Bento had been lounging on the bench with the calmness of a man who thought the worst thing that could happen was a goalless first half. He didn't immediately grasp that something catastrophic was brewing.

At first, when Neuer ran up and launched the ball with a booming kick, Bento actually thought nothing of it. Goalkeepers punt balls all the time, right? Nothing unusual. But then—like three wolves catching the scent of a lone sheep—the Leeds United forwards exploded into life at the exact same moment.

Bento's heart skipped a beat. His jaw slackened. And then, as the reality of what was happening hit him, he jolted up so violently from his seat that his clipboard went flying. He dashed to the sideline like a man sprinting after a bus he had no chance of catching.

"F***! Get back to defense!!" Bento roared, arms windmilling like he was trying to flag down an airplane. His voice cracked as he screamed, half-pleading, half-panicking.

And just in case divine intervention might help, he waved frantically at the fourth official, jabbing his finger toward the Leeds forwards. "Offside! Offside! They're miles off!"

The fourth official gave him a look that could only be described as pity. No whistle. No raised flag. Just the cold, merciless reality of football.

Because here's the thing: when Neuer had launched that pass, all three Leeds strikers were still in their own half. Not even close to offside. If the referee dared blow his whistle in that moment, he might as well pack a life raft for the tsunami of spit, rage, and abuse that would drown him after the match.

And so, Bento's protests died in vain. The ball flew on.

Inside the Alvalade Stadium, the home fans erupted—not in cheers, but in sheer desperation. Thousands of throats booed at once, a rolling, ear-shaking sound like thunder. It was as if the crowd thought their jeers might physically slow the ball down mid-flight. But of course, physics doesn't bend to the will of angry Portuguese supporters.

The ball was still dropping.

Leeds United's three-pronged strike force surged past the halfway line in unison, a terrifying cavalry charge. Even Ibrahimović—the big Swede who often looked like he was running through quicksand—managed to get his nose in front of Toner, the poor defender tasked with marking him. Half a body ahead was more than enough for Zlatan.

Two seconds later, the ball came down from its glorious arc.

Neuer, with the precision of a quarterback, hadn't just hoofed it blindly. He'd sent it right into the path of Adriano on the right flank. The Brazilian barely broke stride. He cushioned the ball perfectly with a soft touch, preventing it from bouncing awkwardly, then nudged it forward to keep his run going at full speed. The timing was immaculate—like he'd rehearsed it a hundred times in training.

And suddenly, Sporting Lisbon were in deep, deep trouble.

No one felt it more than their goalkeeper, Vladimir Stojković.

Five seconds earlier, Stojković had been standing on his tiptoes, eyes locked on the Leeds half, quietly wondering if maybe his team could sneak in a goal before the halftime whistle. He even had the faint optimism of a man hoping for a late Christmas present.

Now? Five seconds later, the gift he was receiving was a nightmare.

He stood utterly alone in his penalty area, facing the oncoming storm: three Leeds attackers barrelling toward him with ruthless intent.

The worst kind of 3-vs-1.

Adriano, with the ball glued to his boots, sprinted past the last defender and surged into the penalty area. Stojković, realizing no help was coming, made the only choice he had left. He abandoned the safety of his goal line and charged out bravely—or recklessly, depending on your perspective.

It was a last-ditch move, a desperate gamble. Everyone in the stadium knew it.

Adriano saw it coming a mile away. Cool as ice, he didn't panic. He didn't blast the ball into Stojković's chest like an overeager Sunday leaguer. Instead, he waited until the keeper flung himself to the ground, then casually rolled the ball sideways with the outside of his right foot.

Sliding across the grass, Stojković's hands grasped at nothing.

And into the frame stormed Ibrahimović. The Swede had arrived just in time, slightly behind Adriano, his long legs covering the last few meters. The pass was perfect. Zlatan barely had to think. He placed his shot with a deceptively gentle push—almost nonchalant, as if he were flicking away a fly.

The ball rolled straight into the gaping net.

Boom.

Goal for Leeds United.

The boos cascaded down like a waterfall, pouring from every corner of the stadium. The Sporting Lisbon fans had just watched their defense sliced apart in less than ten seconds—from Neuer's kick to Zlatan's finish. They didn't know whether to howl, curse, or cry.

Meanwhile, the Leeds bench went wild. Players leapt to their feet, fists pumping. Arthur punched the air with both hands, roaring with laughter, while Mr. Morgan beside him clapped so hard his palms turned red.

In the commentary booth, Jon's voice cracked with raw excitement.

"Ahahaha!! The ball went in!!!" Jon bellowed, practically falling out of his chair. "The ball went in!! Almost thirty-five minutes on the clock and Leeds United have taken the lead away from home!! Nobody—absolutely nobody—expected this! And who started it all? The goalkeeper, Manuel Neuer!! Incredible! Ibrahimović bags his first goal of this Champions League campaign!!"

His partner Lineker was just as delirious, but with a touch more sarcasm.

"Goooooooooooooooooool!" Lineker dragged the word out so long it sounded like his lungs might give out. He slapped the desk in disbelief. "What a beautifully simple goal! A masterpiece in minimalism! Neuer launches it, Adriano controls it, Zlatan finishes it. Two passes—that's it! Just two passes to rip Sporting Lisbon apart like tissue paper! Hahahahaha! Oh, the Portuguese must be fuming! They wanted control of the midfield? Arthur gave them the midfield as a gift, tied with a ribbon, and then smashed their net open with the most straightforward long-ball counter you'll ever see!"

The cameras cut to the Leeds supporters tucked away in one corner of the stadium. Their chants thundered, flags waving, scarves swinging, as they drowned in pure ecstasy.

On the other side, Bento looked like a man on the verge of collapse. His shouts had died. His arms hung limp by his side. He'd just watched his team's high pressing collapse into ashes with one single kick from Neuer.

Leeds United 1, Sporting Lisbon 0.

And the stadium was split between wild jubilation and bitter despair.

****

When the ball finally nestled into the back of the net, Ibrahimović didn't immediately tear off in celebration. No, Zlatan was smarter than that. He wasn't about to waste energy sprinting into glory only to have the linesman's flag slice his joy in half like a guillotine.

Instead, the Swede stood still for a moment, chest heaving, and spun his head toward the sideline like an owl. His sharp eyes scanned for that dreaded flag. After all, both he and Adriano had been running dangerously close to the offside line during the build-up.

But… where the hell was the linesman?

For a few seconds, Ibrahimović looked like a lost tourist who couldn't find the street sign he desperately needed. His brow furrowed. His arms spread slightly, as if asking the universe for an explanation.

And then it came—the sweetest sound in football.

Peeeeeep!

The referee, David, raised his whistle to his lips and pointed a firm hand toward the center circle.

Goal confirmed. No offside. No debate. No problem.

Ibrahimović's serious expression instantly broke into a grin so wide it looked like he'd just discovered free lifetime pizza delivery. He pumped his fists and took off running—this time, not toward the corner flag, but straight toward the Leeds United bench.

The bench was already chaos. Rivaldo, who a minute earlier had been chewing his fingernails in worry, was suddenly locked in Arthur's arms in a wild hug. The manager had spun around to face the furious home crowd in the Alvalade stands.

And Arthur—oh, Arthur—couldn't resist.

With the smugness of a man who had just won a poker hand holding only a pair of twos, he lifted his index finger to his lips.

"Shhhhhhh!"

The gesture cut across the stadium, loud without sound, aimed directly at the booing home supporters.

The jeers doubled in volume. But Arthur only grinned wider.

Seconds later, Ibrahimović arrived, chest puffed out like a conquering hero. Simeone barreled out from the bench too, unable to resist joining in. The three of them—Arthur, Zlatan, and Simeone—stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the furious Sporting Lisbon fans, all raising a single finger to their lips in a synchronized "shut up" chorus.

The stadium director, sensing pure television gold, instantly cut the live feed to the trio. And around Europe, living rooms erupted in laughter or outrage, depending on allegiance.

Lineker's booming laugh almost drowned out the crowd noise.

"Hahahahahahaha! Look at Arthur! He's been bottled up for over half an hour on the sidelines, fuming, pacing, chewing the air! And now he finally explodes. I haven't seen him this arrogant on the road in ages! Brilliant!"

Jon, on the other hand, rubbed his temples with a sigh, though his lips betrayed a small smile.

"No way… This man, honestly. Arthur is… well, Arthur. Sometimes I swear he's even crazier than Mourinho. Who else would lead his own players into shushing an entire stadium of away fans? He's daring UEFA to slap him with a fine! Absolutely daring them!"

The commentators chuckled, the Leeds fans roared, and the Sporting Lisbon supporters seethed.

Over on the home bench, the mood was anything but comedic. Bento sat rigid, his face storm-cloud dark. His jaw was locked, his fists clenched, and in his head, a humiliating picture replayed itself over and over: Arthur, smugly holding a fishing rod, reeling in a flopping Sporting Lisbon like an oversized carp.

Because that was exactly what had happened.

Arthur had surrendered the midfield deliberately. He'd lured them in, let them believe they were in control, only to strike with a long-ball ambush that gutted them in seconds.

And worst of all—it worked. Perfectly.

The scoreline didn't lie. Leeds United 1, Sporting Lisbon 0. And now, whether they liked it or not, Bento and his players had to throw their plan out the window.

When play resumed, the Portuguese side came storming forward, desperate to claw back into the game. They pressed, they harried, they probed for openings. But Leeds weren't rattled. Their shape was tight, their defense disciplined, and their forwards lurking like sharks for another counter.

For ten relentless minutes, Sporting Lisbon huffed and puffed, but they couldn't blow the Leeds defense down. Then the referee's whistle cut through the night, and the first half came to an end.

Halftime.

Inside the locker room, Arthur wasted no time. He clapped his hands, sharp and decisive.

"Alright, boys. We've drawn first blood. But we're not done. We're tightening it up. Shift the 4-3-3 to a 4-4-2. Reus, Rodriguez—you've run your lungs out, job well done. Now get some rest. Alonso, Modric—you're on. Time to choke their midfield."

The players nodded, some with grins, some still panting. The plan was clear: Leeds weren't just going to defend the lead—they were going to smother Sporting Lisbon completely.

And when the second half kicked off, Bento immediately realized the nightmare had deepened.

The high press that had brought him success so many times before? Useless now. Leeds weren't afraid of it. In fact, Arthur had practically invented this style back in England, bending the Premier League to its will. He knew all its tricks, all its weaknesses, and with Alonso and Modric now orchestrating the midfield, Leeds had slammed the door shut.

For the next twenty minutes, Sporting Lisbon's players looked like exhausted dogs chasing shadows. They ran and ran, but the ball zipped away from them with cruel ease. Leeds passed it, moved, recycled, switched play. Alonso stroked it around like a general commanding troops, while Modric's sharp turns and clever diagonals carved little wounds in Lisbon's structure.

The frustration on the Portuguese faces was plain. Sweat poured, legs tired, lungs burned—and still, they couldn't get close.

And then, in the 73rd minute, Leeds struck again.

The timing was brutal. Lisbon's players had just begun to sag, their energy sapped from endless running. Adriano and Ibrahimović continued to occupy their defenders, dragging them inward like magnets. The back line's eyes were locked on those two predators.

And in that exact moment, Modric pounced.

He spotted the space, the perfect gap. With one glance, he sent a diagonal pass curling into the right-hand channel, threading the needle with surgical precision.

Kaká ghosted in at the back post, utterly unmarked. He timed his run perfectly, arriving just as the ball dropped. One clean movement, one cushioned shot with his instep—and the ball flew past Stojković before the keeper could even dive.

The net rippled.

2–0.

Leeds United had doubled their lead, and this time it wasn't a smash-and-grab. It was domination.

The Leeds bench erupted again, the players swarming Kaká in celebration. For the Brazilian maestro, it was his first Champions League goal of the season, and what a way to announce himself.

For Leeds, it was the killer blow. The game, for all intents and purposes, was dead.

Kaká had put the exclamation mark on Arthur's masterpiece.