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***
Arthur had absolutely no idea that his post-match press conference had lit a bonfire across the Premier League.
As far as he was concerned, he'd answered a couple of questions, tossed in a sarcastic jab at Mourinho, then walked out like it was just another Sunday. But the rest of the football world? They were losing their minds.
The press had gone berserk within hours. Backpages were plastered with headlines like:
"Leeds Boss: Champions League or Bust!"
"New Boy Wants a Seat at the Big Boys' Table."
"Arthur's Audacity: Top Four or Total Madness?"
It wasn't just that Arthur had said his goal was a top-four finish — it was how he said it. Casual. Confident. Like he was ordering a sandwich.
To traditional British fans and pundits, that attitude was somewhere between insulting and blasphemous. The fact that Leeds were a newly promoted club, barely out of debt and running on the fumes of smart sales, made it worse. Chelsea might be foreign-owned too, but they were spending more money than most countries' GDP and winning trophies to justify it.
Leeds? They had just sold three key players to patch up their books, and now their manager was announcing that he planned to crash the Champions League party?
Football forums were immediately flooded with angry opinions. Some of it was typical banter. Some of it was... not.
One angry commenter on a fan site wrote:
"Look at this guy's face. Seriously. The man just beat Chelsea and now thinks he's Pep Guardiola. Get a grip."
Another added:
"Mate parks the bus, wins with a fluke counterattack, and now he's aiming for the top four? This is Leeds United, not Barcelona."
A West Ham fan chimed in with:
"He said Drogba's goal was a gift from God. A gift from God. Who says that on TV with a straight face?"
And it didn't stop there. One radio host on a Monday morning show summed up the national mood:
"It's one thing to have ambition. Fine. You want to survive relegation? Great. Mid-table? Sure. But don't sit there, with your team that's just barely unpacked in the Premier League, and tell the world you're kicking out Arsenal, Chelsea, United, or Liverpool. One of them's got to go if you're getting in. Who's he booting? Klopp? Wenger? Sir Alex? Come on."
"Sir Alex will handle him," one caller muttered ominously. Like Ferguson was some kind of football hitman who would personally destroy Arthur's hopes with a raised eyebrow.
Meanwhile, social media was a whole different circus. Memes exploded.
A picture of Arthur sitting at the press conference, smiling smugly, had been edited to include a speech bubble:
"Champions League, please. No salad."
One widely shared video had dramatic music over clips of Arthur saying "Champions League," followed by footage of Leeds' training ground with buckets catching rain from the leaky roof.
In a group chat full of football writers, someone sent a voice note:
"Lads, we've got a new Mourinho, but with less hair gel and more sarcasm. I'm here for it."
In Leeds, fans were split down the middle. Half of them were printing shirts that read "Top 4 or Nothing," while the other half were whispering things like, "Er... maybe we should focus on avoiding 17th first."
And yet, Arthur himself was blissfully unaware. While the media was foaming at the mouth, he was sitting in his office watching match footage, sipping tea, and rewinding the clip of Deisler's goal for the fifth time.
"Look at that finish," he muttered, pointing at the screen like a proud parent. "Just brushed it past Cech like he was a hologram."
His assistant, James, walked in holding a stack of newspapers.
"Boss," he said, dropping them on the desk. "You've gone viral. Again."
Arthur glanced at the headlines, raised one eyebrow, and shrugged. "Well, I did say it, didn't I?"
"You're public enemy number one in half the league. Did you really have to say 'Champions League' out loud?"
Arthur leaned back in his chair, completely unfazed. "Better than saying 'avoid relegation.' Where's the fun in that?"
James sighed. "Just so you know, Ferguson's already been asked about you in his pre-match press conference."
"Oh yeah? What'd he say?"
"Didn't say a word. Just laughed."
Arthur grinned. "Perfect."
And just like that, he turned back to the training schedule, already planning for next weekend like the entire football world wasn't screaming at him.
Because in Arthur's mind, the logic was simple.
They'd beaten Chelsea. That wasn't luck. That was tactics. And if that upset people, well, they'd better buckle up.
He wasn't done yet.
(I had to manually remove mc is chinese, Oriental and and how unique this mf is just cz he's chinese in every fuckin sentence! I even cut out one and a half chapter due to some random chiggas talking and deciding Leeds will go to china and promote the great motherlands football and other crap like it's a done deal.
Just for this, I'm gonna bash China and their football from now. Sorry if you are Chinese reader, but this bs is too much)
Arthur, who was surfing the Internet in the office, also saw these remarks.
Regarding the conservatism of the British, in the original owner's memory, he can be regarded as having a deep understanding.
As a person who has immigrated to England from USA for decades and is also a famous local entrepreneur in Leeds, His Dad was opposed by a large number of fans when he took over Leeds United. At that time, fans also blocked the door of the club and demanded that his Dad resign.
Atleast he wasn't from China. The corrupt and idiotic Football system and association they had, while preaching about bullshit patriotic propaganda to ruin talented players, he himself wouldn't support a club if someone like that took over a club.
To them, football is bribing refree, fixing league match by the rich, gambling and betting who breaks more bones.
They even ruined career of some talentled Foreign grown Chinese players when then went to play. Arthur remembered one player who's career ended while playing a friendly match. A fuckin friendly match!
So when some of this corrupt assholes tried to lure Leeds, a failing club in championship to in name of promoting Football and other bs, he directly refused.
Not only they skip payments on player salary like Eto'o in future, they might also injure or try to lure a player with money when defaulting in future. A businessman like Arthur would rather sell the club than falling into that kinda lies.
When Arthur first took over Leeds United, nobody believed in him. Not the fans. Not the press. Not even the club's janitor, who gave him a sympathetic pat on the back like he'd just been diagnosed with something terminal.
The only people on his side were the club staff — and let's be honest, even they looked like they were preparing for relegation. But then came the system.
With its help, Arthur somehow dragged the club out of the Championship gutter, patched up a crumbling squad, and guided Leeds back to the Premier League. And week by week, win by win, he started converting the doubters. Slowly, the fans stopped booing and started chanting. The sarcastic "We're gonna win the league!" turned into cautious optimism, then full-blown chants of "Arthur's magic, he wears no cap!" (They were still working on better lyrics.)
But lately… something had been bugging him.
He leaned back in his creaky office chair, chewing on the end of a pen, staring at the ceiling. The system hadn't said a word in weeks. No pop-ups. No tasks. No mysterious missions with vague rewards. Nothing.
He'd expected something after the Chelsea match — some kind of "Special Victory Bonus" or a task like "Win Against Mourinho to Unlock Tactical Module Level 2." But there was nothing. Not even a "Well done."
The only hint the system was still alive was that Kasper Schmeichel's defensive stat had quietly ticked up by one point after the final whistle.
"Wow," Arthur muttered to himself, mock clapping. "A whole point. Truly blessed."
He flipped open his laptop and skimmed through online comments about himself. Some praised him. Most didn't.
"Who does this guy think he is? Saying 'Champions League' like it's a Tesco shopping list."
"Leeds will be lucky to finish 14th. Pipe down, Mr. Bus-Parker."
"Sir Alex is gonna teach him what football actually is."
Arthur smirked, closed the tab, and opened the fixture list.
That's when the real headache began.
The schedule was brutal.
"This Saturday, Charlton away," he muttered. "Then United at Old Trafford next Thursday. Then Sunderland at home the following Sunday."
Three matches in nine days. And not just any matches — this was the kind of run that separated contenders from clubs that spent May scrambling to avoid 18th.
He drummed his fingers on the table. Charlton wasn't terrifying. In fact, they were just kind of… there. Hovering around the bottom half every year, never bad enough to go down, never good enough to cause trouble.
"We should win that one," he mumbled. "If everyone stays awake."
But the real issue was Manchester United.
Arthur didn't need a scouting report to know how terrifying Sir Alex Ferguson was. The man didn't even blink during press conferences. He just stared down reporters until they folded like card tables.
From what Arthur remembered — both from before and after his "second chance at life" — Ferguson didn't do anything by the book. He didn't stick to a fixed formation. He didn't force players into rigid systems. He adjusted on the fly, letting his squad improvise like a jazz band full of angry Scottish instruments.
He didn't win games. He outlasted people.
You'd think you were cruising at 1-0, then suddenly Giggs would appear out of nowhere in the 87th minute, and boom — equalizer. Then Rooney would smash one in stoppage time, and the scoreboard would read 2-1 while you stood there wondering what just happened.
Arthur had no illusions. Beating Chelsea had been possible because Mourinho had underestimated him. The Portuguese had assumed Leeds would fold like a cheap tent, then panicked when Deisler ran riot and Leeds got two goals on the counter. After that, Mourinho had tried to flip the match with subs and shouting, but the damage was done.
But Ferguson? No chance he'd make that mistake.
Arthur stared at the schedule again. If he went all-out against Charlton, his players would be knackered by Thursday. But if he rotated and dropped points early, people would scream at him for "not taking every match seriously."
"Should I rest Deisler?" he asked the empty room. "Or is that a death sentence?"
His assistant James popped in, holding two cups of coffee. "You talking to yourself again?"
Arthur took the cup and nodded. "Yeah. I'm debating whether I want to get sacked by losing to Charlton or crushed by Ferguson."
James nodded like he understood this existential dilemma deeply. "Sunderland won't be easy either. They're still bitter about last year."
"Yeah," Arthur groaned. "Championship bullies always get extra petty in the Premier League."
He leaned forward, rubbing his temples.
Three matches. Nine days. One brain.
He'd need to rotate smartly, rest legs without killing momentum. Maybe start some fringe players against Charlton, go all-out for United, then scrape through Sunderland with whatever lineup was still breathing.
And hopefully, just maybe, the system would wake up and throw him a lifeline.
Or at least a warning.
Because if Sir Alex's teams were known for anything, it was making managers regret everything they thought they knew about football.
Arthur took a long sip of coffee and muttered, "Maybe I should just fake an injury and let James manage Old Trafford."
James froze. "Wait, are you serious?"
Arthur shook his head. "Not yet. But ask me again on Thursday night."
***
Saturday afternoon at The Valley wasn't exactly a footballing spectacle. It was more like 90 minutes of mild jogging and confused looks.
Arthur, however, was unfazed.
He'd made the call two days earlier—rest the key players, rotate the squad, and let the backups earn their keep. After all, the real battle was on Thursday at Old Trafford. No point burning out Deisler, Lahm, Kompany, or Chiellini chasing a win against Charlton, who were famously just…there. Not bad, not good. Just extremely average.
The lineup looked more like a Carabao Cup third-round team than a Premier League squad aiming for top four.
Up front: Vardy and Džeko, one man with infinite pace and no patience, the other built like a fridge with boots.
Midfield: Yaya Touré wandered in like he'd just woken up, flanked by Gareth Bale (who still thought he was a left-back), Javi García (playing like he'd lost a bet), and Mascherano (doing all the running for the other three).
At the back, Lahm, Kompany, and Chiellini were nowhere to be seen. Instead, Arthur unleashed his "Chaos Trio": Frań, a fullback with zero positional discipline; Mills, who played like a man constantly worried his car was being towed; and Silva, whose biggest strength was looking busy while doing nothing.
And in goal? Young Manuel Neuer. The kid had potential, sure—but this was his first real taste of English football. And The Valley, bless it, was not exactly welcoming.
Kickoff came, and within fifteen minutes it was painfully obvious that no one on the pitch wanted to be there. Charlton sat back with eight men behind the ball like they were protecting a museum exhibit. Leeds passed the ball sideways like they were rehearsing a corporate presentation.
The crowd's biggest cheer came when someone spilled their pint.
Vardy had one decent chance in the 23rd minute when he outran two defenders and then forgot what to do with the ball. He poked it ten yards wide and shouted at the grass like it was to blame.
Džeko, meanwhile, played like he had a bus to catch. He touched the ball six times in the first half, five of which were accidental.
By halftime, Arthur had already accepted the inevitable.
"Anyone got a crossword?" he asked James, slumped on the bench with his hood up.
"Just enjoy the clean sheet," James replied. "Assuming we don't fall asleep and concede to a corner."
Neuer had very little to do, apart from a few routine catches and one moment where he tried to start a counterattack and accidentally booted the ball into the referee.
The second half dragged on like a dull lecture. Arthur made a few half-hearted subs, including bringing on a disinterested young winger who immediately pulled his hamstring doing a stepover.
Charlton had one shot on target. It bounced slowly into Neuer's gloves, like a gentle pass from a Sunday League dad.
Final whistle: 0-0. The loudest noise in the stadium was the collective sigh of boredom.
Arthur clapped politely from the sideline, then made his way down the tunnel, already mentally preparing for the media nonsense he knew was coming.
And boy, did it come.
The post-match headlines were brutal.
"Leeds United: From Champions League Talk to Championship Football?"
"Arthur's Top 4 Dream Looks More Like Top 14 After Charlton Dullfest."
"No Deisler, No Goals, No Clue?"
One reporter even dug up Arthur's quote from last week—"Our goal is to reach the Champions League"—and slapped it on top of a still image of Džeko tripping over the ball.
The fan forums were equally unkind.
"Was this a training session or a prank?"
"I've seen more urgency in my nan's bingo night."
"Someone check if Arthur's trolling us."
Arthur read the comments on his laptop while chewing through a stale sandwich in his office.
"Okay, okay, they've made their point," he muttered, clicking through the threads. "Nobody liked the draw."
James walked in, holding two coffees. "To be fair, it was rough."
Arthur took the coffee and nodded. "Yeah, but it's a long season. You can't throw all your best players at Charlton, then expect them to have legs left for United."
"True," James said. "Still, zero shots on target in the second half…"
"Alright, you can stop now."
Arthur leaned back and closed the laptop.
In his head, he ran through the bigger picture. He'd rotated heavily, sure. But the point was earned. The team hadn't conceded. Neuer got minutes. Bale didn't break anything. Mascherano only yelled at three teammates. All in all, not catastrophic.
Plus, the real test was coming. Manchester United away.
Ferguson would be waiting.
And Arthur wasn't planning on playing a backup squad for that one.