The humidity at the Wisma FAM training ground in Kelana Jaya was a thick, physical presence, but for Eric, it felt like a homecoming. He stood on the manicured grass, already sweating through his yellow-and-black training gear, adjusting the GPS vest under his shirt.

Beside him, **Hariz** was juggling a ball with the effortless grace he’d picked up in Uruguay, his eyes scanning the pitch with a quiet intensity. **Dion Cools** was nearby, acting as the bridge between the local boys and the new arrivals.

The shrill blast of a whistle cut through the chatter. **Peter Cklamovski**, the Australian head coach known for his high-intensity "Cklamovski-ball," marched into the center of the circle. He stood with his hands on his hips, his face reddened by the Malaysian sun.

"Listen up, gents!" Cklamovski barked, his thick Aussie accent echoing across the field. Since he didn't speak a word of Malay, he relied on pure volume and the universal language of football. "We’ve got a massive job ahead against Nepal. Round 3 starts now. No excuses. I’ve brought in two more pieces of the puzzle to ensure we play the way I want—front foot, aggressive, relentless."

He gestured to two men standing slightly apart, looking a bit like deer in headlights in the tropical heat.

"From Portimonense in Portugal, we have **Hector Hevel**," Peter announced, pointing to a technical-looking midfielder. "And from Tenerife in Spain, **Gabriel Palmero**."

The two Europeans offered awkward waves. It was clear from their expressions that the only Malay they knew was *'Terima Kasih,'* and even that was a struggle.

"They don’t speak the local lingo yet," Cklamovski added bluntly, "and neither do I. But the ball speaks the same language everywhere. Eric, Hariz, Dion—you three are the vanguard. Help them settle. We move as one unit or we don't move at all. Understood?"

"Yes, Coach!" the squad shouted back.

As the team broke off into passing drills, Eric found himself in a rondo with the two newcomers. Hector Hevel looked around at the palm trees fringing the training ground, wiping sweat from his eyes.

"Hot," Hector muttered in English, glancing at Eric. "Very... very hot."

"Welcome to Malaysia, mate," Eric replied with a grin, zipping a crisp pass to Gabriel Palmero’s feet. "You’ll get used to the steam. Just don't ask what's in the spicy sauce at dinner yet."

Gabriel trapped the ball perfectly, his Spanish academy roots showing in his touch. "Nepal?" he asked, looking for tactical context.

"First hurdle," Eric said, his "Modern 9" brain already clicking into gear. He looked over at Hariz, who was already whispering instructions to Gabriel in Spanish, helping the winger understand the overlapping runs Cklamovski expected.

The "Heritage Project" was no longer just a headline on a sports portal. With an Australian coach shouting orders in English, two Europeans trying to find their feet, and the Morgan-Chai cousins leading the charge, the *Harimau Malaya* felt less like a traditional national team and more like a high-stakes global start-up.

"Hey, Gabriel! Hector!" Eric called out, pointing to the goal. "Just put the ball in the box. I’ll do the rest. That’s the only translation you need."

Dion Cools walked past, clapping his hands. "See? The 'Doctor' is already writing prescriptions."

The session intensified, the sound of boots on leather and Cklamovski’s frantic "Move! Move! Move!" filling the air. They were a patchwork of different cultures and languages, but as Eric latched onto a cross from Hariz and buried it into the bottom corner, the message was clear: Nepal wasn't ready for what was coming.

---

The floodlights of the Sultan Ibrahim Stadium cut through the humid Johor night, turning the pitch into a glowing stage. As Eric went through his high-knee drills, the "Modern 9" rhythm already in his legs, his eyes drifted toward the VIP stands.

He stopped mid-stride, a wide grin breaking across his face.

There, draped in a mix of Malaysia scarves and neutral colors, sat a row of faces that looked like a crossroads of his entire life. **Aggie** was there, beaming and waving a small Malaysian flag. But sitting right next to her was the "California delegation": **Jeni, Jeri, and Alex Morgan**.

The Morgan sisters had actually made the trek. Alex looked every bit the competitive legend even from the stands, her eyes narrowed as she scouted the pitch, looking for her "traitor" cousins.

Beside Eric, **Hariz** noticed them too. With the playful confidence he’d brought back from Uruguay, Hariz didn't just wave—he gave a cheeky, two-handed salute and blew a kiss toward the stand.

Alex’s response was instantaneous. She didn't wave back. Instead, she locked eyes with Hariz and slowly raised a clenched fist, shaking it at him with a "just you wait" smirk that promised a very long family dinner later.

Eric let out a short, genuine chuckle, the sound lost in the roar of the pre-match crowd. He leaned toward Hariz, slipping effortlessly into the sharp, rhythmic cadence of their shared childhood tongue.

"**Berani hang noh, Riz?**" Eric said, his Northern accent thick and teasing. (*You're brave, aren't you, Riz?*) "**Satgi mampuih kita kena lanyak dengan Kak Alex. Dia bukan kira, silap-silap dia turun padang terus cari kita.**" (*Later we're dead, getting trashed by Sis Alex. She doesn't care—she might even come down to the pitch just to find us.*)

Hariz laughed, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and adjusted his yellow training top. "**Biar pi kat dia, Ric. Kita tunjuk kat depa dulu lagu mana Harimau Malaya main. Lepas game baru kita pikiaq lagu mana nak lari.**" (*Let her be, Ric. We show them how the Malayan Tigers play first. After the game, then we think about how to run away.*)

Eric patted Hariz on the shoulder, his gaze returning to the goalposts. The wit and the dialect felt like a shield against the pressure. Across the world, people saw a "Modern 9" and a "Peñarol Winger," but right here, under the Johor sky, they were just two boys from the North ready to show their sisters exactly why they chose this jersey.

"**Jom,**" Eric muttered, his eyes hardening as the warm-up ended. "**Masa untuk buat kerja.**" (*Time to get to work.*)

---

The atmosphere inside the Sultan Ibrahim Stadium was a physical force, a wall of rhythmic chanting and the steady, thunderous beat of the Ultras Malaya drums. As the teams lined up in the tunnel, the fluorescent lights glinted off the yellow-and-black stripes of the Malaysia kit.

Eric felt the familiar pre-match vibration in his chest. To his left stood Hariz, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes fixed forward with that South American intensity he’d brought back from Peñarol. In front of them, leading the line as the anchor of the team, was Dion Cools.

Dion adjusted the captain’s armband, his expression grave and professional. He turned to face the huddle just seconds before they stepped onto the pitch. While Eric and Hariz fell into their effortless Northern slang, Dion’s Malay was precise, a testament to the hours he’d spent studying the language to respect the office he held.

"Dengar sini, semua," Dion’s voice rose above the tunnel's hum, steady and formal. (Listen here, everyone.) "Malam ini adalah permulaan baru. Kita bermain untuk lencana ini, dan untuk rakyat Malaysia. Tunjukkan disiplin dan kualiti kita di atas padang. Saya mahu setiap pemain memberikan komitmen seratus peratus. Mari kita banggakan negara kita." (Tonight is a new beginning. We play for this badge, and for the people of Malaysia. Show our discipline and quality on the field. I want every player to give one hundred percent commitment. Let us make our country proud.)

Eric caught Hariz’s eye and gave a small, respectful nod. Dion might not have the "Northern tang," but he had the authority.

As they walked out into the cauldron of noise, the Negaraku began to play. Eric stood tall, his 1.82-metre frame aligned between Hariz and Dion. He looked up at the VIP box, catching a glimpse of the Morgan sisters and Aggie standing for the anthem. Alex looked impressed despite herself, her "scout" brain likely analyzing the 4-3-3 formation Cklamovski had deployed.

The whistle blew, and the Round 3 Qualification was officially underway.

Nepal started deep, wary of the "Modern 9" everyone had been talking about. Within the first two minutes, the ball found its way to Dion at the back. He didn't hesitate, pinging a perfectly weighted diagonal ball over the top—a "Cools Special."

"Riz! Turun!" Eric shouted, seeing the space opening up.

Hariz didn't need telling twice. He scorched past the Nepali left-back, his touch as light as a feather, before cutting inside. He looked up and saw Eric making a subtle, diagonal run toward the near post, dragging two defenders with him.

It was the "Doctor" at work—not just looking for the ball, but creating the surgery. The game had only just begun, but the chemistry between the cousins was already making the stadium shake. The "Heritage Project" wasn't just a plan anymore; it was a predator, and it was hungry.

----

The match had settled into a rhythmic, suffocating pressure from the Harimau Malaya. Nepal was parked in a low block, a forest of legs meant to frustrate the "Modern 9," but Eric remained patient, drifting between the two center-backs like a ghost.

In the 30th minute, the breakthrough finally came from the wings.

Hariz picked up the ball near the touchline, about forty yards out. He looked up, locked eyes with Eric, and saw the slightest tilt of his cousin’s shoulder—the "Doctor" signaling exactly where the incision needed to be made. With the flair he’d mastered at Peñarol, Hariz didn't just cross the ball; he whipped a low, fizzing diagonal pass that sliced through three defenders.

Eric’s movement was textbook "Modern 9." He didn't wait for the ball; he exploded into the space behind the Nepali captain. As the ball skipped off the damp surface, Eric met it with a delicate first-time touch that cushioned it perfectly into his stride.

One touch to set. One touch to finish.

With the 1.82-metre frame shielding the ball from the recovering defender, Eric opened his body and curled a clinical strike toward the far bottom corner. The keeper dove at full stretch, but the precision was too much.

GOL! MALAYSIA 1 - 0 NEPAL.

The Sultan Ibrahim Stadium didn't just roar; it felt like the foundations were shaking. Eric sprinted toward the corner flag, but before he could get there, Hariz had already jumped onto his back.

"Padu baq hang!" Hariz yelled into his ear, his Northern accent coming out in the heat of the moment. (That was solid, man!)

Eric laughed, sliding on his knees toward the camera. He pointed a finger back at Hariz, then turned his gaze toward the VIP box. He saw Aggie jumping up and down, and even Alex Morgan was standing, a reluctant but proud smile on her face as she clapped for the goal.

Dion Cools ran up, breathing hard but maintaining his captain’s composure. "Bagus, Eric. Teruskan fokus," Dion said, patting him on the head. (Good, Eric. Stay focused.)

Eric looked at the scoreboard: 30' - Eric Michael (46). He tapped the badge on his chest and then touched his forehead—a silent tribute to the "Doctor" Rossi and the surgical precision of his first-ever goal for the country he had finally called home.

The "Heritage Project" had officially arrived, and for the Morgan-Chai family, the night was only just getting started.

---

The humidity had intensified by the 60th minute, turning the Sultan Ibrahim Stadium into a pressure cooker. Malaysia was leading 1-0, but Peter Cklamovski was screaming from the technical area, demanding the "relentless" transition play he’d drilled into them.

**Hector Hevel** was finding his rhythm in the heart of the midfield. Despite the language barrier, his Dutch academy roots were showing; he saw passing lanes before they even opened.

Eric dropped deep, vacating the "9" position to pull the Nepali center-backs out of their comfort zone. He collected a crisp pass from Dion Cools and turned on a dime. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hector making a late, ghosting run from midfield—the classic "Lampard" move.

"**Hector! Go!**" Eric roared in English, his voice cutting through the Vuvuzela-like drone of the crowd.

Eric didn't just pass the ball; he played a "Modern 9" reverse flick, using the outside of his boot to disguise the direction. The ball bobbled slightly on the damp turf, but Hector’s first touch was sublime.

The Portimonense man drove into the box, but he looked hesitant for a split second, searching for a teammate.

"**Shoot, Hec! Finish it!**" Eric commanded, pointing toward the bottom left corner.

Trusting the "Doctor’s" prescription, Hector didn't hesitate further. He unleashed a low, stinging drive that skidded across the grass, slipping under the keeper’s outstretched arm and into the side netting.

**GOL! MALAYSIA 2 - 0 NEPAL.**

The stadium erupted as Hector stood rooted to the spot for a second, almost in disbelief, before a massive grin broke across his face. Eric was the first one there, wrapping an arm around the midfielder’s neck.

"First one in the bag, mate! Welcome to the family!" Eric shouted over the noise.

Hector panted, the sweat pouring off his face, a look of pure relief in his eyes. "Thanks, Eric! Great ball, man... unbelievable ball!"

Hariz ran over, joining the huddle and patting Hector on the back. "**Cantik, Hector! Cantik!**" Hariz yelled, using the one Malay word every heritage player learns first. (*Beautiful!*)

Hector laughed, nodding vigorously. "Yes! *Cantik!* Very *cantik*!"

Dion Cools jogged up, maintaining his captain’s poise even in the celebration. He gave Hector a firm handshake and a nod of approval. "**Well done, Hector. Syabas. Teruskan begini,**" Dion said, mixing his formal Malay with a supportive tone. (**Well done, Hector. Congratulations. Keep it up.**)

Up in the stands, Eric saw **Alex Morgan** leaning over to **Aggie**, pointing at the screen. She looked like she was breaking down the tactical play, acknowledging the vision Eric had shown to create the space.

As the teams retreated to the halfway line, Eric walked alongside Hector, giving him a playful shove. "See? You don't need to speak Malay to score. Just listen to the Doctor."

Hector chuckled, his chest heaving. "I think I like it here, Eric. Even if I can't breathe the air yet."

---

The clock in the corner of the Sultan Ibrahim Stadium glowed with a menacing 87:14. The humidity had turned the air into a thick soup, and the pace of the game had finally begun to settle—until a cynical trip on Gabriel Palmero thirty yards out brought the Ultras Malaya back to their feet.

The ball was dead, sitting centrally but slightly to the left of the ‘D’. It was a distance that usually called for a delicate curl, but Hariz was standing over it with a different intent. He placed the ball with the valve facing him, his eyes narrowed, the Peñarol winger’s flair replaced by a cold, calculating focus.

He didn't just take a three-step run-up. He backed away, almost reaching the edge of the center circle—a long, diagonal approach that made the Nepali wall exchange nervous glances.

"Riz, hang biaq betoi?" Eric muttered, standing near the edge of the box, his Northern accent surfacing through his heavy breathing. (Riz, you for real?) "Nak pelantak lagu tu ka?" (You're gonna blast it like that?)

Hariz didn't look at him. He just gave a sharp, confident nod. "Tengok ni, Ric. Gaya Carlos, tapi kaki kanan." (Watch this, Ric. Carlos style, but right foot.)

The referee blew the whistle.

Hariz exploded forward. His run-up was a sprint, his body leaning heavily to the left as his plant foot thudded into the turf with enough force to kick up a spray of water and grass. He struck the ball with the outside of his right boot, a violent, snapping motion that seemed to send the ball heading toward the corner flag.

For a split second, the stadium went silent. The ball was spiraling a good three yards wide of the wall.

Then, the physics of the "Peñarol curve" took over.

The ball hissed through the air, catching a vicious, unnatural swerve. It bent back toward the goal like it was pulled by a magnet. The Nepali goalkeeper didn't even dive; he simply stood frozen, his head turning as the ball roared past his outstretched hand and thundered into the top corner.

GOL! MALAYSIA 3 - 0 NEPAL.

The "Doctor" was the first to reach him. Eric sprinted over, grabbing Hariz by the jersey and shaking him in disbelief. "Gila hang ni!" Eric yelled over the deafening roar of the crowd. (You're crazy!) "Mana hang ajaq lagu tu?" (Where did you learn that?)

Hariz was laughing, his lungs burning, his arms spread wide as he soaked in the adoration of Johor. "Uruguay, Ric! Belajaq kat sana la!" (Uruguay, Ric! Learned it over there!)

Up in the VIP box, the reaction was pure chaos. Aggie was hugging Jeni and Jeri, but it was Alex Morgan who stole the show. The USWNT legend was leaning over the railing, her jaw literally dropped, shaking her head as she pointed down at her adopted brother. She looked like a coach who had just seen a glitch in the Matrix—the "Morgan grit" had officially met "Malaysian magic."

Dion Cools jogged up, a rare, wide grin breaking through his captain's mask. "Syabas, Hariz! Luar biasa!" Dion shouted, his formal Malay unable to contain his excitement. (Congratulations, Hariz! Extraordinary!)

As Hariz walked back to the halfway line, wiping the sweat from his eyes, he caught Eric’s gaze. The "Modern 9" and the "Uruguayan Winger" shared a silent, knowing smirk. The game was won, the statement was made, and the family reunion was about to get very, very loud.