"Oh! What a pity! Reus is too slow!" Lineker threw his hands up in exaggerated frustration, his voice carrying that sharp sting of regret. "Even if he had just brushed the ball with his toe, just the tiniest nudge, the direction would've been enough. It would've gone straight into Sporting Lisbon's net! Leeds United missed a huge chance here!"

Beside him, Jon sat upright, his eyes wide, not with disappointment at the missed chance, but with amazement. His reaction was different, his mind turning elsewhere, not fixated on the ball that flew across goal untouched.

"Gary," Jon said, his tone filled with admiration, "I have to say it — I'm starting to admire Arthur more and more. Tell me, how on earth did he convince Galliani and Ancelotti to let Kaka go to Leeds United? With Kaka playing like this, surely they're regretting it! Did you notice that just now? Reus was sprinting full throttle without the ball, and yet, Kaka, who was carrying the ball, dribbling, and had defenders clinging to him, actually ran faster and reached the cross. When the ball was sent across the entire penalty area, to the far post, Reus, who was running flat out, still couldn't get there! Honestly, is there anything more outrageous than that?"

Lineker blinked slowly, as if savoring Jon's disbelief, then leaned back in his chair, lips curling into a sly grin. That kind of grin that said he knew something others didn't. "Well," he drawled, "I heard a little story. An Argentine coach at Leeds United — I won't name him, of course — let slip that Arthur sealed this deal way back in the winter. And you remember what happened after winter in the Champions League, don't you? AC Milan were practically carried to the final on Kaka's back alone. That's how decisive he was. But what good would it do Milan to regret it now? The deal was already done! Kaka was already Leeds United's man. And now look — he's dazzling them here in Lisbon. Hahahaha!"

Jon couldn't help but laugh too, though there was still that lingering disbelief in his expression. It was the kind of laugh where admiration and incredulity mixed together, the sound almost drowned out by the rumbling atmosphere of the Alvalade Stadium.

On the pitch, things were far from calm. The players of Sporting Lisbon, who moments ago were convinced they had Leeds United pinned back, suddenly realized they had nearly been undone by a lightning counterattack. Their attack had left gaps, and Leeds nearly exploited it to perfection. When Kaka's cross whipped across the face of their goal, hearts in the stadium froze. Had Reus connected, it would have been the cruelest kind of blow — a goal born out of their own mistake.

The fans, who seconds earlier had been roaring, were left with pulses racing. A cold sweat ran through them, knowing how close disaster had been. For a moment, you could almost feel the silence in their fear, broken only by relieved sighs when the ball rolled harmlessly wide.

But if the near-miss rattled the stands, it sparked something else entirely on the pitch. Sporting Lisbon weren't about to let themselves be embarrassed at home, not like that. Their pride had been stung, and the players suddenly moved with sharper intent.

From the goal kick, Stojkovic sent the ball high and long, his boot thudding into it with determination. The green and white shirts quickly fanned out, regaining their structure. This time, though, they weren't reckless. The sting of the counterattack was still fresh. They passed the ball carefully around midfield, probing, waiting for space to open.

Moutinho, sharp-eyed and patient on the right flank, took possession and surveyed his options. He wasn't going to get caught overplaying like before. With one quick glance, he spotted a pocket of opportunity and decided — no more cautious fiddling. He swung his right boot and sent a curling cross arcing beautifully toward the Leeds penalty area.

It was eerily similar to Kaka's delivery just moments earlier. Moutinho, like his counterpart, aimed for the back post, bypassing the tangle of bodies in the middle.

Inside the penalty area, things were chaotic. Liedson, ever the clever striker, dragged Kompany's attention, tugging him one way and then another. Kompany stuck to him like glue, but it was enough of a distraction. Meanwhile, Hummels, still young and a touch inexperienced, read the flight of the ball poorly. He leapt half a step too late, his timing just a fraction off. The ball skimmed past the top of his head, brushing the air above his scalp.

And waiting there, charging in from the left, was Jaro. He rose into the air, timing his leap perfectly, his body twisting with coiled power. His forehead met the ball with a clean, violent thud, sending it screaming toward goal.

"Jaro!!! Powerful header!!!" The stadium announcer roared through the speakers, his voice electrified, whipping the home fans into a frenzy.

It wasn't just power — it was intelligence. Jaro had seen Neuer moving. The German keeper had started edging left, anticipating a shot to the near post. Jaro, cunning as ever, angled his header in the opposite direction, toward the far top corner. A brutal, perfect strike.

For a split second, time seemed to freeze. The ball hurtled toward the upper right, and the green-and-white faithful already began to rise, ready to erupt into celebration.

But then came Neuer.

What he did next looked less like goalkeeping and more like some kind of physics-defying miracle.

As soon as the ball left Jaro's forehead, Neuer read it. He stopped his momentum cold, halting his move left with an impossible shift of his body. His center of gravity teetered on the edge of collapse, but somehow he planted his legs like pistons into the turf. His frame coiled, then sprang back in the opposite direction. It was the kind of movement that would've snapped the muscles of ordinary men, but Neuer was no ordinary man.

He launched himself, arms outstretched like a great bird in flight. His left arm reached, fingers straining, stretching until his shoulder felt like it might tear. And just — just at the last instant — the tips of his fingers brushed the ball.

A faint but decisive touch.

The trajectory broke. The ball skipped ever so slightly, shaving across the outside of the post, and spun behind for a corner.

For a heartbeat, the stadium fell silent. The kind of silence that only comes when thousands of lungs are punched empty at the same time.

Then the noise returned, but not in cheers. It was groans, cries, gasps of disbelief. Sporting Lisbon's fans had been half out of their seats, ready to explode, only to watch their dream shatter at the fingertips of a German wall.

On the grass, Jaro couldn't believe it. He had felt the connection, knew the power, knew the angle. It was perfect. It should have been a goal. Instead, he found himself collapsing to his knees, hands gripping his head, face buried between his palms in agony. His teammates' shoulders sagged. They knew too — this was no ordinary save. This was world-class thievery, daylight robbery of the cruelest kind.

And Neuer? He didn't celebrate wildly. He didn't scream or pound his chest. He simply picked himself up, calm as ever, as if he'd just swatted away a routine shot in training. A little nod, a little wave to his defenders to stay sharp, and that was all. For him, this was business as usual. For everyone else, it was an act that defied belief.

*****

"Manuel Neuer! He made a world-class save!" Jon's voice cracked with excitement, nearly leaping out of his seat in the studio. His tone was half disbelief, half awe, the kind of shout that instantly infected the broadcast with electricity. "Unbelievable! Top reaction, top judgment, top physical coordination! It's almost unreal to think that this came from a goalkeeper who's only just turned twenty-one! Can you believe it, Gary? Twenty-one years old and pulling this kind of save out of nowhere!?"

Lineker, who rarely missed an opportunity to push Leeds United's banner higher, quickly chimed in. "Yes! Yes, exactly! That's absolutely world-class! This brilliant save has kept Leeds United from falling behind away from home — and not just kept them safe, but done so with the kind of authority that silences an entire stadium. Just think about it, Jon. Everyone was debating, weren't they? Talking endlessly about the impact of Schmeichel's departure, asking whether Leeds would collapse defensively without him. But now, Neuer has stood up and told the world with his actions: Schmeichel's departure? Not an issue. Not at all! Leeds United's defense will not suffer in the slightest!"

Jon gave a half-smile, shaking his head in a way that was more admiration than disagreement. "Sometimes, Gary, I really don't know if Arthur is even capable of making a mistake. I vaguely remember back when people — journalists, pundits, fans — they all criticized his transfer decisions from every possible angle. They said he was reckless, overpaying, gambling on kids, signing players who were unproven or unfit for the Premier League. But so far? So far, every single one of his signings has proven critics wrong. At least here, in Leeds United, every single player seems to shine sooner or later. Every single one delivers at least one performance that makes the world stand up and take notice!"

Lineker leaned closer to his microphone, grinning like a schoolboy whose team had just won a playground brawl. "Of course! That's exactly it! Leeds United aren't called the Premier League's 'black shop' for nothing, Jon. The nickname isn't random, you know — it's earned! Every player who walks in seems to double or triple their value overnight. It's outrageous! And it's all Arthur's doing, hahahahaha!" His laughter rolled through the studio, carrying the giddy pride of a lifelong fan watching his club pull trick after trick on the global stage.

Down on the touchline, the reactions weren't any quieter.

"Fuck! Beautiful!" Simeone exploded, fists clenched, practically hopping on the spot as he turned to shout at Arthur. His voice was hoarse with adrenaline, his grin so wide it looked like his face might split. "Boss! Did you see that?! Manuel's a monster! That's your training right there! He's already a superstar, hahaha!"

Arthur, hands buried calmly in his coat pockets, didn't mirror Simeone's bouncing excitement. His smile was there, yes, but it was measured, the smile of someone who enjoyed what he saw but wasn't going to lose his composure over it. He gave a slight nod, speaking in that even, deliberate tone of his. "It was a beautiful save, no doubt about that. But Simeone, this is just the beginning. Neuer has the talent, the reflexes, the frame, everything. But he still has a habit of being too impetuous, rushing when he doesn't need to. He has to fix that if he wants to reach the next level."

Simeone froze for a second, blinking as though Arthur had just told him the sky wasn't blue. His mouth hung open, then twisted into a pout as he jabbed a finger toward the pitch. "Boss, come on! Your standards are insane. That save just now? Do you realize it's already going to be on highlight reels for this round of the Champions League? Easily one of the best saves anyone will see this week, maybe this season! And you're saying it's not enough?"

Arthur chuckled softly, still looking every bit the picture of calm authority. "Of course it's not enough. It has to be higher."

"Why?" Simeone asked, his voice rising, his hands thrown up in mock exasperation.

Arthur's grin sharpened, his words carrying that sly glint of pragmatism only he could deliver. "Because if his level goes higher, then his value goes higher. And the higher his value, the more we can sell him for later."

Simeone froze mid-step, staring at Arthur as though he'd just confessed to being an alien. His jaw slackened. "...Boss, are you serious? That's what you're thinking about after a save like that?" His eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead, his whole face turning into a giant question mark. "Unbelievable."

Arthur just smiled, saying nothing more, his silence the kind that only deepened Simeone's disbelief.

Meanwhile, back on the pitch, Sporting Lisbon weren't wallowing in regret for too long. The referee had pointed to the corner flag, and their players quickly regrouped, moving into position. The home crowd, restless but still buzzing with adrenaline, roared their encouragement.

The corner was whipped in with pace, spinning viciously as it curved toward the crowded six-yard box. But Neuer wasn't rattled. Still riding the confidence of his earlier miracle, he rose above everyone else like a skyscraper among trees. His tall frame stretched, gloves reaching cleanly over a mess of jostling bodies. With perfect timing, he plucked the ball out of the air, clutching it firmly against his chest.

The fans groaned again, watching the chance dissolve in Neuer's grasp. This time, however, the young German didn't look for a quick outlet. He didn't hurl the ball forward or spark a counterattack. Instead, he sank to one knee, pressing the ball against his body, holding it there with deliberate patience.

He was slowing the game down.

It was a veteran's move, a calming of tempo, showing maturity beyond his years. And yet, the effect in the stadium was the opposite of calm. The noise didn't die down. It grew louder, more feverish.

The Sporting Lisbon supporters, unwilling to let their energy wane, took it upon themselves to raise the atmosphere another notch. From one end of the Alvalade Stadium to the other, arms shot into the air, voices rose in unison, and soon a great wave of humanity began to roll through the stands. A roaring, swirling human wave circled the ground, accompanied by songs, whistles, and chants that made the entire stadium feel like it was bouncing.

It was less than five minutes into the match.

Five minutes, and already both teams had carved out chances that could have changed the scoreline. Five minutes, and the fans had seen Kaka glide past defenders, Reus narrowly miss a golden chance, Jaro nearly score with a thunderous header, and Neuer deny him with a save that defied physics.

At least so far, there was one undeniable truth: the one-sided rout that the media had confidently predicted before kickoff had not materialized.

Not even close.

Instead, what they had was chaos, fire, and a battle that promised ninety minutes of pure electricity.