The noise was a jumbled mess. Shouts calling out for specific players collided and merged into a cacophony.

Richard wasn't trying to be cool; he simply smiled at how loud the National Stadium (Kasumigaoka) was compared to the previous day, when the U17s had played. The U17 players trailing behind him wore serious expressions, not wanting to miss a single moment of it.

As they headed outside, the crowd poured out like a tide, excitement crackling in the air. They followed the first team out, the elite juniors finally making their appearance after their dazzling performance the day before.

Mikel Arteta craned his neck and stood there with a scowl, frustrated as he watched the group ahead sprint after the first team, who were rapidly pulling farther away.

Sergio Busquets wandered over, curiosity evident. "What are you doing just standing there?"

Arteta replied, annoyed, "We're Manchester City players too!"

David Silva and Xabi Alonso, the two golden boys, also paused and glanced back. They couldn't argue with that. It was somewhat painful to watch. They looked like ignored wildflowers by the side of the road, forgotten in the rush and chaos—especially after they had thrashed Japan 9–0 the day before.

Where were the reporters now?!

Apparently, nine goals weren't worth an interview. No one came looking for their side of the story.

Richard, already well ahead and clear of the crowd, stopped when he noticed they were still standing at the exit, unmoving while the larger mass surged forward after the first team. He quickly understood what was happening. Especially when he saw the expressions on the City youth players' faces, he was amused. These youngsters, once the stars of the youth leagues, now had their pride bruised. But he felt no need to correct their way of thinking.This was the feeling he wanted to instill in the next generation of Manchester City.

André Villas-Boas, now acting as their coach, walked up to Mikel Arteta and patted him on the shoulder with a faint smile.

"Remember today. Those who turned away will regret it."

Arteta nodded firmly, and the others shared the same resolute expression.

Who doesn't care about recognition? Who doesn't want to be known, to matter?

These lads, feeling wounded in that moment, were quietly determined to make the fans who had ignored them regret it one day.

Villas-Boas felt a quiet satisfaction. Stirring this fire in the hearts of these youngsters brought him a deep sense of joy.

Just wait.

Ten years from now, everyone would know their names.

Sitting in the VIP section with his entourage, Richard settled in to enjoy the match against the Japanese All-Star team. It wasn't exactly the opponent they had planned for after Bellmare but plans changed as Manchester City still had a friendly waiting in Europe, and the league season was creeping closer. Adjustments had to be made.

For this exhibition, the Japanese side had carefully selected some of their typical strong players. They were clearly taking it seriously.

On the touchline, José Mourinho was in full theatrical form. Every few minutes he jabbed a finger toward the pitch and barked instructions at Trezeguet. The other party then would immediately drop his head and jog—well, something resembling a jog—back to help defend.

Richard's mouth twitched.

He stared at Trezguet's midsection with growing fascination.

What on earth had the man been eating in Ibiza? It looked less like a professional athlete's stomach and more like that of a well-fed tourist on an all-you-can-eat holiday. The jersey strained heroically against the curve of it, fighting a battle it was clearly losing.

No wonder he was struggling.

At one point, the Frenchman attempted a sprint. The result was less "explosive acceleration" and more "determined rolling momentum."

Even from behind him, the boys were thoroughly entertained.

James Milner and Michael Essien laughed quietly. "This is a mess."

Fifteen minutes had already passed, and basically most of City's front line—especially the wide midfielders, who played like Joe Cole and Ronaldinho—kept dribbling frequently, only passing when absolutely necessary. The reason for their excessive ball control was simple: they couldn't find a good outlet.

Thanks to Ronaldinho's flashy tricks, which were starting to feel over the top, the situation became a little awkward. In a match that was clearly heading for a one-sided slaughter, showing off like that felt somewhat humiliating for the opponent. Since then, the All-Star team, with the exception of the goalkeeper, had retreated fully into their own half to defend.

What had initially been a spacious field quickly became cramped.

City's midfield now had only Pirlo and Lampard pushing forward to organize the play, and before any attack could reach a dangerous area, the players had to rely on individual skill to break through the defense.

Richard felt genuinely grateful that Mourinho hadn't fielded Gattuso in a match like this. If he had to face a player that intense in a game this chaotic, 'he' might've left the pitch with a broken leg!

Trezeguet no longer dared to toy with the ball after being dispossessed several times earlier. He felt embarrassed by it. Thankfully, the crowd saw something entirely different. To them, he wasn't failing—he was daring.

He was up against opponents three or four years older, still willing to take risks, still trying to impose himself on the game. Even when the moves didn't come off, there was confidence in the attempt, a kind of fearless elegance that stood out. In those imperfect moments, the spectators appreciated his style even more.

Only one person truly understood what was really happening.

Pintus was already standing beside Mourinho.

"I think it's the climate shock," he said. "Combined with the fact that his fitness isn't at one hundred percent yet, it's better to substitute him in the second half."

Mourinho understood what Pintus was talking about. Many Europeans came from cooler, drier climates like the UK. Their bodies were adapted to 10–20°C dry air, not 32°C with extreme humidity. In conditions like this, the weather often felt harder than the opponents.

"But we're short on numbers, and some players in Eto'o's age group are out on loan. Ronaldo is resting, and Henry is being prepared to replace Ronaldinho, so we—" He stopped.

Suddenly, he remembered what Richard had said to him the night before.

'José, I know this isn't really my place to interfere, but give him a minute. Just ten minutes will do, and he'll prove himself. You've read the reports, right?'

He had no further comments.

After all, the primary reason for a pre-season match is to tolerate mistakes, experiment with tactics, and develop the players.

Just like what Richard had told him before: never underestimate Japan. The aim of this trip was primarily to learn and exchange ideas.

Although the current strength of Japanese football might make you feel otherwise, City could, in contrast, offer a broader perspective to Japanese football. While it might not be entirely convincing to judge by the national team alone, witnessing a club's youth squad play such beautiful football firsthand was undeniable proof for the Japanese Football Association. It wasn't just about acceptance—there were many valuable lessons to take away.

For example, in yesterday's match, the youth team's tactics were not as complex as those of the senior players, but they still dared to attack even though they were being heavily beaten. Japan gained a valuable lesson from that.

Mourinho paused for a moment, his face unreadable.

Five minutes later, he turned around.

"Didier, warm up!"

The second half began with a sharp whistle.

This time, Richard's expression turned serious. As he watched Didier Drogba roll his shoulders and step onto the pitch, there was no trace of a smile on his face.

Kickoff.

PHWEEEE~

From the very first touch, City changed their rhythm.

For the first five minutes, nothing much happened. The tempo was slow, almost cautious, as if both sides were still feeling each other out.

Then it changed.

Pirlo spotted the run early and lifted a delicate ball over the top. Drogba exploded forward like a charging bull, shrugged the defender aside as if he didn't exist, and smashed the ball into the net.

No intricate tactics. No elegant buildup. Just raw, overwhelming physical dominance. For a second, the entire stadium fell silent... before it erupted.

The Japan All StAR side had deliberately selected their strongest defenders for this match, but standing in front of Drogba felt less like marking a striker and more like trying to stop a runaway truck.

Six minutes later, a moment happened that made even Richard chuckle.

A Japanese defender, determined to redeem himself, slid in from behind as Drogba turned to receive the ball. Drogba sensed the danger and instinctively half-turned to shield it. The defender crashed into Drogba's back at full force—then bounced off and rolled on the ground like a loose wheel.

The referee blew the whistle.

Foul. On Drogba.

Aaron Lennon stared at Jermain Defoe before asked, "Can you do that?"

Defoe didn't even hesitate. "Me? Forget that. If I try that, I'm the one bouncing off."

Lennon slowly turned to Shaun Wright-Phillips.

"What about you?"

"…"

A long, painful silence.

Lennon blinked. "Sorry. Wrong question."

Wright-Phillips' eyebrows twitched.

'Why would you say that out loud? Why would you reopen this ancient wound?'

He cleared his throat and straightened up with exaggerated dignity. "Hmm. True, I may lack height… but I compensate with speed, energy, and skill."

He paused, then added with dramatic pride,"I will prove to them that a man can overcome early doubts about his height!"

Defoe nodded seriously. "Yes. By not running people like that."

The poor defender had simply run into a wall.

Despite the scoreline, the match itself had limited training value. The squad was a temporary arrangement, lacking chemistry, relying more on individual brilliance than coordinated teamwork.

The flow felt disjointed with Droba as the sperheads. But there were still bright spots.

Woodgate, once considered a fading prospect after injury, played with unexpected energy. Perhaps because he wasn't physically overpowered here, his confidence returned. His link-up with Lucio became the most fluid part of City's defends

Just before halftime, Pires slipped past a defender and threaded a precise through ball.

Drogba once again timed his run perfectly, broke the offside line, and finished calmly.

Richard nodded to himself. Excellent awareness. Excellent reading of space. If he could refine his finishing and sharpen his shooting instincts, he would rise much faster—perhaps even becoming a standout star sooner than anyone expected.

By full time, Manchester City had defeated the Japanese All-Star team 4–1.

Drogba scored a brace, Ronaldinho added one, and another was scored by Henry in the final minutes of the second half.

As dusk settled over the stadium, the crowd rose to applaud both teams. In the span of a single evening, Japanese fans had witnessed, firsthand, the visible gap between their football and Europe's elite development systems.

Most of the City players returned carrying dark-blue Japanese jerseys draped over their shoulders. They had swapped shirts with smiles, handshakes, and bows—small gestures that spoke louder than the scoreline.

Just like youth against youth the day before, now it was the first team against the All-Star side.

And that glimpse into the future was enough.

The Japanese Football Association invited the coaching staff to dinner. They had endless questions about youth development, training structure, and tactical education, and Richard was more than happy to share. This—far more than the scoreline—was the true purpose of the trip: exchange, not victory.

By the time the discussions finally wrapped up, it was nearly nine o'clock when they returned to the hotel, both mentally exhausted and quietly satisfied.