When Neuer kicked off again, Arthur squinted toward the pitch and instantly noticed something odd about Sporting Lisbon's players. Instead of calmly retreating to the safety of midfield as most would after a reset, the Portuguese side did the complete opposite. Liedson and Jalo bolted forward like hounds chasing a fox, sprinting straight at Hummels the moment Neuer's pass reached him. At the same time, their midfield wasn't hanging back either — every Sporting Lisbon midfielder rushed to stick tight to their opposite number in white and yellow.

Arthur cocked his head slightly, a crooked smile creeping across his lips. His eyes flicked toward Bento on the opposite touchline. So that was the plan, was it? A full-throttle press in a 3-5-2? Against him?

Inside, Arthur was laughing. A high press? Really? You want to squeeze me high up the pitch with five midfielders and only three defenders behind them? What are you going to do if I lob one straight over the top? Or slice through you with a single pass?

It was a daring gamble. When you press with five across midfield, you'd better not miss your man. Because the second one of your players mistimes a step or gets beaten, the entire block can be torn apart. A long pass, a diagonal ball, or one precise through ball can split you wide open like a melon dropped on concrete.

Arthur could smell the risk from a mile away.

But Bento wasn't stupid. He wasn't blindly throwing his men forward like some hot-blooded amateur. No, he had studied. He had pored over hours of Leeds United's games, scribbling notes about Arthur's tactical setups and habits. And he had noticed something that gave him courage.

For all the genius Arthur had shown, for all the records Leeds had smashed under him, there was one thing Arthur neverdid. He never used the classic English "route one" football. No long punts, no constant lobs into space, no old-school direct play. Leeds United's game was quick passing, clever combinations, intelligent movement. If Leeds wanted to get out of pressure, they used the ball, not the air.

So Bento thought, If he won't use the long pass, then I can risk pressing high. He won't punish us that way. Not him. Not today.

Arthur read the idea in Bento's eyes. He sneered.

The game had already shifted. A foul broke Sporting Lisbon's rhythm — Moutinho clipped Rodriguez's ankle and the referee's whistle shrilled across the pitch. Arthur took the chance.

"Kaka!" he barked, gesturing the Brazilian over.

Kaka jogged to the touchline, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his expression curious. Arthur handed him a bottle of water but didn't waste time. His voice dropped low, quick, sharp. "Listen. Tell the boys not to force it forward too fast. If they press hard, recycle the ball. Pass it in the back half. If it means the whole formation has to retreat, so be it."

Kaka frowned. At first, the words didn't make sense to him. His instincts screamed the opposite: if the opponents were pressing that fiercely, surely the safest thing was to get the ball upfield as quickly as possible. Even if you lost it, at least it wouldn't be right on top of your goal.

Arthur saw the hesitation in his playmaker's eyes. He raised a hand, cutting him off, and added the crucial detail. "But the strikers stay. Zlatan and the wingers don't retreat. They stay high, press them near the halfway line."

Kaka's mind clicked. The doubts evaporated. He understood instantly. Arthur wasn't asking them to defend deeper — he was setting a trap. If Sporting Lisbon's midfield committed too many men forward in the press, Leeds would pull them in, invite them higher, then release the ball into the space behind them. A grin tugged at Kaka's mouth.

"Boss," he said, his tone half amused, half admiring, "are you trying to go fishing?"

Arthur chuckled, rocking on his heels. "Hahaha, not exactly. But even if I wanted to fish, there's no point unless there are fish in the water, right? And I can see plenty swimming around in green and white stripes." He tilted his head toward Bento's dugout with a glint in his eyes.

Kaka laughed, nodded, and jogged back onto the pitch. Message delivered.

····

Up in the Sky Sports studio, Jon's voice rang with fresh excitement. "Beautiful! Neuer is in absolutely sparkling form today! That last strike from Moutinho — the technique was flawless, the power was vicious, but Neuer still got down to it and pushed it away. Incredible keeping!"

He swiveled toward Lineker, eyebrows raised. "Gary, is it just me, or does Leeds United look uncomfortable here? They're not used to the climate, the pitch, the atmosphere maybe. Who would have thought Sporting Lisbon could pin them back like this? Fifteen minutes gone and Leeds have been under the cosh almost the entire time!"

Lineker, arms folded tight, leaned toward the monitor with a furrow in his brow. He wasn't laughing now. "Yes, it's not the start Arthur wanted. Look closely — Sporting Lisbon are flooding the midfield with numbers. Five against three. Without Modric and Alonso, Leeds are vulnerable there. Mascherano is fighting hard, but he's isolated. Kaka and Rodriguez can't drop deep enough to help him without killing their own attack. It's a real squeeze. Sporting Lisbon have found a crack."

Jon nodded gravely. "Exactly. But… if you and I can see it, you'd better believe Arthur can too. He won't let it go on forever. He'll make changes if he has to, at halftime at the latest."

On the broadcast, the sound of the Alvalade Stadium was deafening. Wave after wave of Sporting Lisbon attacks surged forward. Every tackle, every interception, every shot brought the fans to their feet. The atmosphere was a cauldron, the chants shaking the ground itself.

The Portuguese side smelled blood. Their press grew fiercer, their confidence sharper. They believed they could suffocate Leeds United, force a mistake, snatch that crucial first goal.

For now, Arthur stayed calm on the sideline, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes watching, waiting. To him, this was just the opening dance.

And somewhere inside, he was already certain: if Bento thought this high press would last forever, he was in for a nasty surprise.

*****

In the thirty-third minute, Jalo tried his luck again with a shot, sending the Alvalade crowd into another frenzy. On Portuguese television, the commentator nearly jumped out of his chair, his voice soaring with a mixture of excitement and pride.

"Who dares say Sporting Lisbon's strength is beneath Leeds United? Look at this! This is last season's Premier League champion we're talking about. In England, maybe they can swagger around as if they own the place, but here, inside the Alvalade, they're just another dish waiting to be devoured! Come on, boys, you're so close to scoring—finish them!"

The fans roared along with him, clapping, stamping, waving their green-and-white scarves in unison. Every shot, whether it troubled Neuer or not, felt like a hammer on Leeds' defense.

On the touchline, Arthur stood with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, calm as if he were watching a midweek training drill. Beside him, Rivaldo couldn't hide his unease. His arms folded tightly, his brows furrowed, he leaned toward Arthur and whispered.

"Boss, this isn't sustainable. We can't break their midfield. As long as we're stuck back here, we'll never really threaten them."

Arthur tilted his head toward him, his lips curling in a sly half-smile. He nodded faintly in the direction of Moutinho, who was bent over, chest heaving after another long sprint. "Patience, Ferreira. Look closer. They're burning their legs. Didn't you see the last shot from number nine? Nowhere near as powerful as before. They're running on fumes already. And those three defenders of theirs—look at them. They turn slower than cruise ships. When Zlatan, Adriano, and Marco get a clean run, they won't stand a chance."

Rivaldo blinked, still unconvinced, but before he could respond, play resumed. Neuer restarted with a goal kick, sending it short to Sun Jihai. Almost instantly, Jalo came charging again, but even from the touchline it was clear his legs had lost a touch of spring. His sprint lacked the snap it had twenty minutes ago, giving Sun Jihai just enough time to glide forward with a few touches before laying it inside to Mascherano.

Arthur's eyes narrowed, catching details others missed. That tiny drop in pressing speed, that fraction of hesitation, was everything. He didn't say a word, but inside, he already saw the trap tightening.

Mascherano, ever combative, recycled the ball across the backline, and once more Leeds began their patient passing in the defensive third. Neuer, never shy about stepping out of his box, drifted up to the edge of the penalty arc, acting like a fourth defender, constantly offering himself as an option. Every pass seemed harmless, yet every pass was a thread being woven into a larger design.

And Sporting Lisbon, carried away by their own aggression, kept biting. Their entire line pushed forward in unison, defenders almost at the halfway line, midfielders swarming high, smelling blood. To the roaring crowd, it looked like pressure. To Arthur, it looked like a gift.

He folded his arms, one eyebrow twitching upwards. Everyone else—commentators, fans, even some of his own players—saw a Leeds side cornered. But Arthur saw what none of them realized: the space behind, yawning wider with every green-and-white step forward.

Finally, in the thirty-sixth minute, the moment arrived. Mascherano, who'd been dogged all game by Liedson—Arthur privately called him "sticky candy" because he clung to players like he was glued to their shirts—finally shook him off with a sharp feint and a quick burst into space. With Liedson left stumbling behind, Mascherano slipped the ball forward toward Kaka, who was hovering near the center circle.

Everyone expected Kaka to turn and launch forward. That was the obvious play. But instead, Kaka did something that stunned the stadium. Facing goal, he let the ball roll across his body, then instead of spinning toward attack, he nudged it back toward his own half, dribbling calmly toward Neuer.

A ripple of confusion spread. Why retreat? Why not turn and break? Even Rivaldo muttered under his breath. But Arthur only smiled wider, because he knew exactly what was happening.

Moutinho, still brimming with energy but already dragging slightly, saw Kaka's move and charged in with heavy steps. And as Moutinho surged, so too did the entire Sporting midfield line—pressing up several crucial meters.

Those meters were their death warrant.

Kaka felt the footsteps pounding behind him. With a cool glance over his shoulder, he registered the striped shirts closing in. In the same motion, he let the ball roll an extra half-step forward, then swung his boot, not sideways, not short, but diagonally back toward Neuer, who had advanced almost to the top of the penalty area.

It looked like a retreat, but in truth it was the ignition key. The ball zipped across the grass to Neuer's feet, and instantly the German giant knew his cue. He took a quick touch, a couple of strides into the ball, then lashed his right foot through it with brutal precision. The pass wasn't just long; it was a cannon shot, slicing the air and soaring deep into Sporting's half.

At the exact same second, three white shirts sprang into motion. Ibrahimović, Adriano, and Reus wheeled on their heels and exploded forward, cutting across the halfway line like greyhounds out of the traps.

The crowd gasped as one.

Behind them, the three Sporting defenders—already pushed higher than they should've been—turned clumsily in unison, like lumbering tankers forced to change course in a storm. Their legs churned, but every second they spent pivoting was another yard lost to the Leeds attackers, who were already at full tilt.

Arthur chuckled under his breath on the sideline. Rivaldo's eyes widened, finally understanding what the boss had seen all along. "My God… you really were fishing."

Arthur smirked, still not taking his hands out of his pockets. "What's the point of fishing without bait, Ferreira? Now watch them bite."

And bite they did.