Three days after dismantling Dynamo Kyiv and securing early Champions League qualification, Arthur led his invigorated Leeds United side to London, visiting Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane. Tottenham was enduring a miserable season, having managed only a single victory so far, and they looked exactly like a team playing under immense pressure.
There was no sense of mercy or tactical complexity required from Leeds United. Arthur's pre-match instructions were simple: start fast, exploit the home team's fragile confidence, and rotate key players smartly. The match itself was less of a contest and more of an inevitable, clinical execution. Leeds controlled 75% of the possession, utilizing quick, triangular passing movements that completely bypassed Tottenham's desperate, high-energy, but ultimately uncoordinated press.
Kaka opened the scoring in the 12th minute with a stunning 25-yard strike that dipped just under the bar, and Torresadded the second from a Ribéry cutback just before halftime. The second half was a masterclass in professional indifference; Leeds United moved the ball around with almost arrogant ease, waiting for gaps. Two quick goals in the last 20 minutes—one from a Modric penalty and a late, well-taken header by a reserve forward—finished the job. The final score was 4-0. It was a victory of ruthless efficiency, securing another three points and keeping Leeds United firmly in the title race.
Immediately after the match, the team disbanded in London. With the international break starting, the highly sought-after stars—the likes of Kaka, Ribéry, Bale, and Modric—were whisked away in their private cars to catch flights for national team duties. The remaining players, those not called up, were granted a well-deserved five-day vacation. Arthurwas returning to Leeds on the team bus with the rest of the non-international contingent and the coaching staff.
The bus was quiet, thick with the shared exhaustion of an intense fixture run. The players were slumped in their luxury seats, most of them either plugging into headphones or immediately falling asleep. Arthur was doing the latter, leaning back in his own large, private seat, allowing his mind to briefly shut down after the intensity of the past week's fixtures.
He was drifting toward a deep sleep when a subtle, rustling sound disturbed his peace. It wasn't the sound of a veteran coach settling in, or a star player stretching. It was a nervous, hesitant scuffle.
Arthur opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the dim lights of the bus cabin. Looking down, he found Paul Pogba, the lanky, shy French teenager, standing awkwardly by the aisle. Pogba quickly slid into the empty seat right next to Arthur, making himself as small as possible, as if trying to merge with the upholstery.
"Pogba?" Arthur asked, lifting an eyebrow. He looked at the boy's flushed cheeks and slightly hunched shoulders. "What's the matter? You look like you just stole a tray of post-match sandwiches."
Pogba had clearly not expected his 'stealth operation' to wake the boss. Hearing Arthur's voice, he panicked, his eyes darting toward the front of the bus where Rivaldo was reading.
"Uh… No… Nothing, Boss! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up!" he stammered, pulling his long legs in tight.
"Nothing?" Arthur fixed him with a mild glare, suppressing a smile. "If nothing was wrong, why did you come to sit next to me like a sneak thief? You're literally sitting three rows ahead of your usual seat, looking like you're about to confess to a crime."
Suddenly, an idea popped into Arthur's head. He recalled the conversation with Simeone and their plan to use the international break for a physical boost. He instantly switched to 'paternal coach' mode, his voice firming up with professional authority.
"Look, I have to remind you of something, and it's probably why you're here," Arthur continued, cutting him off before Pogba could speak. "Although you have five days off, those five days are not for you to fly back to France and eat too much rich food and play video games."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly. "You stay in Leeds honestly. Your development is too important right now. You use these five days to focus on your physical development. Get to the gym. Get to the pool. Simeone has left a specific, focused strength program for you. You need to practice your core stability and your low center of gravity. That's the priority."
Pogba was vigorously shaking his head, his hands waving in protest. "Boss, you misunderstood me! I won't return home! That wasn't it at all! My plan for this entire vacation was already to stay at the club—I want to be in the gym and practice more! I know I need to be stronger!"
"Good, just be aware of that, then," Arthur nodded, slightly surprised but pleased by the teenager's dedication. "You've been on the bench for the last two games, watching the pace up close. That intensity—the Premier League pace, the speed of the decisions—is completely different from anything you've faced in the youth team. We saw that in the training session you had the other day. It was good, but you need to be faster and stronger."
He continued with the kind of tough-love advice he gave all his youngsters, feeling a genuine responsibility for their careers. "You need to work harder, Pogba. You need to improve your strength as quickly as possible, so that when I finally put you on the field, you can..."
Arthur stopped mid-sentence. He suddenly remembered that the boy had just protested, quite genuinely, that he wasn't here to ask for leave.
He stared at the teenager, confusion etched onto his face. "Wait a minute. You are not going back to France? You don't want a longer vacation? You're happy to do extra training?" Arthur shook his head slowly. "Then... why are you sitting here, looking so terrified!?"
Faced with the direct, slightly exasperated question, Pogba's cheeks instantly flushed a deeper shade of crimson. He took a massive, visible breath, puffing out his chest as if preparing to lift a heavy weight—a mental heavy weight. It was clear he had been rehearsing this moment for days and was finally committing to a decision he knew was audacious.
"Boss," he started, his voice a nervous squeak that immediately gained confidence as he forced the words out. "This is it. I want to recommend someone to you."
Arthur's eyes widened comically. He blinked, thinking he must have misheard the nervous teenager. He felt his managerial hat tilt slightly on his head.
"Recommend someone!?" Arthur stared, momentarily unable to process the sheer audacity of a youth player trying to step into the scouting department. "Who exactly are you recommending, Pogba? A football player? No, wait... you don't even have an agent yet! Are you planning to switch careers already and become a scout while you're still playing for the U17s!?"
"No! No! Not a scout!" Pogba waved his hands repeatedly, nearly elbowing Arthur in the process, mortified that the manager was misunderstanding his intentions so grandly. He quickly rushed to explain his true thinking before Arthur could send him back to the locker room in disgrace.
"Boss, I'm absolutely serious! It's my roommate from when I played football back in Metz! He plays the exact same position—attacking midfield—and he's really, really talented! When I signed my professional contract here and shared the news with him, I could feel that he was extremely envious of me being able to join the first-team structure of a massive club like Leeds United! He even asked me directly if Leeds United still needed a midfielder! So, I spent a few days struggling with myself, and I finally decided to come and ask you, Boss... do we have any requirements for recruiting new people at the club?"
Requirements for recruiting people?
Hearing the naive, perfectly phrased question—the kind of question you might ask about whether a supermarket had an opening for a weekend job—Arthur glared at Pogba in dumbfounded silence.
Do you think this is a job recruitment drive in the domestic talent market? he thought, struggling to contain the absolute absurdity of the situation. Are there "other requirements" for buying a multi-million-pound European player?
******
Arthur, the sharp-witted owner and manager of Leeds United, had a flash of recognition when Pogba mentioned his former roommate.
The Bosnian. Miralem Pjanić.
A ghost from a meticulously researched past.
When Arthur had accidentally met Pogba months prior—a scouting trip that had netted a phenomenal, if slightly raw, young talent—he had actually entertained the thought of an audacious double-swoop. Pogba and Pjanić, the duo affectionately dubbed the "Metz Twins" by the youth academy staff, were clearly being groomed for greatness. Imagine, he'd mused, bringing both of those midfield prodigies to Elland Road.
But a second of cold, managerial logic had tempered his ambition. Metz wasn't a selling club that year, not in that sense. They were planning their future, and the "Twins" were the cornerstone. If Arthur had proposed buying them both during the summer transfer window, the likelihood was high that Metz would have only agreed to release one. Their plan had been to promote both boys to the senior squad for the coming season. Splitting the talent pool would have been more palatable than gutting their core.
Events had since proven Arthur's foresight to be eerily accurate.
Following the launch of the new season, Arthur had made a point of tasking his Head Scout, Ron, with keeping a keen eye on the developments in Ligue 1. The reports had been consistent: Pjanić had not only been promoted to the Metz first team but was also logging substantial playing minutes. He wasn't just filling a seat; he was actively contributing.
Arthur's internal monologue had been dismissive: Well, there goes that idea. A young lad getting a genuine shot at senior football in a top European league won't trade that for a move to the Championship, no matter how ambitious Leeds United is. He had mentally filed Pjanić away under "Missed Opportunities" or "Future Target, Needs CL Football."
But now, standing in the bustling training ground canteen, the young, gangly Pogba had just dropped a bombshell that reheated Arthur's interest faster than a forgotten cup of coffee in the microwave. The Bosnian kid hadn't rejected an invitation; he had initiated the discussion himself!
Arthur's heart, usually a steady drum of tactical calculations, performed a quick, excited drumroll. This wasn't just a potential transfer; this was a potential heist. He was looking at a player who, in a little over a decade, would command a staggering €60 million transfer fee from one of the true titans of European football, moving from Turin's Allianz Stadium to Barcelona's Camp Nou. Securing him now would be the equivalent of finding a genuine Rembrandt at a local yard sale.
He leaned in slightly towards the young midfielder, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, but a smirk he couldn't quite contain stretched across his face.
"Your roommate? The one you call Pjanić?" Arthur asked, savoring the name as if it were a fine vintage wine.
Pogba blinked, a mixture of surprise and slight awe washing over his face. "Ah? Boss, do you... do you actually know him?"
Arthur let out a soft, theatrical snort. "Nonsense, lad. Do you think the legendary Leeds United scouting team—a finely tuned machine of espresso and data—only eats biscuits and files their nails? Of course, I know him! We monitor every promising young boot in Western Europe. It's my job to see the future."
He playfully tapped Pogba on the shoulder, a gesture that was half-affection, half-instruction.
"Listen to me, boy. Don't start strutting around just because you've successfully managed to tie your boots in the senior changing room. I'm going to drop a truth bomb on you: Ron had a comprehensive scouting report on your roommate sitting on my desk last year. Last year! At that time, you, my friend, were a mere twinkle in the eye of our Academy Director, not even a blip on my first-team radar! We were tracking Pjanić before the Fédération Française de Footballeven knew how to spell his name."
Arthur's intent was to deliver a masterclass in motivational speaking: There are always people better than you; Europe is overflowing with geniuses. You must work harder! Stay humble! He wanted Pogba to channel this information into pure, aggressive training ground effort.
However, Arthur had temporarily forgotten that he was dealing with a young man whose primary emotional conduit was a football, and whose loyalty was fierce. Pogba, utterly missing the underlying lesson in competitive humility, simply beamed. He raised his head, a sincere, almost saintly smile gracing his lips.
"Boss, that's exactly what I mean!" Pogba exclaimed, his eyes shining with genuine admiration. "That's why I've been telling you he's incredibly talented! The moment I walked through the door at Metz, I knew it. He's always been better than me! He just sees the pitch differently. His brain works like a calculator in midfield, Boss. And his free kicks? They're works of art. If he's already on your radar, that just confirms I was right all along! We've got to get him!"
Arthur sighed inwardly, a weary but fond shake of the head. It was clear. This kid had been playing football since he was old enough to kick a pebble, and his mind was a fortress dedicated to the beautiful game and, perhaps more significantly, his deep-seated, pure-hearted friendship with his Bosnian comrade. The subtle, cutthroat psychology of a football manager was simply not computing. Trying to teach an enthusiastic Labrador advanced calculus, Arthur mused. Hopeless. He let the motivational lesson die a quiet death.
Too lazy to continue a complex philosophical debate about the nature of genius and work ethic, Arthur smoothly changed tack, dragging the conversation back to the pressing matter of potential transfer market larceny.
"Alright, alright, I see the bond is strong, and your loyalty is noted," Arthur conceded with a wave of his hand. "But let's talk reality. He's now a bona fide fixture in the Metz first team. They're struggling, yes, but he's playing every week in Ligue 1. If he were to come here, to Elland Road, he would, at best, be a substitute initially, just like you were. He'd have to fight for minutes in the Championship, a league known for mud and muscle, not finesse. Will he really be willing to take that step backward in guaranteed playing time and profile?"
Pogba lowered his gaze, his brow furrowed in thought. He was processing the question seriously, the easy smile gone, replaced by the calculating expression of a true footballer assessing risk versus reward.
"Anyway, he's the one who brought it up," Pogba mused, tapping his chin. "He called me last week during training break. He proactively asked on the phone if Leeds United... if we still needed a quality central midfielder. He said he was intrigued by what I'd told him before about the structure here. At the time, I honestly couldn't tell if he was messing around, just floating an idea because he was frustrated with Metz, or if he genuinely wanted to join us."
"Let's turn the joke into a very real offer," Arthur stated, his decision instantly made. The mere hint of Pjanić's dissatisfaction was all the oxygen he needed. He looked the earnest young Frenchman straight in the eye, assigning a task that required both discretion and diligence.
"Here's what we'll do." Arthur's voice took on the low, urgent quality of a general dispatching a spy. "You've got a couple of days off for a break. Take some time, call him back, and gauge his personal wishes. Have a proper chat. You can figure out how to phrase it yourself, mention our ambitious plans, and maybe subtly mention how our physical style of play here demands constant rotation and fitness... implying minutes would be inevitable. Be persuasive, but natural. You understand?"
Arthur leaned forward one final time, driving home the most crucial part of the mission. "I have one absolutely non-negotiable request, Pogba: you can't tell him that you have talked to me about this matter. Not a word, not a hint, not a subtle reference to 'The Boss.' Understand? This conversation is completely secret."
Pogba snapped his head up, eyes wide with the seriousness of the command. He was no longer a youth player; he was an operative in a clandestine transfer mission.
"Got it! Boss!"
****
Wang Chu was the player in og version. The next Messi from Temu 💀Anyways, I think I'll stop translating this story, or just do full epilogue just describing things which would be written by yours truly.
I'll say it later which one I go with.
On another note, why the hell is fc26 so bad! Fps drops harder than my grades in college.