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***

Kolo Touré had already taken his position deep inside the penalty area, his back straight, his eyes fixed on the football descending from the sky like a meteor. Calm and composed, he adjusted his footing and tilted his head slightly as if calculating the trajectory with an invisible protractor.

A cross. A long, looping one. Not particularly threatening in his opinion. He'd dealt with hundreds of these in his career—probably headed at least a hundred of them clear every season, and that was being modest. Kolo had built a reputation on these textbook clearances. Nothing special. Routine stuff.

He timed his jump to perfection, springing upward like a coiled spring. His shoulders rose high, arms wide for balance, his forehead aligned perfectly—

Except the ball didn't meet his forehead.

Instead, it whisked just over the top of his head.

Kolo's eyes widened.

He felt it—barely—a whisper of leather brushing his scalp. It was the football equivalent of a mosquito buzzing your ear.

What the hell?

That was Kolo's first thought when his boots hit the grass again. He landed hard, turned around with the urgency of a man who just heard a fire alarm, and looked behind him.

And there, like a polite guest who had let himself in through the back door, was Philipp Lahm in a white Leeds United shirt, standing comfortably with the ball at his feet inside the penalty area.

Smiling.

Actually smiling.

"Kolo Touré headed it! Lahm got the ball! This is a great opportunity for Leeds United to overtake the score!" Eddie Gray's voice exploded through the commentary box like a firecracker.

Lahm didn't hesitate. He already had the ball under control, his body angled perfectly. And like a surgeon with a scalpel, he took one quick step, squared himself up, and swung his right leg back.

Lehmann had already charged out of goal, arms spread wide like he was trying to hug a ghost. But Lahm wasn't going to give him the chance.

Bang!

It wasn't the loudest strike in the world, but it was clean and true. The ball skimmed along the turf with laser precision, slipped right between Lehmann's outstretched legs, and rolled unbothered into the bottom corner of the net.

1–2!

Leeds United had taken the lead again!

"GOOOOOOOOOL!"

Norman Hunter practically launched himself out of his chair, fists clenched and raised like a man possessed. His legs kicked out from beneath him, and for a moment, it looked like he might float right out of the commentary box. Sixty years old, but moving like a teenager who just saw his crush wave at him.

"Lahm! Philipp Lahm! He's done it! He's put Leeds United ahead again! Including stoppage time, we've got—what—fifteen minutes left at most?! Friends! Leeds United fans! We are this close to the top of the table!!!"

The man didn't even breathe during that sentence.

His face had turned pink from the effort, like someone had slapped him with a bottle of ketchup. He wheezed dramatically, then sucked in a breath and turned to Eddie Gray, who was still bouncing with excitement next to him.

And he wasn't done.

"Eddie! This is Arthur's genius!! Watch the slow motion—he switched Bale to the left-winger position! What a brilliantdecision! Bale dragged Gallas and Clichy out wide, pulled them like a magnet, and left the entire side wide open! Lahm slipped into the penalty area without a single red shirt tracking him!!"

Eddie Gray looked like he'd been robbed of his thunder, but he clenched his fists and pumped the air silently a few times before diving back into the commentary like a man reclaiming his job.

"Yes!! Absolutely!! And watch the replay of Modric's cross—it's chef's kiss perfection! He sliced it from the right like he was cutting through butter. Kolo Touré was this close to heading it clear—this close! But the pass was just too precise. Just an inch over his scalp, and Lahm was there to control it and finish. That's not luck, Norman, that's calculated football murder!"

Meanwhile, down on the touchline, Lahm—usually the quiet, dependable type—was acting like he'd just won the lottery. The moment the ball hit the net, he turned and bolted toward the bench, grinning like a maniac. And then, for reasons known only to adrenaline-fueled footballers, he grabbed the hem of his shirt with both hands and started lifting it over his head.

Uh-oh.

Luckily, Modric was faster than the referee. He darted in and yanked Lahm's arms down just in time, saving him from a guaranteed yellow card.

Arthur didn't care about the shirt. He was already rushing toward them, grinning so wide it looked like he might pull a muscle in his face.

"Hahaha, well done, Philip!" Arthur roared, grabbing Lahm in a bear hug and lifting him half off the ground like he weighed nothing. He clapped him hard on the back, then turned to Modric, who was jogging over, still beaming.

"You too, Luka! That pass—damn—it was beautiful! I mean, GPS-on-his-boot kind of beautiful!"

Over on the Arsenal bench, Arsène Wenger just stood there, motionless. No water bottle kicking this time. No shouting. Just a long, tired sigh as he stared out onto the pitch like a man who'd just lost his keys in a snowstorm.

There was nothing to shout about.

Nobody on the pitch had made a clear mistake.

They'd done everything right—mostly.

Arsenal's defensive line had dropped quickly. Their marking was solid. Touré's positioning was fine. But Modric—well, Modric had passed that ball like he could see the future. Like he had an aerial camera strapped to his brain.

And Lahm? Lahm had made that run like a ghost—silent, unnoticed, and deadly.

Wenger could only shake his head.

Sometimes, football was just cruel.

*****

After Leeds United snatched the lead back, the tempo of the match shifted dramatically.

Arsenal restarted quickly from the center circle, with Van Persie tapping the ball to Cesc Fàbregas. Though their morale had taken a hit from Lahm's thunderous strike, the Gunners weren't ready to lie down and take it. This was their home turf, after all. They had worked hard to claw back into the game once already—it was meant to end in a draw, if not better. But now, they were on the brink of a bitter defeat, and that was something neither the team nor the Emirates faithful could accept.

They surged forward with fresh urgency, pushing Leeds back with a wave of red. Walcott zipped down the wing, Rosický threaded clever passes through midfield, and Adebayor loomed around the box like a panther waiting for a pounce.

But Arthur wasn't about to get caught out.

Standing by the sideline with his arms crossed and eyes sharp as ever, he gave a nod to his assistant. In came the substitution board. Off came Cannavaro—his face drenched in sweat, legs wobbling from the shift he'd put in—and on came Hummels, youthful and brimming with defensive energy.

Arthur wasted no time reshuffling the pieces on his board.

"Gareth, drop back into midfield. Luka, tuck in a little deeper," he barked.

The players responded instantly. Bale took a few long strides back, slotting in to form a compact midfield line. Modric peeled away from the front foot and drifted into a deeper role, orchestrating the tempo like a chess grandmaster clearing his throat before checkmate.

In the commentary booth, Norman Hunter was practically bouncing in his seat.

"Eddie!" he shouted, slapping Gray on the arm with the excitement of a child who'd just been given the TV remote. "I can't wait for next week's clash with Barcelona!"

Gray, far more composed, blinked at him.

"Oh?" he said with a chuckle. "Bit early to be thinking about that, isn't it? You do remember who we're playing, don't you? Messi? Ronaldinho? Xavi? That lot?"

"Bah! Reporters have no clue what they're talking about!" Norman dismissed with a wave. "All that nonsense about Barcelona getting the best draw… Look at this Leeds United team! Just look at it! Arthur's gone and changed the formation again after scoring! That's the third time this game!"

On screen, the tactical shift was plain to see. Leeds had condensed into a tight 4-5-1, with every man behind the ball except one. It was ugly. It was ruthless. It was pure defensive brilliance.

"Arthur's got these lads drilled like soldiers," Norman continued, his voice rising like a preacher mid-sermon. "Three systems in one match! And not a stutter in their transitions! That's not luck, Eddie—that's a top-class manager!"

Gray, sensing Norman might get carried away and start comparing Arthur to Sir Alex or something equally suicidal, gave a polite, thoughtful nod and didn't say a word.

In the background, the Emirates crowd could be heard groaning every time an attack was smothered. Arsenal just couldn't find a gap.

Meanwhile, up in Manchester, Sir Alex Ferguson was enjoying his dinner—well, he had been. The final bite of a well-cooked steak was barely swallowed when he reached for the remote and turned off the TV. The last image frozen on the screen was Walcott, trying to fly down the right flank, only to be slide-tackled cleanly by Hummels. Leeds United immediately turned defense into attack, and in the top left corner of the broadcast, the match clock had ticked into the 93rd minute.

Ferguson sighed as he laid the remote down, then carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin. He walked over to his recliner, his steps slow, deliberate.

The old man sank into the chair like a general returning from the battlefield. But his brow was still furrowed. The relaxation was a lie.

He had watched every second of that match. He knew the moment Walcott lost the ball that the game was done. Leeds had weathered the storm. They were seconds away from full time. Victory was inevitable.

And now, if Leeds managed to beat Watford in just three days' time, Arthur—this young upstart who'd come out of nowhere—would take top spot in the Premier League.

Ferguson closed his eyes, but the images swirled behind his eyelids.

First, Arthur's determined face, arms folded, eyes scanning the field with surgical focus.

Then Wenger—calm, composed, stylish, but clearly outfoxed tonight.

For a moment, the two faces danced in tandem, as if dueling in his memory. But then Wenger's faded, leaving only Arthur, the newcomer. The threat.

Ferguson's eyes snapped open.

He exhaled long and slow.

"Even you can't stop him now… can you, old friend?" he muttered softly.

His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it was enormous.

And with that, the screen went black, the night silent, and the storm named Arthur continued to rise.