Luton, and he refused to allow any surprises.
And no surprises came. In the 32nd minute, Luton scored again.
This time, Charlie Austin made the difference. Charging into the box, he unleashed a strike that smashed off the underside of the crossbar and bounced into the net.
Gao Bo raised both arms and roared—now the match felt secure.
Lin Sen also threw his arms up, shouting without restraint. He rarely let his emotions get ahead of him when watching a game, but this performance deserved applause. He didn't hesitate to give it to Gao Bo's team.
But football always finds a twist. Near the end of the first half, Darlington swung in a cross that caused chaos in the Luton penalty area, and their forward managed to turn the scramble into a goal.
The broadcast instantly cut to Gao Bo on the sideline. The Luton manager was furious at conceding from such a sloppy sequence. He ripped off his suit jacket and hurled it to the ground.
"Ooo—look at that! Even the usually composed Gao Bo has lost his temper," Letkinson chuckled on commentary. "You can tell how much Luton wants this win. Those boys are definitely getting the hairdryer at halftime!"
Gao Bo's white dress shirt was soaked through with sweat, clinging tightly to him, the outline of his shoulders and chest faintly visible under the floodlights.
But the camera focused solely on his expression—pure anger.
He bellowed toward the pitch:
"George! Did you forget to eat today?!"
His voice reverberated across the touchline.
George Pilkington, who had been beaten in the air during the buildup, didn't dare respond. His single mistimed header had given the opponents their chance. And with the goal coming right at the end of the half, the timing couldn't have been worse.
When the referee blew the whistle for halftime, Luton still led, but Gao Bo's expression remained stormy.
All season, Luton had conceded only three goals. They scored plenty, yes, but for Gao Bo, their defensive foundation mattered just as much.
Early in the second half, Luton struck again.
From a corner, George Pilkington—eager to atone—rose above everyone and powered a header straight into the net.
Gao Bo pumped both fists on the sideline, grinning broadly now. His earlier fury had evaporated; what mattered most to him was the result.
After all, who would want to start a season with a -30 points deduction? Without those penalty points, Luton would be sitting comfortably at the top of the table.
Gao Bo let out all his pent-up emotion on the touchline.
The goal completely ignited the stadium. With the crowd boiling, Luton kept pressing forward.
In the 63rd minute, after Kanté won the ball at the edge of the box with a clean interception, he struck it immediately from distance. The shot deflected off a defender, changed direction, and flew into the net again.
4–1!
"Kanté!!! He's scored!!! This time it's Kanté! Luton's tackling king shows he can hit them from range as well!" Letkinson shouted excitedly. "The score is now four-one! There is no suspense left in this match. And with this goal, I can officially announce—Luton's points have finally returned to zero!"
Inside the stadium, Luton fans sang, shouted, and even wept.
When they were relegated last season and then hit with the points deduction, the news had felt like a thunderbolt. No one believed Luton could survive. Everyone said they were doomed—certain to drop out of the professional leagues altogether.
Yet in just ten league rounds, Gao Bo had dragged them out of that darkness and proved they were far from finished. Anyone predicting automatic relegation now sounded foolish.
Given their current scoring rate, if they somehow won the remaining 36 games, they could even challenge for the title. Of course, no one truly believed they would win the league—but ten straight victories were already shocking enough.
"In fact, if Luton finish the season in a promotion play-off position, I wouldn't be surprised at all," Letkinson said, speaking the thoughts of many.
Right now, Luton looked like a giant shark swimming in the tiny waters of League Two—so dominant that almost no team seemed capable of beating them.
"A team this strong shouldn't be in League Two at all," Letkinson added.
What he didn't say aloud was that their style might not work the same way in the Premier League—but down here, it was overwhelming.
Luton rarely went long. They didn't chase possession. When they had the ball, they attacked directly—three or four passes at most before they produced a shot. And without the ball, their suffocating press allowed them to recover possession almost immediately.
It looked simple, but Letkinson knew discipline like this demanded serious training. The style required extreme stamina, yet after ten rounds, Luton's fitness levels looked exceptional.
What he didn't know was that physical conditioning had always been the core of Luton's training. When choosing his starters, Gao Bo considered endurance first, and he demanded strong mental resilience as well.
This was a very tough team.
Three minutes of stoppage time were announced, but Luton fans had begun celebrating long before the clock hit eighty. With a 4–1 lead and rock-solid defending, there was no chance of a comeback.
The broadcast kept cutting to the stands and to Gao Bo on the touchline.
Even today's opponents, Darlington, had lost the will to play. They moved the ball around their own half pointlessly. Luton didn't even bother pressing them aggressively anymore. Darlington knew that the moment they attempted to attack, Luton's players would swarm them. No matter where they received the ball, two or three Luton shirts seemed to appear instantly.
It felt as if Luton had twenty-two players on the pitch instead of eleven.
That sense of helplessness crushed Darlington's fighting spirit. They gave up quickly.
Today belonged to Luton—Darlington had no chance of spoiling anything.
Stoppage time wasn't fully played out; the referee ended the match early. Darlington's players didn't protest. They simply walked straight off down the tunnel, leaving Kenilworth Road to Luton's celebrations.
At that moment, the stadium erupted completely.
And not just the stadium—across Luton, in pubs and bars everywhere, fans raised their glasses.
"Gao Bo!!!"
On the pitch, Luton's players lifted their arms high and sprinted toward the dugout to celebrate with the coaching staff.
No one knew who started it, but suddenly the players hoisted Gao Bo into the air and tossed him up again and again.
"Gao Bo has fully conquered this squad," Letkinson said in awe. "It took him only two months to achieve complete control. He was Manager of the Month for August and September, and unless something extraordinary happens, he'll win it again for October."
When Gao Bo finally turned pale and the players set him down, they drifted apart.
"It seems tomorrow's day off is cancelled…" Gao Bo thought darkly, still shaken from being thrown up so high.
"From today on," Letkinson declared, "every team in League Two needs to pay attention—there's a monster in this league now. A monster built for collecting points."
In League Two, the bottom two teams are relegated.
Luton, having started with a thirty-point deduction, had spent ten league rounds clawing their way back to zero. After ten matches, the bottom club Grimsby Town had four points from four draws and six losses, while second-bottom Barnet had only seven points from two wins, one draw, and seven defeats.
Above them, 22nd-placed Accrington and 23rd-placed Morecambe were also hovering dangerously close with just eight points each.
Given that, Luton's celebration wasn't excessive at all. They were now only a few points behind the teams above the drop. With the way they were playing this season, avoiding relegation would not be a problem.
Looking at the players around him and the fans roaring in the stands, Gao Bo felt deeply satisfied.
This was the beginning of his coaching career—a modest but meaningful success. He had pulled a desperate team out of despair. He held real authority here; his word mattered. And Luton was the place where he could fully pursue his football ideals.
The club was like a young sapling he had planted. Once sickly and weak, it had now taken root, broken through the soil, and was full of new life.
...
On the television, Gao Bo stood tall and imposing, hands on his hips, a confident smile on his face—like an emperor surveying his own territory. The image was striking, even enviable.
Lin Sen's expression dimmed. He was about to graduate from his senior year, and he had recently begun searching for internships. With his major—basic mathematics—career options were limited unless he chose to pursue postgraduate studies. At his age, he needed to seriously consider the direction of his life.
Taking the postgraduate entrance exam would be the easiest route. His family was well-off, and he didn't face financial pressure. If he chose to stay in academia and delay entering society for a few more years, he would be nearly thirty by the time he finished.
But he didn't want that.
And if not that—then what?
On-screen, Gao Bo's team continued celebrating. Lin Sen suddenly remembered something. He pulled out his key and unlocked the small cabinet under his desk.
He took out a thick notebook.
This was the work he had built over four years of university: a self-made player database covering the Brazilian league and the English Championship. Page after page, densely filled with handwriting.
It was his obsession, his craft. To build this database, he had spent countless nights watching match recordings from those two leagues, almost never missing a game.
At that moment, the dormitory door pushed open.
"Old Lin, what are you watching?"
His three roommates returned from the internet café, still buzzing from playing games. Their interests were nothing like his.
"There's a campus recruitment event tomorrow. You going?"
"What companies are coming?" Lin Sen asked, still unsure.
"Let's be honest—your major is too narrow. You should really think about grad school. It'll be easier for you later."
The four soon-to-be graduates sat discussing their futures.
Where is my future?
Lin Sen traced his fingers over the hard cover of his notebook, stroking it gently as if it were delicate skin.
Just then, the live broadcast cut away from the stadium celebrations and returned to the studio. Lin Sen recognized Letkinson, the well-known English commentator. He turned off the TV, stood up, and gazed outside at the laundry fluttering in the wind.
A dream?
My dream has always been the pitch.
Memories surfaced—sneaking out as a child to play football, getting punished by the head teacher, having to write self-criticisms…
His mother taking him to apologize to the neighbor whose window his mis-kicked ball had broken…
Limping home with bruised legs in the summer, trying not to let his parents notice…
He once dreamed of being a player, but that dream had been crushed early. His family's disapproval forced him to give it up.
At eighteen, he was still a junior-high-level science student—far too late for a future in football. Players were breaking out at that age, while he drifted further from his dream.
But in university, his obsession only grew stronger. He watched matches, studied tactics, collected player data, and even attended several coaching courses—eventually earning a coaching certificate, even if it was only D-level.
He pulled up Gao Bo's picture on his computer and stared at it.
At last, he made up his mind.
He was going to chase his dream.
"Brothers… lend me some money!" Lin Sen said to his roommates.