After thinking it over for a while, a player finally popped into Arthur's mind — one poor soul who seemed to fit his new plan perfectly.
Sebastian Deisler.
Arthur scratched his head and sighed.
In his memory, Deisler wasn't just dealing with the usual twisted ankles and dodgy knees. The guy had been hit with the full disaster package — physical injuries and mental health struggles.
Back in the day, Deisler had been hyped up as the future of German football, right alongside Michael Ballack. People had even said he would lead Germany back to glory.
And yet, his career had turned into a nonstop horror show.
Injuries followed Deisler around like mosquitoes at a barbecue.
Every time a major tournament rolled around, it was the same story: Deisler sidelined, Deisler unavailable, Deisler waving from a hospital bed somewhere.
But what really crushed him wasn't just the physical pain.
It was the mental toll.
Depression hit him harder than any defender ever could.
In Arthur's memory, Deisler was already struggling badly at this point — playing for Bayern Munich, spending more time at the hospital than on the pitch, and trying to battle both his battered knees and a mind that just wouldn't stop dragging him down.
And eventually, Arthur remembered, Deisler would retire at just 27 years old.
Twenty-seven!
That's supposed to be when a footballer hits his peak, not when he's hanging up his boots and looking for a therapist.
The whole thing was heartbreaking.
Even the cold-hearted suits who only cared about transfer fees had to admit it was a tragedy for world football.
But Arthur wasn't running a charity.
He had a new angle now.
And when he thought about Deisler, he realized something:
Bayern Munich probably wouldn't ask for much if he tried to buy Deisler right now.
Deisler wasn't exactly in top form.
He was barely playing.
He was seen as broken goods.
Perfect.
Arthur didn't waste any more time.
He immediately called Allen into the office, shoved a cup of terrible instant coffee into his hand, and laid out the plan.
"Go make Bayern an offer," Arthur said. "Keep it low. Act like we're doing them a favor."
Allen, who had seen enough of Arthur's crazy ideas to know when to keep his mouth shut, nodded and headed off to make the calls.
As for Arthur?
He decided he'd earned a break.
Saving clubs, masterminding transfers, dealing with lunatic fans tearing your clothes off — it was exhausting.
Arthur went home, collapsed onto his couch, and planned to sleep like a rock.
Fast forward six days.
It was the final round of the season, and Leeds United were playing at home, at Elland Road.
Arthur had already decided weeks ago he wasn't going to risk his main players getting injured right before their big move to the Premier League.
So, he sent out a full squad of substitutes.
To nobody's surprise, they lost.
Actually, it was their first defeat since Arthur took over.
The players looked a bit sheepish about it afterward — some of them acting like they had personally offended the Queen — but Arthur wasn't bothered.
Neither were the fans, luckily.
Nobody expected a group of benchwarmers and youth players to suddenly become world-beaters.
The fans clapped them off the pitch anyway, waving their scarves and singing like Leeds had just won the World Cup.
Arthur stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, trying not to look too smug.
Mission accomplished.
The real celebration came the next day.
Arthur, the players, and about half of Leeds piled into the streets for the championship parade.
It was absolutely ridiculous.
Leeds was deserted.
Shops closed early.
Traffic jams stretched for miles.
The only thing anyone cared about was getting a glimpse of the team — and, more importantly, the man who had dragged them out of the Championship mud.
Arthur stood at the front of a double-decker bus, wearing a sharp suit and holding the Championship trophy with both hands.
Every few seconds he waved it around like he was trying to signal aircraft.
Fans went berserk.
Some were singing.
Some were crying.
Some were trying to climb lampposts with the determination of drunken spider monkeys.
Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at the chaos.
At the front of the crowd, old-timers — the ones with gray hair, walking sticks, and Leeds scarves that looked like they'd been knitted in the 70s — were wiping tears from their faces.
They had seen Leeds at its best and its worst.
Some of them had probably thought they'd never see the club back on top again.
And yet here they were.
Back from the dead.
And all because of one young manager who had shown up with audacious moves, a bag of weird ideas, and enough stubbornness to unsink a broken ship.
Arthur kept waving the trophy, grinning at the fans, occasionally elbowing Allen in the ribs when the assistant got too distracted taking selfies.
This was what all the stress, all the weird press conferences, all the torn suits, and lipstick-stained shirts had been for.
In just a few short months, Arthur had taken Leeds United from Championship obscurity to a Premier League future.
The fans believed again.
And soon, the rest of England would too.
Arthur looked out at the sea of fans and thought to himself:
"This is only the beginning."
***
After Leeds United wrapped up their Championship season, Arthur finally had a chance to sit back, relax, and watch the rest of the football world wrap up their own chaos.
The Premier League season ended just a week later.
To absolutely no one's surprise — and certainly not Arthur's — Chelsea won the title.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, sipping a lukewarm cup of tea, and shook his head at the TV.
It was exactly how he remembered it.
Chelsea had basically bulldozed their way to the trophy after being bought by Roman Abramovich, the Russian billionaire with a wallet thicker than a phone book.
In just one year, Abramovich had dumped almost 200 million euros into buying every player who could kick a ball in a straight line.
It wasn't just shopping — it was a full-on football shopping apocalypse.
Arthur chuckled.
If there was ever a lesson in football management, it was this:
"Money beats feelings. Every single time."
You could be the nicest guy.
You could have tactics so beautiful they'd make angels cry.
But if you didn't have cash to back it up, you were just another "almost" in the history books.
Mourinho, at least, made sure Abramovich's investment didn't look like a joke.
The man had marched into Stamford Bridge, waved his magic hand, and led Chelsea to their first Premier League title in 50 years.
Fifty years!
Some fans had been born, lived full lives, and retired before Chelsea lifted a league trophy again.
The only blemish on Mourinho's otherwise perfect season?
Chelsea crashed out of the Champions League semifinals, losing to Liverpool — something that probably made Abramovich throw several very expensive things against the wall.
But still, Premier League champions.
Money talks, and Chelsea shouted.
Arthur turned off the TV with a smirk.
He wasn't jealous — not exactly.
Okay, maybe a little.
But mostly, he understood the game.
If you wanted to build a great club, you couldn't do it on dreams and good intentions.
You need good players.
You need infrastructure.
You need piles of cash so big they needed their own security detail.
Feelings didn't score goals.
Well paid good players did.
With the league seasons finished across Europe, all attention turned to the big one: the Champions League Final.
The whole world was buzzing.
And Arthur had already made his decision weeks ago.
He called Allen into his office and, without even looking up, said, "Get me a ticket to the final."
Allen didn't even bother asking why. He just nodded and got it done.
Arthur had a very personal reason.
Before his bizarre rebirth into this managerial career, Arthur had been a die-hard AC Milan fan.
Like, posters-on-the-wall, jersey-wearing, irrational-arguments-on-the-internet kind of fan.
Watching AC Milan live had been a lifelong dream.
And now?
He finally had the chance.
There was just one little issue:
He knew how the game ended.
He knew AC Milan were about to suffer one of the most humiliating collapses in the history of football.
This wasn't just losing.
This was blowing a 3-0 halftime lead in a Champions League final — and losing on penalties to Liverpool.
It had been called many things.
"The Miracle of Istanbul."
"The Night of Miracles."
"The Night AC Milan Fans Pretend Didn't Happen."
Arthur grimaced just thinking about it.
Still, he was determined.
He had to be there.
Even if it meant watching his beloved Milan get flattened in real time.
Deep down, Arthur had a ridiculous, tiny spark of hope.
Maybe — just maybe — his rebirth had created a butterfly effect.
Maybe AC Milan wouldn't collapse.
Maybe he could watch history get rewritten.
It wasn't logical.
It was pure, dumb hope.
But football was made of dumb hope.
If you didn't believe in miracles, you had no business being a football fan.
The Champions League final was scheduled for May 25. Arthur booked his flight and packed his bags a full week early.
He wasn't going to risk anything — delayed flights, lost luggage, Allen somehow messing up the ticket purchase.
No, he was going to Turkey a whole seven days ahead of time.
He'd find a good hotel, eat some dodgy street food, maybe even visit a few tourist traps.
Anything to calm his nerves before the big night.
When he landed in Istanbul, the atmosphere was already electric.
Everywhere he turned, there were seas of red Liverpool shirts and black-and-red Milan jerseys.
Fans were singing in the streets, drinking questionable beer out of plastic cups, and shouting at passing cars.
Arthur pulled his baseball cap a little lower over his eyes.
He wasn't about to get into any arguments with rowdy Liverpool fans before the game even started.
He checked into a hotel not far from the Atatürk Olympic Stadium, ordered room service, and sat by the window, watching fans roam the streets like football-obsessed zombies.
In just a few days, he would be sitting inside that stadium, watching his team either make history or re-live one of the worst disasters ever.
Arthur leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.
"Please," he muttered.
"Just once. Let Milan hold a three-goal lead."
Even he knew it was a long shot.
But hey — stranger things had already happened.
After all, a few months ago, he was just a regular guy.
Now he was Arthur Morgan — the man who had dragged Leeds United back to the Premier League, dodged crazed fans, survived wild transfer markets, and somehow, against all odds, made football fun again.
Maybe — just maybe — he could bring a little luck to Milan too.
***
Arthur had been surviving on fried chicken, fish and soggy French fries in England for almost ten straight months.
At this point, his stomach had either adjusted out of pure necessity or given up entirely.
Luckily, the relentless daily grind of training, tactics, matches, and trying to keep Leeds United from collapsing had dulled his appetite for good food.
Most days he just grabbed whatever mystery meat the club served and powered through.
It had to be said, though—England really was a food desert.
It wasn't a joke. It was a serious culinary drought.
If you wanted anything that wasn't deep-fried into oblivion or smothered in questionable gravy, you were out of luck.
So when Arthur landed in Istanbul for the Champions League Final, it was like stepping into a foodie's paradise.
Turkish kebabs on every corner, desserts dripping with honey and pistachios, sizzling meats, spices in the air — it hit him like a freight train of flavor.
Arthur felt like a starving man who had stumbled into an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Within the first day, he'd already inhaled two kebabs, three different pastries he couldn't even pronounce, and some kind of soup that made him seriously question why he had ever set foot in England in the first place.
And now?
Now he was strolling around Istanbul's famous Grand Bazaar, holding a 50-centimeter-long kebab in one hand like it was a medieval sword.
Arthur walked slowly, savoring every bite, looking more like a happy tourist than a serious football manager.
Every few steps, he stopped to check out shops selling colorful carpets, scarves, jewelry, and trinkets of all kinds.
One particular store caught his eye — a carpet shop filled wall-to-wall with intricately woven rugs and silk scarves.
Arthur figured he'd pick up a few souvenirs for the staff back at Leeds United.
After all, it was either that or the sad duty-free chocolate from the airport.
While he munched on his giant kebab and mentally picked out gifts, Arthur remembered he had an important meeting later that evening.
Tonight, he was meeting Florentino Pérez — the president of Real Madrid.
Now, Real Madrid wasn't just some club.
It was the club.
And under Pérez, they weren't just a club; they were a full-blown superstar factory, pumping out Galácticos like it was an assembly line.
Arthur knew — if anyone could be a partner in his ambitious future plans, it was Real Madrid.
At exactly 6 PM, Arthur arrived at the entrance of a high-end Western restaurant in Taksim Square.
He had ditched his tourist outfit — goodbye to sneakers, shorts, and kebab stains — and now wore a sharp custom-made suit.
He even managed to comb his hair properly, which was a minor miracle.
As he stepped through the door, a tall man wearing dark sunglasses walked straight up to him.
The guy didn't even bother with small talk.
Instead, he peered at Arthur suspiciously and asked, "Excuse me, are you Mr. Arthur?"
Arthur nodded.
"That's me."
Without missing a beat, the man bowed slightly — because apparently, that's what secret agents or Real Madrid employees did — and said, "Please follow me. Mr. Pérez is waiting for you in the private room."
Arthur followed him through the restaurant, weaving past tables of overly fancy people nibbling tiny plates of food.
Finally, they stopped at a large wooden door.
The man gestured politely.
Arthur took a breath, pushed open the door, and walked in.
Inside, sitting casually on a leather sofa next to a dining table, was the man himself: Florentino Pérez.
Arthur had only ever seen him on TV before — usually shaking hands with some absurdly expensive new signing.
Seeing him in real life was a little surreal.
Arthur stepped forward immediately, smiling warmly.
"Mr. Pérez, it's a pleasure to meet you."
Florentino stood up, smiled back politely, and extended a hand.
"I am also very pleased to meet you, Mr. Arthur. Please, have a seat."
Arthur noticed Florentino's gray hair and well-fitted suit.
The man looked every bit the powerful businessman he was rumored to be — calm, polite, and just oozing quiet authority.
It was almost hard to believe that this friendly-looking gentleman had built the cold-blooded Real Madrid machine that would sign you one day and ship you off the next without a second thought.
But facts were facts:
In recent years, Real Madrid had basically become the Disneyworld of football — if Disneyworld had an unlimited budget and no patience for second place.
Ronaldo (the original one), Figo, Zidane, Beckham — one after another, they all ended up at Madrid under Florentino's money parade.
Champions League titles, La Liga trophies, merchandise sales — they had it all.
But last year things got rocky.
After signing Michael Owen, Real Madrid's galactic dream started looking a bit wobbly.
Camacho, the manager, got steamrolled by the superstar egos in the locker room and quit after just three matches.
His replacement didn't even make it to Christmas.
Only when Luxemburgo arrived did things calm down a bit, but Madrid still finished second behind their arch-rivals Barcelona.
Florentino wasn't a man who accepted second place easily.
In fact, before the season even ended, Real Madrid had already sent Leeds United an official offer to buy Sneijder.
Arthur hadn't rejected it outright — he'd replied that he "wanted to think about it."
Which was a polite way of saying, "Let's talk when you buy me dinner."
And here they were.
After a few polite greetings and some meaningless chat about Istanbul's weather, Florentino cut straight to the point.
"Mr. Arthur," he said smoothly, "regarding Sneijder's transfer... you didn't reject our offer in your last message. I would like to hear your thoughts personally."
Arthur leaned forward, ditching his lazy, slouched posture.
It was time to get serious.
He said, "Mr. Pérez, honestly, I'm very satisfied with your offer."
Florentino raised an eyebrow slightly, but Arthur continued before he could get the wrong idea.
"The reason I didn't immediately accept," Arthur said, "is not because I want to renegotiate Sneijder's price.
I wanted to meet you to discuss something even more valuable."
Florentino tilted his head slightly, intrigued but still skeptical.
Arthur could practically hear the gears turning in his mind:
What could a newly promoted club, buried in debt, possibly have that Real Madrid needs?
Arthur smiled.
Time to drop the bomb.
"Mr. Pérez," he said, casually but clearly, "do you think some of the talented young players in your youth academy might want a real chance at first-team football?"
For a second, Florentino didn't react.
He just looked at Arthur like he was trying to decide if this guy was crazy, a genius, or both.