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***
The new plan was working—brilliantly, in fact. Arthur's low-profile transfer strategy, combined with the carefully timed announcement spree, was creating absolute chaos in the Leeds United fanbase—and he was loving every second of it.
Bob Walton, Leeds' most faithful (and loudest) supporter, had practically turned into the club's unofficial news anchor. Every morning, he'd check the club's official website with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb. And just as he'd hoped, the updates kept coming.
July 1:
"Welcome Dimitar Berbatov and Sebastian Deisler to Leeds United."
Bob rubbed his eyes. Twice.
"Berbatov? The silk-touch wizard? Deisler too?!"
He scrambled to the forum faster than he'd ever moved since the 1989 pitch invasion.
"Look who's back with another W! Arthur's not building a team, he's assembling a mixtape!"
July 3:
"Gareth Bale promoted to first team. Xavi García and Juanfran sign for Leeds."
Bob had to pause and fetch a fresh cup of tea.
"Gareth Bale? That Welsh kid with rockets for legs? This is getting out of hand..."
July 4:
"Radamel Falcao, Javier Mascherano, and Thiago Silva join Leeds United."
Bob sat in stunned silence, clutching his mug like it was keeping him tethered to reality.
"Is Arthur playing some kind of prank? Did we... did we win the lottery?"
July 5:
"Welcome Maicon to Leeds United."
Bob let out a slow, drawn-out laugh.
"Oh sure, why not? Bring in Maicon too. Next thing you know, he'll sign Ronaldinho just for fun."
At this point, Bob was convinced Arthur had either hypnotized agents across Europe or was blackmailing someone at FIFA. There was no other explanation. And yet, none of it felt like blind spending. It was calculated chaos. Every signing was young, dynamic, or had untapped potential.
The only name not mentioned officially? Gerard Piqué. Arthur had quietly dumped him into the youth training group without a single word to the media.
"Poor lad," Bob chuckled, reading a fan comment that asked where the "tall Spanish bloke" had gone. "Arthur's playing long-term chess while the rest of you are playing hopscotch."
Online, the fanbase was split right down the middle.
On one side were the doubters—let's call them the "Premier League Purists."
Their arguments were loud and, frankly, hilarious.
"You can't just bring in kids and hope they'll survive in the Prem. This isn't a school trip to Thorpe Park!"
"Berbatov's the only one with proper top-flight experience! Everyone else is still learning to shave!"
"You really think a bunch of 20-year-olds can handle Henry and Drogba? They'll get flattened!"
Bob wasn't having it.
He replied to almost every one of them.
"You said the same thing last year. Where are your predictions now?"
"Arthur turned Tevez from a bench warmer into a wrecking ball. Have some faith."
"I've seen more talent in this list than in a Chelsea reserve squad. And they cost three times as much!"
The other faction, led by optimists like Bob, were absolutely buzzing.
They pointed to Arthur's track record—how he turned unknowns into stars, how he coached with clarity, and how he played to his squad's strengths.
One user wrote:
"Arthur could turn a cheese grater into a holding midfielder if he had enough time. Just wait till these kids get some game time."
Another added:
"Falcao, Silva, Mascherano—all under 23. This isn't just a youth movement, this is an investment."
The debates were endless. The comments ranged from thoughtful tactical breakdowns to GIFs of people pulling their hair out.
Even the media wasn't sure where to stand.
Sky Sports pundit:
"Leeds are either geniuses or lunatics. No middle ground. I'm leaning toward genius, but I want to see them against Chelsea first."
BBC headline:
Arthur's Army: Youth Storm Brewing in Yorkshire.
Back at Elland Road, Arthur watched the growing frenzy with mild amusement. He said nothing. He gave no interviews. The silence only made the chaos grow louder.
Allen, his right-hand man, couldn't help but laugh during their call.
"You've got half of England convinced you've lost your mind."
Arthur replied calmly, "Good. That means they won't see what's coming."
Allen snorted. "Piqué still asking if he gets a squad number?"
"Tell him to enjoy the youth training. He'll thank me later."
Arthur didn't care about the noise. He knew exactly what he was building—an aggressive, athletic, cohesive squad that could press, run, and punch well above its age. The Premier League would be unforgiving, but so was Arthur's system. And if even half of these players clicked, Leeds would be impossible to ignore.
As July rolled on, excitement and anxiety grew in equal measure. The opening matchday loomed. Rival fans mocked. Leeds fans hoped. And Arthur, quietly, was sharpening his weapons.
But Bob? Bob Walton was already making space on his wall for a Premier League table.
He was convinced that Leeds weren't just here to survive.
They were here to shock the whole damn league.
***
The internet was still in flames. Leeds United fans were tearing into each other like it was a family dinner gone wrong. One side argued that Arthur had built a children's choir instead of a Premier League squad. The other side swore he was a genius who was about to start a footballing youth revolution.
Meanwhile, while grown men were calling each other names over formations and future projections on online forums, Arthur himself couldn't have cared less. He was too busy standing at the side of the Leeds United training pitch, arms crossed, watching his brand-new squad warm up for the very first training session of the 2005–06 season.
"Pick up your knees, Berba!" shouted the assistant coach. "You look like you're jogging to a picnic!"
Arthur didn't say a word. He was focused. Not on the running. Not on the players' form. But on the glowing interface only he could see—his trusty system panel.
He pulled it up silently like he was checking a very nerdy secret weapon. The information flickered in front of his eyes:
[Host]: Arthur
[Club Owned]: Leeds United
[Economic Situation]: Normal Operation
[Team Status]: Positive
[Available Funds]: €200,000
[Fixed Skills]: Super Scout (view detailed attributes of any player), Master Coach
[Skill Package]:
— Peak Drogba Template Card (1 month, usable on any player)
— Injury Recovery Card x1
Arthur tilted his head slightly, amused.
"Two hundred grand," he muttered under his breath. "From a fortune to fish food in one month. Impressive."
It was true. Just a few weeks ago, Leeds United had more cash than a championship boxer on payday. After selling key players—including Tevez to Manchester United—Arthur had pulled in €89 million in transfer fees. That, stacked on top of the €30+ million already in the club's books, gave him a brief, glorious moment where Leeds United was sitting on over €130 million. For a club that had been buried in debt, it felt like winning the lottery and inheriting a castle on the same day.
But Arthur wasn't the type to hang onto money for long. As soon as Manchester United's wire transfer cleared on July 1st, he marched straight to the bank and scheduled the debt repayment like someone paying off a bad gambling habit. The outstanding amount was withdrawn the day before. It was all gone now.
After loan repayments, nearly €40 million in transfer fees for his new band of young hopefuls, and June's salary bill, Leeds United now had enough left in the bank to maybe buy a second-hand coach… or a couple crates of bottled water.
Still, Arthur didn't panic. He wasn't in this for short-term fireworks. The club had no debt anymore. The books were clean. Ticket revenue for the upcoming Premier League season would start flowing in soon. And if Leeds managed even mid-table respectability, shirt sales and merchandise would keep the lights on.
And most importantly, Leeds United was now operating like a normal football club. That, in Arthur's mind, was the real victory.
He glanced up at the players again. The warm-up was still going, and the assistant was now yelling at Falcao, who was half-heartedly doing jumping jacks.
"Don't flap like a pigeon, Radamel! Use your arms, not your feathers!"
Arthur smirked and then called up the player panel to take a peek at everyone's attributes.
"Let's see what we've got."
As expected, the stats looked mostly the same. Not surprising—everyone had just come back from vacation, and this was their first day back in training. No real growth, no surprises. The Master Coach skill would start working its magic soon enough, but until then, everyone was still carrying their vacation weight and rust.
Berbatov's dribbling was still smooth on paper. Lahm's tackling looked solid. Mascherano's aggression bar was almost a red flag. And young Gareth Bale had stamina for days but looked like he'd be knocked over by a strong breeze.
"Nothing new. But no disasters either," Arthur muttered, closing the panel.
Allen approached from the sideline, looking like he had half a dozen things to say.
"You're not worried about the bank account being down to crumbs?"
Arthur shook his head. "We've got no debt and a working team. That's more than most clubs can say."
Allen nodded. "True. Even United's got skeletons in their closet. And Chelsea's just lighting money on fire at this point."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Exactly. Let them burn it. We'll beat them with coaching and common sense."
Allen glanced over at the players. Falcao had now kicked a water bottle mid-air and earned applause from Mascherano. Thiago Silva was doing stretches while Bale jogged in circles with Deisler, the two of them talking and laughing like it was summer camp.
"This lot's young," Allen said. "You sure they'll cope?"
Arthur replied dryly, "That's what pre-season's for. If they can survive my training, they can survive anything."
Allen shrugged. "Fair enough. Just don't burn them out before the first match."
Arthur didn't answer. He was already staring at the system panel again, eyes fixed on the Peak Drogba Template Card.
"One month," he whispered, rubbing his chin. "Now who gets the upgrade...?"
On the pitch, the assistant coach blew his whistle.
"Alright, that's enough stretching! Time to touch the ball. Let's see if any of you remembered how to pass!"
Arthur put his hands behind his back and stepped forward, ready to take charge.
Let the real work begin.
***
Arthur stood quietly at the edge of the training pitch, system panel open like a gamer mid-match. The players were cooling down after their first training session of the new season, most of them bent over gasping for breath, as if they'd just finished running a marathon instead of passing drills.
But Arthur wasn't watching them. He was staring at one player's profile with furrowed brows and a strange mixture of curiosity and sympathy.
[Player: Sebastian Deisler]
Age: 25
Offensive Threat: 91
Defensive Strength: 23
Body Balance: 81
Long Pass Accuracy: 95
Short Pass Accuracy: 93
Shooting Accuracy: 90
Dribbling Accuracy: 94
Shooting Skills: 92
Speed / Max Speed: 93 / 96
Awareness: 96
Leadership Awareness: 62
Injury Tolerance: D–
Talent: S
Current Game Status: Poor (affected by depression and knee injury, all attributes decreased by 30%)
Remaining Peak Period: Reached peak period
Contract Remaining: 3 years
Potential: None (fully developed)
Player Evaluation:
"Talented, known as the successor to Lothar Matthäus. Blessed with terrifying speed, exquisite dribbling, and laser-accurate passing. Deadly with crosses and set pieces. Once hailed as the next leader of German football. Now suffering from knee injuries and depression. Urgently needs recovery support."
Comprehensive Rating: A+ (downgraded to B– due to current condition)
Arthur clicked his tongue. "That's just sad," he muttered.
He remembered the story now. Deisler was supposed to be Germany's next big thing. But after years of injuries and personal struggles, the man retired early, his career cut short—not just by his knees, but by the weight inside his own head.
"I was gonna flip you for a profit," Arthur said under his breath, glancing up as Deisler slowly walked to the water cooler. "But now I just feel bad about it."
Deisler wasn't limping, exactly, but he looked like someone who had to think twice before bending down to tie his boots. He gave a quiet nod to Thiago Silva as he passed and kept to himself.
Arthur sighed and opened his item inventory. The Injury Recovery Card was still there, untouched. Originally, he planned to save it for a more high-profile player—someone he could build a team around. But now?
"If no club offers for him, I might just burn the card on you, mate," Arthur said quietly. "If that gets you back to 100%, it'd be worth it."
He closed the panel and looked up at the players who were now laughing and chatting after training. Falcao was juggling a bottle cap with his foot while Bale and Mascherano argued about whose shot had gone further into the trees.
Still, Arthur knew fun wouldn't cut it next season. The Premier League was no joke. And his squad, as promising as it looked on paper, was barely out of its shell.
He had a plan.
"We're gonna turn them into a passing machine," Arthur muttered to himself. "Less chaos. More control."
The next four weeks would focus heavily on passing drills, one-touch combinations, and off-ball movement. Arthur wasn't trying to clone Guardiola's Barcelona—he didn't have Xavi or Iniesta—but he wanted his own version of that controlled possession style. Slow the tempo, drag the opponent out, then go for the throat.
Luckily, he had the tools. Modric and Yaya Touré both had the vision and technical skill to run the midfield. And he had depth now—players who could rotate, move, switch positions. He'd mix calm ball retention with sudden bursts of vertical play. No tiki without some taka.
"Just need to get them clicking," Arthur said, arms crossed as he watched Modric and Toure casually ping the ball between them like they'd been teammates for years.
Training wrapped up with a light jog, and Arthur dismissed the players. Most of them immediately beelined for the showers, except for Bale, who decided to race Falcao to the changing room and tripped over a cone halfway.
Arthur chuckled. "Still got work to do."
Just as he turned to head inside, Allen came jogging toward him, practically grinning like a man who'd found cash in an old coat pocket.
"Boss!"
Arthur blinked. "You look like you robbed a bank."
"Better!" Allen panted. "Bates just sent in another offer."
Arthur arched an eyebrow. "For Tevez?"
Allen nodded, trying to catch his breath. "He's upped it again. Twenty-six million euros."
Arthur didn't respond right away. He just looked amused.
"He really thinks he's still in the race."
Allen grinned. "He's getting desperate. Doesn't know Tevez is already in red."
Arthur rubbed his chin. "Let him stew a bit longer. If he wants to get hustled, we might as well milk it."
Allen chuckled. "Should we push him to 29?"
Arthur's eyes twinkled. "That's the plan. And once he hits 29…"
"We break the news?"
"Exactly," Arthur said with a smirk. "Tevez has already been sitting on Manchester United's bench for two weeks."
Allen nodded. "It's evil."
"It's business."
They walked off the training pitch together, the sun starting to dip behind the stadium. The training had gone well, the system showed progress, and even the club's finances—although comically thin—were finally stable.
Arthur paused one last time and glanced back at Deisler, who was walking off slowly, shoulders hunched, but still lacing up his boots for tomorrow.
"One card," Arthur thought, eyes narrowing. "Might be worth it."