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***
The Premier League was set to resume after a week-long break on September 10, and Arthur was practically buzzing with anticipation. He had been waiting for this Saturday fixture for what felt like an eternity. The reason? Leeds United would be heading to The Hawthorns to face a West Brom side managed by none other than Kevin Blackwell.
If there was ever a manager having a nightmare start to the season, it was Blackwell. West Brom had stumbled out of the gates like a three-legged horse, managing just one draw and three losses in their first four league matches. A single, lonely point—bottom of the table, and the fans were already sharpening their pitchforks.
Arthur couldn't help but chuckle when he read the headlines that morning. "West Brom in Freefall," "Blackwell's Baggies Bottomed Out," "Fans Already Calling for Change." It was like the media had a rotating wheel of despair just for Blackwell, spinning it daily to come up with fresh insults.
The real dagger had come after their 2-3 loss to Birmingham at home. It wasn't just a defeat; it was a public dissection. The fans didn't hold back, and the media poured gasoline on the fire. Blackwell's tactical approach—if you could call it that—was getting shredded left and right. Defend and counterattack? More like defend and collapse.
But it wasn't just the tactics. West Brom's squad was a comedy of errors, starring two key players: Howard and Bates. Howard, who looked more comfortable sitting on the bench than running on the pitch, had somehow convinced everyone he was still a footballer. Bates, on the other hand, wasn't even pretending—he was stuck in bed with a stroke. The fans' patience had run thinner than wet paper, and Blackwell was left standing alone, the perfect scapegoat.
Last season, Blackwell at least had Howard and Bates to absorb most of the blame. When results were dismal, the fans would scream about Howard's lethargy and Bates' complete absence. Blackwell could just nod sympathetically and mutter something about "unlucky injuries" or "squad rotation." It worked—back then.
But now? Howard was banished to the reserves, and Bates was bedridden. With both of his human shields out of the picture, Blackwell was now the sole recipient of fan rage. And they were loud about it. The Hawthorns faithful weren't exactly subtle. Arthur had seen the banners on TV: "DEFEND THIS? BLACKWELL OUT!" and "EVEN BATES COULD DO BETTER!"
Arthur couldn't help but grin at the thought. West Brom in shambles, Blackwell flailing like he was coaching with a blindfold, and Leeds United marching in with momentum. If ever there was a time to make a statement away from home, this was it.
He leaned back in his office chair, fingers drumming on the desk. September 10 couldn't come soon enough.
To be completely honest, when Arthur first took over as manager of Leeds United, Kevin Blackwell nearly laughed himself out of his chair. The very idea that Arthur, a guy barely in his twenties, had taken the reins of a Premier League club? It sounded like a bad sitcom plot. Blackwell had joked more than once that Arthur's coaching license must have been a gift from his father, probably delivered with a ribbon and a "Good luck, kid" card.
But reality had slapped him in the face pretty quickly. Not only had Arthur led Leeds United back to the Premier League, but they had also made waves right out of the gate. They beat Chelsea and held Manchester United to a draw. Arthur had walked into Stamford Bridge and Old Trafford like he owned the place, and somehow, his squad followed along like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Blackwell found himself scratching his head. The guy he'd written off as a spoiled kid with a clipboard was actually...good. Leeds wasn't just surviving; they were thriving. It didn't make any sense. Even Mourinho and Fergusonhad struggled to outplay him head-to-head, and Blackwell knew full well that if those two couldn't crack the code, he certainly wasn't going to.
He rubbed his temples, his fingers brushing over the few strands of hair still clinging to his scalp. It was like the football gods were mocking him. He had West Bromwich Albion—a team that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts. Meanwhile, Arthur had Leeds marching up the table with swagger.
The difference was glaring. Lineup? West Brom couldn't hold a candle to the likes of Chelsea or Manchester United. Blackwell doubted his squad could even hold a candle without somehow setting themselves on fire. Managerial level?He didn't even want to compare himself to Mourinho or Ferguson; that was just asking for tears. Team morale? Leeds was unbeaten through August, while West Brom had stumbled three times in four games. His squad had the energy of a half-deflated balloon.
And now, The Hawthorns loomed. Arthur was coming, and with him, a Leeds United team that looked like it had finally woken up from years of slumber. Blackwell knew that if he lost this match, he might not have a job come Monday. The board wasn't exactly known for patience, and he could practically hear the axe being sharpened in the distance.
He sighed deeply, scratching at the last remnants of his hair and muttering under his breath. "I swear, if that kid beats me too, I might just shave my head and become a monk," he groaned, slumping back in his chair.
The worst part? He wasn't even joking.
***
On Friday afternoon, Arthur led the entire Leeds United squad to West Bromwich Albion. The team bus rolled into town with confidence practically dripping from the windows. Players were laughing, staff were relaxed, and Arthur, well, Arthur looked like he was heading for a casual kickabout rather than a Premier League clash.
After a team dinner that was more like a party—seriously, someone almost brought out karaoke—Arthur decided to stretch his legs and take a walk around the hotel. Maybe clear his mind, or maybe just digest the mountain of food he'd just inhaled.
Unfortunately for him, the moment he stepped out the hotel doors, he was practically ambushed by a swarm of reporters. Microphones were shoved in his face, cameras flashed like it was a red-carpet premiere, and questions were fired off like rapid machine-gun fire.
"Arthur! Confident about tomorrow's game?"
"Do you think you can handle Blackwell's tactics?"
"Is Leeds United going to keep up this form?"
Arthur smiled, as calm as if he'd just been asked what he wanted for breakfast. "We're in great form right now," he said, hands casually in his pockets. "The players are buzzing, morale is high, and I'm feeling really confident about tomorrow."
A reporter leaned in, eyebrow raised. "And the score?"
Arthur chuckled. "Well... I think we can win by at least three goals."
That statement made the crowd of journalists practically vibrate with excitement. A few of them actually looked stunned, like Arthur had just announced he was going to the moon after the match.
One of them quickly followed up. "Three goals? At The Hawthorns? Aren't you a little too confident?"
Arthur shook his head, grinning. "Not really. I've gone up against Mourinho and Ferguson and walked away just fine. I don't see how Kevin is going to be any different. No disrespect, of course," he added, in a tone that suggested there was definitely some disrespect.
The reporters were practically salivating, scribbling furiously in their notepads. Arthur's words were a media dream—bold, borderline arrogant, and dripping with confidence. He waved them off with a grin and strolled back into the hotel, hands still in his pockets.
The next morning, the newspapers and sports channels went wild. Headlines screamed from every corner of the press:
"Leeds United Boss Promises Three-Goal Win at The Hawthorns!"
"Arthur Taunts Blackwell: 'He's Not Worth Mentioning!'"
"Arthur's Bold Prediction: Leeds to Thrash West Brom!"
Arthur, sipping his morning coffee in the hotel lounge, just laughed as he skimmed through the articles. "They make it sound like I declared war," he chuckled, sliding the paper across the table to one of his assistants. "Might as well add a drumroll and some fireworks."
The assistant smirked. "You know West Brom fans are going to go ballistic over this, right?"
Arthur shrugged. "They weren't going to send me a fruit basket anyway."
Matchday at The Hawthorns was nothing short of hostile. As Arthur walked out from the tunnel towards the dugout, the boos rained down like a monsoon. It wasn't just boos, though. The West Brom fans had been busy with their vocabulary practice:
"Arrogant twit!"
"Back to the Championship where you belong!"
"You think you're Mourinho, mate? You're just a budget version!"
Arthur just smiled and waved, like he was on a parade float. He even blew a kiss at one particularly angry-looking fan waving a banner that read "ARTHUR'S ARROGANCE WILL SINK LEEDS!". The guy nearly popped a vein.
But Arthur wasn't focused on the fans. No, he barely registered the noise. His attention was on the coaching box, and the moment he sat down, something bizarre happened.
Ding! Mission triggered: Stand Firm!
Arthur almost spilled his coffee. The familiar, almost cheerful voice popped into his head, delivering its usual cryptic message:
[Task content: Congratulations to the host for gradually emerging in the English top league, but this is only the first step in the long march. The season is still very long. I hope that in the next period of time, the host can lead the team to steadily play in the Premier League and achieve good results!]
[Task reward: Gold treasure chest (upgradeable)]
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Upgrade? What's that supposed to mean?" he murmured under his breath. He quickly fired the question back in his mind. "How do I upgrade the reward? What's the criteria?"
The voice responded instantly, like it had been waiting:
"Host, this task is a phased task. The following is a detailed explanation of the task content and rewards."
Finish in the Top 7: 1 Gold Treasure Chest
Finish in the Top 4: 1 Platinum Treasure Chest
Win the Premier League or FA Cup: 1 Diamond Treasure Chest
Win the Premier League, FA Cup, and League Cup: 1 Star Treasure Chest
Arthur's eyes practically sparkled. "A Star Treasure Chest? What's in that? The cure for hair loss? Free transfers for life?"
But there was no answer. Just silence. He chuckled to himself, leaning back in his chair. Win everything and unlock the best prize. Simple enough.
When Arthur finished reading the system's introduction, his eyes nearly rolled all the way to the back of his head.
"Are you kidding me?" he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Months without a single task, and now you drop this monster on me? This is gonna take the whole season!"
He paced back and forth in the dugout, earning a few odd glances from the assistant coaches. But Arthur wasn't paying attention; he was too busy mentally wrestling with the idea of winning a domestic treble.
"Top 7, fine. Top 4? Doable. But winning the league, the FA Cup, and the League Cup? All in one season?" He laughed, half in disbelief, half in madness. "Might as well ask me to find Bigfoot while I'm at it!"
But then, his eyes lit up as he remembered the Platinum Treasure Chest that had given him that recovery card. "If that was in Platinum... what's in Diamond? Or even Star?" he wondered, his imagination running wild. "A free stadium? Unlimited transfer budget? A button that makes Mourinho compliment me for once?"
His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp blast of the referee's whistle. Arthur snapped his head up just in time to see Falcao pass the ball back to Toure.
The match had begun.
Arthur quickly straightened his jacket, slapped his palms together, and grinned. "Alright, enough dreaming. Let's go get that chest," he said, eyes fixed on the pitch as the ball started to move.