"Goooooooooooooal! Lahm!! Philip Lahm!! With a low shot he's fired Leeds United into the lead!" Gary Lineker's voice cracked with excitement, practically jumping out of his seat in the commentary box. He banged his palm on the desk and pointed to the replay screen as though afraid people at home might have missed it. "Chelsea have been completely fooled, utterly carved apart from midfield to defense. Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to call that entire move a dimensionality reduction attack from Leeds United!"
Beside him, Jon twitched. His face darkened the way milk does when you forget it on the counter for two days. A loyal Chelsea man through and through, he hated seeing his team trail. But a professional commentator had a duty, and even he couldn't deny what he'd just seen.
Lineker might have sounded like he was auditioning for theatre, but he wasn't lying. From the moment Kaka carried the ball past the halfway line until Lahm's shot rolled into the corner of the net, Chelsea hadn't even sniffed the ball. It was Leeds United's move from start to finish, crisp, ruthless, and mercilessly efficient.
Jon tried to clear his throat and patch up Chelsea's bruised pride. "The phrase 'dimensionality reduction attack' is a bit much," he muttered into his mic. "Carvalho and Chelsea's back line actually made the right decision under immense pressure. They squeezed up at the perfect moment. But nobody expected Lahm to time his run so well. In the end, it all comes down to Chelsea's midfield being… well, slightly short on control."
"Jon, don't be stubborn," Lineker fired back with a grin wide enough to split his face in two. His eyes gleamed as though he'd just watched a masterpiece painted on the Wembley turf. "Look at the replay. Look at Chelsea's midfield again—'slightly short on control'? That's like saying the Titanic had a tiny scratch. Leeds absolutely owned that build-up. Watch Kroos and Modric—see those little drifting movements, pulling Chelsea's midfield apart like someone prying open a tin of sardines. I swear Arthur's drilled this exact pattern into them, and he's brimming with confidence. Just look at Kaka's touch. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."
Jon could only purse his lips. Lineker's words stung, but the replays didn't lie.
Meanwhile, inside Wembley Stadium itself, Lahm's goal had turned the atmosphere into pure chaos. The noise was no longer just cheering—it was an eruption, a blast of sound that shook the newly renovated stands like a sonic boom. After nearly four years of work, Wembley was now a gleaming cauldron capable of holding 90,000 people. Today it was packed to the rafters, a perfect split of blue and white, Chelsea and Leeds fans staring each other down.
But the moment Lahm's shot skipped past Cech and nestled inside the net, Wembley belonged to the white shirts.
For almost twenty minutes, Leeds fans had sat on the edge of their seats, biting their nails, their nerves jangling as Chelsea's back line kept blocking wave after wave of attacks. But now—now they could let loose. They jumped up, screamed themselves hoarse, hugged strangers, spilled beer, waved scarves, stomped their feet. The stadium wasn't a football ground anymore; it was a volcano that had just erupted, spewing joy instead of lava.
Even the announcer joined in the theatrics. He dragged out the moment with a booming voice that echoed across the loudspeakers:
"Goooooooooooooooooooooal! Leeds United take the lead!!! The goal was scored by Philip—"
And like a choir rehearsed for months, tens of thousands of Leeds supporters roared back in one booming voice:
"LAHM————!!"
The word shook the very steel of the stadium, echoing out into the London night sky. Blue-shirted Chelsea fans grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, while the Leeds fans looked ready to dance on the spot.
On the pitch, Leeds United's players were just as ecstatic as the stands. Lahm, usually the calm and tidy professional, sprinted with both fists pumping, screaming with a grin plastered across his face. His teammates chased him down like kids chasing an ice cream truck, and soon the whole squad lined up in front of the corner flag, arms outstretched, soaking in the roar of their travelling fans. They waved, clapped, and pointed to the stands, milking the moment for all it was worth.
And then, almost mischievously, they jogged together along the touchline. Lahm led the way, still smiling from ear to ear, and the whole gang paraded right past the Chelsea dugout. Mourinho's face was like thunder—stone cold, lips pressed so tightly they could've cracked glass. Leeds players barely contained their laughter as they strode by, their smiles wide and unashamed, before they made their way back to their own bench.
There, Arthur was waiting. He looked like a man who'd just won the lottery and then found another winning ticket in his pocket. He hugged Lahm so tightly it looked like he might squeeze the air out of him, slapped his shoulders twice, and shouted, "Well done, lad! That's how you do it!"
Then he moved down the line, high-fiving every single player—hard slaps that echoed in the air, one after another. His grin never faded. "Brilliant, boys! Keep it up! Just like that! They're not our opponents today, no chance!"
Even the bench was alive. Rivaldo, who had been half-dozing like a retired uncle enjoying a quiet afternoon, was jolted awake by Kaka dragging him into the celebrations. The Brazilian legend threw his arms up with a sheepish smile, pulled into the group hug by players who had absolutely no intention of letting him nap. Simeone clapped furiously, barking in Spanish, while the substitutes leapt around like they'd scored themselves.
The energy around Leeds' bench radiated across the stadium, a white-hot confidence that made even the Chelsea faithful fall momentarily silent.
On the opposite side, Chelsea regrouped. Carvalho scratched the back of his head in frustration, muttering to himself about that blasted offside trap gone wrong. Ashley Cole shook his head, Cech picked the ball out of the net with a scowl, and Mourinho scribbled furiously in his notebook, chewing on his pen like it had personally betrayed him.
But for now, none of that mattered. Leeds United had struck first. Lahm had his name written into the score sheet, Kaka had bagged his first assist in English football, and Arthur's Leeds had sent a message to everyone watching:
The Community Shield wasn't just a curtain-raiser. It was a statement.
The scoreboard at Wembley lit up:
Leeds United 1 – 0 Chelsea (18th minute).
And the roar of white refused to die down.
****
Arthur grabbed Adriano, pulling him into a tight embrace before the Brazilian could even finish celebrating with the others. The striker's big grin was like a kid on Christmas morning, and Arthur's own smile had the same spark of mischief.
"Didico, how does that feel?" Arthur asked, leaning close with a grin that looked as if he already knew the answer.
Adriano puffed out his chest, still catching his breath, and shouted, "Great!" His voice boomed like a cannon, echoing through the noise of the fans still roaring Lahm's name.
This wasn't just polite enthusiasm either. The words came from deep down, from a place Adriano hadn't felt in years. Even though it wasn't his name on the scoreboard, he had been in the penalty box when the net rippled, he had seen the ball slide past Cech, and he had felt that surge of adrenaline in his veins. That was enough to make him truly happy again.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Adriano was alive on a football pitch.
A year ago at Inter, the feeling had been gone. It didn't matter if a teammate scored, didn't matter if he himself put the ball in the net—nothing had stirred his heart. Each goal was just another number, another hollow celebration drowned out by the weight on his shoulders.
But here, in Leeds white, in front of ninety thousand fans roaring like lions, something inside him cracked open again. Happiness. Genuine, unstoppable happiness.
Arthur saw that light flickering and instantly struck while the iron was hot. "Then what are you waiting for, Didico?!" he barked, his voice sharp enough to jolt Adriano out of his daze.
"Ah?" Adriano blinked, tilting his head like a confused puppy. "What am I waiting for?"
Arthur slammed a hand onto his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble forward. "Have you forgotten already? Out there, the world still doubts you. They think you're finished. They think Inter Milan chewed you up and spat you out, and now you're just some washed-up striker we dragged here for nostalgia's sake." Arthur leaned in, eyes gleaming like a maniac. "Kaka and I have told the press that you're back to your best. But words? Words are cheap. On the pitch, only goals speak, only performances shut mouths. So—are you ready to show them?"
For a moment, Adriano froze, stunned by the sheer intensity in Arthur's voice. Then the penny dropped. He understood.
Slowly, he turned toward the Chelsea goal where Petr Cech was still standing, wiping the grass off his gloves, trying to forget the Lahm dagger that had just slipped past him. Adriano's expression changed. A wicked grin crept onto his face, warping his normally good-natured look into something feral, predatory. Violence radiated from him, the kind of menace defenders smell before a ball is even played.
He turned back to Arthur, his teeth flashing. "Boss, I get it. Don't worry. People say the Premier League is full of strong men, rough men, defenders built like steel tanks, right?" His grin widened, savage now. "Well, after the restart, I'll show them what real roughness looks like. I'll show them what South American violence means."
Arthur laughed, clapping him on the back like he'd just knighted him. "That's what I like to hear. Go tear them apart, Didico."
The referee whistled, calling the players back into position. Leeds United slowly retreated toward their half, shaking off the celebrations and locking back into formation. The fans were still buzzing, Lahm's name echoing around the stands, but Arthur's eyes weren't on the crowd anymore.
They were on Adriano.
As the Brazilian jogged back toward the halfway line, Arthur felt his mind churn. A thought clicked in his head. Without hesitation, he called up the hidden system in his mind, and a familiar window popped up in front of his eyes.
A name gleamed in the menu:
[Adriano Leite Ribeiro]
Arthur focused, and the stats unfolded like a scouting dossier from some futuristic football lab.
Age: 25
Offensive Threat: 95
Defensive Strength: 24 (Arthur snorted. As expected, Didico wasn't exactly Maldini.)
Body Balance: 98
Strength: 95
Long Pass Accuracy: 68
Short Pass Accuracy: 79
Shooting Accuracy: 91
Dribbling Accuracy: 88
Shooting Skills: 90
Speed / Maximum Speed: 90 / 93
Injury Tolerance: B+ → S+ (boosted by Injury Recovery Card)
Talent: S+
Current Game Status: Hot
Player Evaluation: The Son of Meazza, the King of Inter Milan. Now reborn in Leeds. A once-in-a-century all-round striker, the perfect fusion of speed and strength. In him, violent aesthetics and technical brilliance merge into one. But beware: off-field demons and depression have dragged him down before. Without careful guidance, he risks becoming one of football's greatest tragedies.
Comprehensive Assessment: S
Note: Due to the Injury Recovery Card (ten months remaining), all physical and mental anomalies have been lifted. Combined with the guidance of the [Master Coach], the player is accelerating rapidly toward his peak once again.
Arthur closed the window with a satisfied nod. "Hmm," he muttered under his breath. "The card really works. Look at that—balance back to 98, strength peaking again, speed almost at max. He's not just recovering, he's growing. And with my coaching skills pushing him forward, he's nearly back to his absolute prime."
Arthur's grin sharpened. "At this rate, defenders won't just be afraid of him. They'll have nightmares."
His gaze slid across the pitch, to where Chelsea's back line huddled together. Carvalho, Ben Haim, and the full-backs were still pointing and muttering, trying to piece together how on earth Lahm had ghosted in for the opener.
Arthur's lips curled into something even scarier than Adriano's earlier grin.
"Premier League defenders," he whispered inside his head, his voice carrying the weight of a threat. "Are you ready? Because soon, you're going to experience the full meaning of South American violent aesthetics. And Adriano's going to be the one to teach you."
The whistle blew again, the game resumed, and in Arthur's heart, one thought burned like fire:
The real storm hadn't even started yet.