After a well-earned night of rest in London, Arthur and the Leeds United squad boarded the team bus and began their journey home. The previous evening's result against Arsenal hadn't gone their way, but the mood inside the bus was far from gloomy. They had secured what mattered most—Champions League qualification—and that feeling was still sinking in for many of the players.
As the bus rolled into the outskirts of Leeds and approached Thorp Arch, Arthur, seated in the front row next to the driver, leaned forward instinctively. Through the windshield, he caught sight of a large crowd gathered near the entrance to the training complex. Dozens, then hundreds of fans had turned out to welcome them home, their scarves waving in the breeze, their banners held high. Even from a distance, Arthur could hear the familiar chorus swelling in the air—"Marching On Together".
He cracked a smile, nudging his assistant coach beside him. "Looks like we've got company."
The bus eased to a stop just outside the gates. As the doors swung open and the players began filing out, the fans erupted. Cheers, chants, and applause echoed through the early afternoon air. It wasn't just the result—it was everything this season had come to mean. From winning the League Cup to punching their ticket to Europe's top competition, Leeds United had returned to the big stage, and the supporters knew exactly what it took to get there.
Arthur stood quietly for a moment, hands in his pockets, soaking it all in. These were the same fans who had stayed with the club during the dark days—through relegations, financial collapse, and years in the wilderness. And now, after all that suffering, they were back on their feet. United again.
He turned quickly and called over Allen, his operations manager. "Let's bring them in," Arthur said, voice firm but light. "All of them. Set up something simple inside the base—we'll give them a little celebration."
Allen blinked, a bit stunned. "All of them, boss?"
Arthur laughed. "Yes, all of them. We owe them at least that much."
A few minutes later, the staff had begun guiding the fans in through the gates, ushering them toward the open area near the training pitch. Music was already playing through the speakers, and within no time, the base had transformed into a spontaneous party.
As Arthur trailed behind the rest of the team, shaking hands and thanking the supporters one by one, a familiar voice called out behind him.
"Arthur!"
He turned around to see Linde, microphone in hand, waving with a grin. The local reporter had become something of a regular presence over the season. She had covered the highs, the lows, and every bit in between. Today, her smile carried the same pride that was reflected in the fans' faces.
"Mind a quick word for the camera?" she asked.
Arthur paused, then nodded. "Go on, then. But just one."
Linde stepped closer and raised her mic. "Congratulations on securing Champions League football and keeping your promise from the start of the season. How does it feel now that it's all done?"
Arthur chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly? It feels right. I said what I said at the start of the season because I believed in it. You don't say something like that unless you plan on delivering. I always knew the boys had it in them."
He looked around briefly, gesturing toward the fans now mingling with the players. "But it's not just about the squad. The staff, the people behind the scenes, and of course—these supporters. They stuck with us when this club had nothing. We owe them everything."
Linde smiled, clearly ready to ask more, but Arthur held up a hand with a grin. "I know that look. You're trying to trap me into more interviews."
She laughed. "Guilty."
Arthur nodded toward the growing crowd inside. "Later, alright? Right now, I've got a party to get to."
And with that, he placed a friendly hand on Linde's shoulder and guided her inside the gates. The sound of music and laughter rolled out to greet them. The training base, usually a place of drills and tactics, had turned into a sea of joy. Fans, staff, and players alike were celebrating not just a finish in the table, but a season that had reignited pride across the city.
Arthur walked into the center of it all—not as a hero, not as a manager being lifted on shoulders—but simply as one of them.
A Leeds man.
The celebration at Thorp Arch had kicked off right after lunch—and by the time the clock crept past 4 PM, it had become a full-blown carnival.
Music, laughter, clinking bottles, and the smell of grilled food filled the air as players, staff, and supporters mingled freely. It wasn't a planned ceremony, but rather a spontaneous party that captured the mood perfectly. The fans had poured their hearts into the club, and now they were being rewarded—not just with results on the pitch, but with a shared moment of joy, shoulder-to-shoulder with the very team they cheered for every weekend.
Arthur moved among the crowd, shaking hands, posing for pictures, occasionally getting pulled into a chant or a chorus of "Leeds, Leeds, Leeds!" He didn't mind. In fact, he loved it.
By the time the last fan had been seen off with a handshake and a thank-you, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting a golden glow over the training ground. Arthur gathered the players and staff into the team restaurant for a short, informal wrap-up.
Everyone looked a little sunburnt, a little sweaty, and more than a little cheerful.
Arthur stood at the front, tapping a fork against his glass.
"Alright, listen up," he began, raising his voice slightly to quiet the room. "First off, thank you—for everything. This has been one hell of a season. We've come a long way, and we've done it together."
There was a round of applause, some players whistling and thumping the table.
Arthur nodded. "Now, I promised you a break, didn't I? Well, starting tomorrow, you're all officially on holiday."
That got a cheer loud enough to rattle the windows.
"Two months off," Arthur continued with a grin. "You've earned it. For those of you heading to the World Cup, good luck and stay fit. For those of you not going…" He glanced over at Falcao and Džeko, who both raised their eyebrows. "You've got time to relax properly. No rehab, no early sessions, no emails from me."
He paused, then added, "Also, we're pushing the return date back. Instead of July 15th, we're meeting on July 20th."
The cheers returned, even louder this time.
Falcao leaned over to Džeko and muttered, "This might be the best trophy I've ever won."
Arthur raised his hands. "Alright, alright, save some of that energy for the beach—or the couch. I don't want to see any of you near a football for at least three weeks."
The meeting wrapped up with laughter and applause. The players soon began dispersing, heading to pack their bags, call family, or plan last-minute flights. For many of them, it was the first time in months they could truly switch off.
And Arthur? He had plans too. One month of peace. No training sessions, no pre-match analysis, no media obligations. Just rest.
And maybe—just maybe—a bit of internet surfing.
The next day, the training base emptied out quickly. Players trickled out one by one, heading for various corners of the globe. Some joined their national teams, others returned home to recharge. Arthur handed full operational control over to Allen with a firm handshake and a simple instruction: "Don't call me unless the building's on fire."
With that, Arthur disappeared from football—for a little while.
****
A few days into his break, Arthur found himself at home after dinner, slouched on the couch, laptop balanced on his legs. The quiet felt strange at first. No text messages buzzing, no analysis reports waiting in his inbox. Just silence—and the hum of the fridge.
He opened his browser out of boredom, absentmindedly browsing football news and a few old match highlights. But then something tugged at the back of his memory.
Wait… didn't I have a reward I never opened?
Arthur blinked and sat up a bit straighter. It hit him—he'd completely forgotten about that stupid system chest. The one he'd earned for finishing fourth in the league. Not the top prize, but something.
He navigated to the system dashboard, and sure enough, there it was.
A single, unopened platinum treasure chest.
Arthur stared at it and scoffed. "That's why I forgot about you. You look so unimpressive."
To be fair, he'd been too caught up in the real-world chaos of the final matches, the Arsenal game, and the Champions League qualification drama to think about system rewards. And honestly, a platinum chest wasn't exactly the stuff of legend. It didn't shine or flash. It just sat there.
"System really is stingy," Arthur muttered, shaking his head. "You'd think finishing fourth in the Premier League would at least get me a diamond chest. Tightwads."
Well, even if it's just a pigeon leg, it's still meat.
Arthur shrugged, sat up straighter on the couch, and called up the system screen that had been collecting dust for nearly a week. That unopened platinum treasure chest had been sitting there like an ignored email—useless, unimpressive, and uninvited. But tonight, boredom had done its job.
With a lazy flick, he tapped the chest open.
A familiar gleam of light shone from the screen as the system went through its usual slow, dramatic routine. Arthur leaned his chin on his hand, unimpressed. "Honestly, it takes longer to open than it does to reward me."
Finally, the light faded, and a new card materialized in front of him.
[Congratulations! You have received: Morale Booster Card. Number of uses: 5.]
Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Something new for once?"
He clicked on the card, and a more detailed description popped up:
Morale Booster Card: When activated, the team coached by the target head coach will have their morale pushed to its absolute peak for a full 90 minutes.
Note 1: This effect only works if the head coach is actively managing the team.
Note 2: This card can be used on any head coach! Use it wisely.
Arthur blinked. "Huh… wait. Any coach? Like, I could boost Guardiola's team for fun?"
He chuckled, shaking his head at the sheer absurdity of it. "Nah, knowing my luck, I'd probably press the wrong button and accidentally give it to Mourinho."
Still, it wasn't bad. He filed the card into his skill pack, giving a half-hearted nod.
"Alright, alright. Not useless. At least I won't have to scream my lungs out from the touchline when the team's flat again. One of these and boom—instant energy. Saves the vocal cords."
Arthur reclined on the couch and crossed his arms behind his head, grinning. "Platinum box finally did something decent. Doesn't make it generous, but I'll take it."
He decided to check on the club's situation next. It had been a few days since the season ended, and he hadn't touched the management dashboard. Might as well take a peek before fully switching into holiday mode.
The system displayed the updated overview:
[User]: Arthur
[Club]: Leeds United
[Financial Status]: Stable
[Team Morale]: Positive
[Available Funds]: €19 million
[Permanent Skills]: Super Scout (View all detailed attributes of any player), Master Coach
[Skill Inventory]: Morale Booster Card x1
Arthur raised his eyebrows again—this time with a satisfied grin.
"€19 million, huh? Not bad for a team that had barely €3 million left after the winter transfer window."
He remembered the financial gamble he took in January—splashing on names like Rivaldo and Camoranesi. At the time, it had felt risky, even reckless. But as results picked up and Leeds tore through the second half of the season, that investment had paid off tenfold. Match bonuses, league placement payouts, sponsorship boosts, and merchandise sales had flooded in. The club was suddenly in the green again.
Arthur nodded approvingly. "Looks like we're finally turning into a real club."
He wasn't one for spreadsheets and financial summaries, but seeing nearly €20 million back in the war chest after four months was satisfying. It meant he could actually plan for the next season. Upgrade the training ground, maybe reinforce the bench, or even finally hire that nutritionist Allen wouldn't shut up about.
But not yet. That could all wait.
For now, Arthur was off-duty. There were no players to train, no press conferences to attend, and no matches to prepare for. Just him, a laptop, and the comforting silence of a peaceful home.
Still, even on vacation, he couldn't completely shut off the manager's instinct. Part of him was already thinking ahead—looking at the budget, checking the squad's morale, and wondering if he'd need that Morale Booster card during a rainy away night in December.
Probably.
But that was a problem for Future Arthur.
Present Arthur stretched, shut the laptop, and kicked his feet up on the coffee table.
"Right," he muttered to himself. "Back to doing absolutely nothing."
And with that, he leaned back into the couch, letting the sound of the ticking clock fill the room, thinking about his financial revenues.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin as he sorted through the upcoming financial projections on his laptop. With the season wrapped up and vacation officially underway, it was the perfect time to quietly count the money that would be flowing into Leeds United's coffers in the next few months.
First up was the investment from his long-time buddy Julian's father, Mr. Anderson. They had already made plans to travel to Germany together next month to watch the World Cup. Julian would be tagging along, of course—probably more interested in bratwurst and beer than tactics—but Arthur was more focused on the business side of the trip. Mr. Anderson would also be in Germany at the same time, and they'd agreed to finalize the investment deal there. Arthur had a good feeling about it. The numbers were solid, and Anderson wasn't one to back out of a handshake agreement.
"Once that's done, the club should get a serious injection," Arthur muttered, making a quick note on his spreadsheet.
Then came the second—and significantly larger—chunk of revenue: Premier League broadcasting dividends. Leeds United's fourth-place finish had not only earned them a spot in next season's Champions League but also unlocked a hefty slice of the league's TV revenue pie. If nothing went wrong, Arthur expected a windfall north of €20 million.
"Not bad for our first season back," he said, smiling to himself. "Fourth place and twenty million. Not too shabby."
The third revenue stream was already in motion. Sponsorships.
With the team's pre-season gambling goal not only reached but exceeded, Arthur had unlocked a three-year, €12 million deal from Kappa. That deal alone would stabilize a huge portion of the club's operating budget. On top of that, Allen—bless his never-ending emails and tireless calls—had been in contact with several potential sponsors. Interest had skyrocketed ever since Leeds secured Champions League qualification. The club's brand value had gone through the roof, and those hesitant sponsors from earlier in the season were suddenly eager to get their logos on Leeds United kits, training tops, and stadium signage.
Arthur scrolled through Allen's latest report. "Yeah, these deals won't take long to finalize. Once the season settles, they'll be lining up."
But it wasn't just the incoming cash flow from business deals that Arthur had in mind.
He smirked as he opened a folder labeled Player Transfers. After a breakout season, several of Leeds' young players had caught the attention of top European clubs. Offers hadn't started coming in yet—but they would. Arthur could already picture it: phone calls, agents pleading for meetings, scouts showing up with briefcases of data and numbers.
"Can't wait to bargain them into the ground," he muttered with a grin. "Let's see who thinks they're clever with transfer fees this summer."
Arthur leaned back and stretched, satisfied with what he saw.
Leeds United wasn't just back in the top flight—they were becoming a serious football business.