"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Elland Road!"
The voice of commentator Ere Geddy echoed excitedly around the stadium. It was his usual opening line, filled with enough fake energy to power a small town.
Unfortunately, the stadium itself wasn't quite matching his enthusiasm. The applause was polite at best and sparse enough that you could probably count the claps on two hands. Mixed into the tepid noise were a few less-than-friendly shouts:
"Arthur, get out of Leeds!""You're not a coach just 'cause you own a whistle!""Take your certificate and frame it, but don't manage a team!"
Arthur, already striding toward the dugout, didn't even blink. He wasn't here to argue with loudmouths. He knew exactly how he was going to deal with them—by letting his team do the talking. Nothing shut people up faster than a scoreboard.
Out on the field, Leeds' new captain, Milner, was at midfield getting ready for the coin toss. Arthur stood calmly by the sideline, hands in his pockets, his brain half-listening to the crowd abuse when suddenly—
[Ding! Mission Triggered: First Win]
Arthur froze for a split second as the system's voice popped up in his head again.
[Mission content: Today marks your debut match as Leeds United's head coach. Please win this match!][Reward: Gold Treasure Chest x1]
Arthur raised an eyebrow. About time. The system had gone totally silent since the last mission, and he'd been starting to think it had packed up and left.
But there was no time to daydream. The referee's whistle blew, and the game kicked off. Arthur immediately snapped back into focus, eyes locked on the field.
Wolves had won the toss and started with the ball. They were running a standard 4-4-2 formation—basic, nothing fancy. Their striker Danny Murphy tapped the ball backward to their midfield general, Paul Ince, to get things moving.
Poor Paul Ince.
As he received the ball and lifted his head to survey his options, he saw something no midfielder ever wants to see: four Leeds players charging at him like a herd of caffeinated rhinos.
Before Ince could even think about his next move, the ball was already being stolen right off his boots by a giant with dreadlocks and a grin wide enough to fit a watermelon.
From the stands, it all looked insane. One second, Wolves had the ball. The next, Leeds players in their gleaming white kits were swarming like it was a Black Friday sale.
The steal took about two and a half seconds total.
Now Leeds had possession, and they weren't about to waste it. The dreadlocked giant—Adebayo—immediately poked the ball forward to the right side, where McLean was already sprinting like he was chasing down the ice cream truck.
Meanwhile, Adebayo didn't stand there admiring his pass. He took off straight toward Wolves' penalty area like his hair was on fire.
Wolves' defense, to put it kindly, looked like four confused chickens. One central defender, realizing McLean was about to grab the ball, finally snapped back to reality and rushed to cover. But McLean wasn't about to play hero-ball. As soon as he touched the ball, he coolly nudged it back towards the center, to the top of the penalty arc.
For a heartbeat, it looked like McLean had overcooked it, passing into absolutely nobody.
The Wolves defenders hesitated. Surely, that was going out of bounds?
Wrong.
Flying into the frame like a jet engine on legs came a No. 11 in white—Carlos Tevez. Arms pumping, legs a blur, he reached the ball just in time. No fancy tricks. No ballet-dancing around defenders. Just a clean, brutal shot.
He smashed it with the top of his right boot.
No spin, no curve, no grace—just raw violence. The ball zipped along the grass like a bullet from a sniper rifle, so fast the Wolves goalkeeper Carl didn't even twitch.
By the time Carl's brain registered that a shot had happened, the ball was already smacking into the back of the net.
Goal.
Arthur barely even had time to celebrate before the commentator, Ere Geddy, absolutely lost it.
"UNBELIEVABLE!" Ere screamed into his microphone. "JUST TWENTY-THREE SECONDS INTO THE GAME, AND LEEDS UNITED HAVE SCORED!"
The stadium, sleepy just a minute ago, suddenly exploded.
"The goal was scored by our No. 11, Carlos—" Ere shouted, before pausing dramatically.
More than 20,000 fans, who had moments ago been half-ready to throw Arthur into the River Aire, now roared in unison:
"TEVEZ!"
Tevez, looking like he was about to break into tears and laughter all at once, didn't even think twice. He sprinted straight for the sideline. Straight for Arthur.
Arthur saw him coming but didn't move, only bracing slightly as Tevez barreled into him with a full-force hug.
Arthur's face turned redder than a lobster, but he patted Tevez's back enthusiastically and shouted in his ear:
"Beautiful shot, Carlos, so beautiful!"
Arthur couldn't help but grin like an idiot. One goal. Twenty-three seconds. Suddenly all those idiots in the stands had nothing to say.
Tevez finally let go and dashed back onto the field, arms pumping, full of new energy. The rest of the Leeds players swarmed around him, shouting, laughing, slapping his head.
Meanwhile, Wolves looked like they had just been hit by a bus.
Their captain was already waving his arms and screaming orders, but it was too late. Leeds United had landed the first punch, and it was a heavyweight haymaker.
Arthur didn't jump around or throw his fists in the air. He just stood there, arms crossed, face neutral, inside dying of laughter.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted some of those same "fans" from earlier—the ones who had shouted for him to get out—slowly lowering their angry banners and starting to, very awkwardly, clap.
Funny how a goal could change everything.
And the game? It was just getting started.
Arthur was in a fantastic mood.
The players were executing his plan perfectly, exactly the way he had drawn it up. Not a single thing had gone wrong so far.
Back when Arthur had been studying Wolves' old match tapes, he noticed something pretty obvious — Wolves loved kicking off, but they also loved passing the ball straight back to their starting midfielder, Paul Ince. Now, Paul Ince used to be a big name, but there was one small problem: he was 37 years old and moving slower than a shopping cart with a stuck wheel.
Arthur had immediately checked Paul Ince's stats through the system. Sure enough, apart from Ince's game experience, which still floated above 80, every other value had dropped into the 50s. Pace? 50. Strength? 51. Reaction time? Might as well have been 10.
Arthur grinned to himself when he saw it. It was like Christmas came early.
In the locker room before the game, he had given the players a very clear, very simple order: "As soon as the Wolves kick off, smash Ince like a piñata."
He even repeated it a few times just to make sure no one missed it.
The players got the message loud and clear.
And right after the coin toss, Wolves, just as Arthur predicted, chose to kick off. Arthur almost started laughing on the spot. Everything was lining up like a kid's paint-by-numbers set.
The opening goal—23 seconds in—was the beautiful result.
Now, as the match continued, Arthur leaned back against the dugout with a satisfied smirk, arms crossed, watching Wolves scramble around like they were trying to put out a fire with a teaspoon.
Wolves weren't totally dead yet. For the next ten minutes, they did try to attack Leeds' goal. In theory, at least.
Their brilliant tactical idea? Crossing the ball blindly into the box.
Arthur could have started yawning. It was that boring.
Wolves' game plan was basically: "Lob the ball in and hope something happens."
Unfortunately for them, Leeds had two human walls standing back there—Kompany and Chiellini. Two center-backs built like tanks and smarter than half of Wolves' midfield combined. Every time a cross floated in, one of them would casually jump, win the header, and clear the ball like it was a beach ball at a barbecue.
It wasn't even close. Kompany and Chiellini were dominating so badly it looked like they were playing against a high school team.
And under Arthur's tactics, Leeds' front players were doing even more damage.
Arthur had ordered a high press so ferocious it would have made any 2004 coach faint from shock. Remember, this was still early 2000s football. Most teams were just happy kicking it long and chasing after it like headless chickens.
What Arthur was doing? It was years ahead of its time.
Every time Wolves touched the ball in their own half, Adebayor and Tevez were sprinting at them like two dogs chasing a ham sandwich. And it wasn't just running for show—if Wolves held the ball for longer than two seconds, one of Leeds' players was on top of them, sliding, tackling, stealing, gnawing the ball off their feet.
From Wolves' perspective, it was a horror movie.
It wasn't football; it was survival.
The Wolves players looked more and more panicked. Their passes got sloppier. Their clearances got wilder. Arthur could practically smell the fear.
Then came the 23rd minute.
Wolves' midfielder Bartley, who clearly didn't want to hold onto the ball any longer than necessary, spotted what he thought was an opening. He swung his leg and tried to fire a pass across midfield.
It might have worked—if Leeds hadn't had Milner.
Milner, sharp as a tack and faster than Bartley's brain, immediately saw what was coming. He jumped in and intercepted the pass like he was picking cherries off a tree.
But Milner wasn't about to waste time admiring his own work. He instantly poked the ball sideways to Sneijder, standing just a few feet away.
At that moment, the whole crowd could feel it—Leeds was winding up another hammer blow.
As soon as Milner passed the ball, Adebayor and Tevez, standing near the center circle, spun around and bolted into Wolves' half like racehorses chasing a carrot.
Sneijder caught the pass calmly, looked up for just half a second, and then whipped his foot around the ball, delivering a beautiful long pass with the outside of his right boot.
The timing was perfect.
The ball sailed past the desperate Wolves midfield, skipped over the flailing defenders, and landed right in the path of Adebayor, who had already burst clear of the defensive line.
No offside. Clean as a whistle.
Now it was just Adebayor against the Wolves' goalkeeper, Carl.
The poor guy stood frozen, waving his arms and mumbling what could only have been a prayer.
It didn't help.
Adebayor took one step and smashed the ball low and hard into the net. A clinical finish. No fuss.
2-0.
And it wasn't even halftime yet.
Arthur didn't even try to play it cool this time. He spun around toward the stands, fists pumping, face red from shouting.
"See?! THIS is my team!" Arthur bellowed so loud the people in the back rows could probably feel it.
"No one's kicking me out now!"
He wasn't done yet. In a move that could only be described as "enthusiastic copycat," Arthur punched the air three times in quick succession, just like he'd once seen Klopp do on TV.
The fans went absolutely nuts.
Every time Arthur threw a punch, the crowd roared in perfect sync, like they were following choreography.
Punch! "YEAHHHH!"Punch! "YEAHHHH!"Punch! "YEAHHHH!"
It was so loud, it felt like the stadium was shaking.
Arthur, panting slightly from the effort, grinned like a maniac.
Looking around the sea of smiling, cheering faces, Arthur finally let it sink in:From now on, nobody was going to question whether he deserved to be the head coach of Leeds United.
Not the journalists.Not the grumpy old fans.Not even the ones who couldn't go three minutes without shouting "Arthur out!"
Because when you're winning, everyone suddenly remembers how much they liked you all along.
Arthur tucked his hands back into his jacket pockets, took a deep breath, and turned back to the field.
There was still a lot of football left to play.But right now, he was king of Elland Road.
And it had only taken him twenty-three minutes and one very old midfielder to get there.