"Mr. Wenger! Can you talk about Lehmann and Adebayor's performance in the first half? Do you think Arsenal's defeat today is directly related to their mistakes?"

The moment the question landed, it was like someone had thrown a brick into a still pond. All eyes turned to the old Frenchman who had just sunk into his chair at the front of the press room. Wenger exhaled slowly, long and weary, his fingers briefly massaging his temple as he located the voice that had so graciously kicked things off with a flamethrower.

Of course. The bloody Sun.

He didn't even need to see the press badge. He could smell that tabloid arrogance from across the room.

Note to self, he thought bitterly, you're on my list now.

Truth be told, Wenger hadn't wanted to be here at all. After the match, he had considered slipping out quietly and letting Pat Rice handle the firing squad. That had been the plan. Unfortunately, Pat Rice had gone AWOL—didn't show up in the dressing room, hadn't answered his phone. And Wenger, never one to risk a fine, had been forced to march into the media room and endure what was surely going to be a long and painful dissection.

And now, this. First question, straight to the throat.

He knew perfectly well that Adebayor had screwed up. He'd already had words with him—strong ones, in private. But the last thing he needed right now was a public lynching of his striker. That sort of thing didn't fix problems. It made them worse. That was how dressing rooms turned toxic. And the season was far from over.

He took a breath, straightened in his chair, and met the reporter's gaze with the cold patience of a man clinging to his last ounce of professionalism.

"Mr. Reporter," Wenger said, his accent thickening slightly with irritation, "you can say that our lag in the first half is related to their mistakes, but you can't say that their mistakes led to the team's defeat. The defeat is not on one or two individuals. It is the responsibility of the entire team—me, the players, the staff. Everyone at Arsenal. It's not fair to single out any player."

The reporter didn't flinch. He was clearly enjoying himself.

"But then how do you explain that Adebayor was replaced at halftime?" he shot back, voice cool, smug. "As far as I can remember, Walcott, who replaced him, has never played in an official Premier League game?"

Wenger gave a short, incredulous laugh—dry as sandpaper. He was genuinely amazed at the nerve on this guy.

"What's there to explain?" he said, voice tightening. "Have you forgotten who scored the equalizer so quickly after coming on? As the head coach of Arsenal, do I need to explain my tactical decisions to you before I make them?"

There were muffled chuckles from other corners of the room. The Sun's man looked like he'd swallowed something sharp and sat down with his face set in stone.

From the other side of the room, a new figure rose. Lind from the Yorkshire Post, looking neat in his tailored blazer and matching tie, adjusted his glasses and opened a small black notebook.

"Hello, Mr. Wenger," he began, calm and precise. "I'm a reporter from the Yorkshire Post. Leeds United got three points today. Now, as long as they win against Watford in three days, they will top the Premier League standings due to goal difference. This also means the competition between Leeds United and Manchester United for the league title will enter a fierce stage. I'd like to ask—which of these two teams do you think will win the final championship?"

This one hit a little deeper.

Wenger's fingers tapped slowly on the table in front of him. He disliked the question—not because it was unfair, but because it was too accurate. With just 12 rounds left in the league, the reality was unavoidable: the title was no longer in Arsenal's hands.

Even Chelsea, despite their resources, looked like an outside bet now. And he—he had just been shoved further back in the race by that insufferable young manager in the Leeds dugout.

He cleared his throat and answered with a hint of resignation in his voice.

"Mr. Reporter," he said, "to be honest, your question stumped me. Both teams—Leeds and Manchester United—have very strong squads. But they are both involved in the Champions League, and Manchester United still has the FA Cup as well. And behind them, there are still Chelsea and us, Arsenal. So it seems a little early to say who will win."

He paused.

"But if I have to choose…" He hesitated for just a moment, then said, "I would prefer Manchester United. After all, Arthur and Leeds are still too young. They lack the experience required to handle the pressure that comes with fighting for a title at this stage."

More scribbling followed. The reporters had gotten what they came for. A reluctant endorsement for United. A subtle dig at Arthur's youth.

Ten minutes later.

Same press room. Same air-conditioned buzz. But now, Arthur sat where Wenger had just been—same chair, same spotlight, completely different energy.

He leaned back a little, his expression almost bored, the corners of his mouth twitching with the trace of a smirk. He didn't particularly like press conferences, but after a win like that, he didn't mind tolerating a few awkward questions.

And right on cue, Lind rose again, flipping to a new page in his notebook.

"Mr. Morgan," he began, "same question. If you beat Watford in three days, Leeds United will move to the top of the Premier League. Do you think Leeds or Manchester United will win the league in the end?"

There wasn't a second of hesitation. Arthur didn't blink. Didn't look away. He leaned forward just slightly, a glint of steel behind the smile that spread across his face.

"The final league championship?" he said, pausing just long enough for the room to hang on his next words.

"That must belong to Leeds United!"

****

Three days later – Hertfordshire, Vicarage Road Stadium.

The atmosphere inside the compact, gritty little stadium was crackling with anticipation. Twenty-two players stood lined up on the pitch, ready to kick off what should've been an unremarkable league fixture. On any other day, it might've barely made the highlight reels—Watford, second from bottom, taking on Leeds United, newly promoted but flying high.

But today? Today, all eyes were watching. Every camera lens was trained on the pitch, every football podcast had already recorded four preview episodes, and every Manchester United fan was glued to their screens, hoping someone—anyone—could stop Leeds.

Why? Because of one man: Arthur.

It had all started three days ago with one cocky remark. Arthur had stared down the media with a grin and declared, "The final league championship? That must belong to Leeds United!"

The audacity. The madness. The balls.

Suddenly, today's game wasn't just about three points. It was about whether Leeds United could leapfrog Manchester United into first place. And it was about whether Watford—of all people—could stand in the way of this insane northern fairy tale.

Before the match, Watford head coach Andy Bosroyd was cornered by a hungry media horde just outside the tunnel. Microphones were shoved at his face like bayonets. One of the journalists, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, asked the million-pound question.

"Coach Bosroyd, will Watford do their best today to stop Leeds United's march to the top?"

Bosroyd's eyes narrowed. He clocked the badge on the reporter's chest. Manchester Evening News.

Ah. Of course. Wolves in press passes.

He adjusted his collar, exhaled slowly, and gave the sort of answer that screamed, I know what you're doing, and I'll play nice anyway.

"Of course we'll do our best to win," he said with practiced calm. "But not to stop anyone else's pace. Don't forget, we're also in a relegation fight. We've got over twenty thousand fans in the stands tonight, backing us to the last whistle. That's why we're fighting—to earn points for them. Not to help or hurt any title races."

He ended with a firm nod, like a man drawing a line in the sand.

Too bad Arthur didn't hear that speech.

If he had, he would've probably strolled right up to Bosroyd, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, and asked, "Where exactly do Watford get the confidence to snatch points from me? You're second-to-last, mate. Be serious."

And the match—well, the match went exactly how Arthur probably imagined it in his dreams.

Barely seven minutes in, Leeds United won a corner kick. The traveling away fans, crammed into one end of the ground, erupted with noise as Modrić trotted over to take it. His delivery was textbook: lofted high, clearing the nearest defenders like a whisper of silk. It floated over the heads of Watford's back line and dropped precisely where it needed to—onto the forehead of Alonso.

Completely unmarked, Alonso had ghosted in like a silent assassin from the edge of the box. He rose, unchallenged, and thumped a perfect header toward the near post. The Watford keeper, rooted to the ground, could only watch the net ripple behind him.

1–0 Leeds United.

Two midfield maestros—Modrić and Alonso—had linked up for the perfect execution, and Leeds had their early breakthrough.

The home fans groaned. The away fans sang louder.

Watford tried to respond. They pressed, or at least, they tried to. They pushed their full-backs forward. They attempted to hold possession, to carve out a half-chance, to find some breathing room.

But the truth was inescapable: Leeds United were playing in a different gear. A higher league. Watford's invisible home advantage melted under the sheer force of Leeds' quality.

By the 30th minute, the warning signs were screaming.

Sun Jihai—making a rare start—intercepted a loose ball deep in Leeds' half. Then, like a man possessed, he surged forward. No hesitation. No wasted touches. He cut through the midfield like a hot knife through custard, storming to the edge of Watford's box.

The defenders backed off, unsure of whether to press or hold.

Wrong move.

Just before hitting the wall of yellow shirts, Sun released the ball to Rivaldo, who had been waiting calmly at the top of the D like a coiled spring. Rivaldo took one touch, rolled the ball out from under his boot, and unleashed a curler with the sort of casual venom only Brazilians seem to master.

The ball traced a perfect arc—over the keeper's outstretched hand and into the top left corner.

2–0.

Leeds United weren't just leading. They were coasting.

The whistle for halftime couldn't come soon enough for Bosroyd. He stormed into the tunnel, barking at his players, flinging tactical diagrams and motivational phrases like confetti. Adjustments were made. Formations tweaked. Voices raised.

And for the first ten minutes of the second half, Watford looked vaguely… alive. They ran harder. Tackled with more bite. Even threatened with a few long balls over the top.

But there's a reason they were second-bottom in the table.

And there's a reason Leeds United were chasing the title.

By the 63rd minute, the game was done.

Alonso, who had already bagged one and was now absolutely purring in midfield, spotted a run on the right. Without even looking up, he released a simple yet surgical through-ball—threading it perfectly through Watford's crumbling defensive line.

Ibrahimović, playing with his usual arrogance and occasional confusion, initially didn't even react. The pass was too easy. For a second, he thought it must be offside.

But then he realized—no flag. No whistle. No defenders.

Just him and the keeper.

Five seconds later, Ibra had corrected his internal compass, slipped into fifth gear, and glided into the box. With all the time in the world, he opened his body and calmly slotted the ball to the right of the onrushing keeper.

3–0.

Game. Set. Match.

Watford didn't even get a consolation goal. The final twenty minutes were a slow, hopeless trudge toward mercy. The referee's whistle was the sweetest sound for the home fans all night.

Leeds United had crushed them—utterly and without pity.

And with that victory, Leeds didn't just take three points.

They didn't just win a game.

They stood at the top of the Premier League.