Chapter 163: His name is Zlatan Ibrahimovic!

Alexander Hleb caught the call before anyone else. Wenger's sharp voice cut across the buzz of Elland Road like a snap of a whip. "Alexander! Drop and show!" He reacted instantly, turning back toward his own half, sprinting to provide an option. The move seemed simple—routine even. But sometimes, in football, the smallest moves have the biggest consequences. Gilberto Silva, calmly in control near the center circle, caught sight of Hleb's signal. He had been under light pressure but was handling it comfortably. Now, seeing that Gareth Bale, who had been pestering Hleb earlier, hadn't followed, Gilberto nodded to himself and gently rolled the ball along the grass toward his teammate. It looked safe. But Arthur, standing just inside his technical area in a long black coat, narrowed his eyes the moment Hleb turned. He didn't even shout—he didn't have to. Javier Mascherano, who'd been hovering in the midfield like a shark waiting for the scent of blood, had also caught the cue. He'd heard the shout, spotted the shift, and calculated the play before it even began. As the ball rolled, soft and inviting, toward Hleb, Mascherano struck. He bolted forward with perfect timing—one, two, three strides—and intercepted the pass in full stride, a blur of white and gold darting between two red shirts. In one motion, he controlled the ball with his right foot and burst forward. The crowd rose to their feet. Elland Road buzzed. Mascherano took two touches and fired the ball up to Zlatan Ibrahimović, who was lurking at the top of the box, always looking like he had all the time in the world—and never actually needing it. The Swede collected the ball with his back to goal and Philippe Senderos immediately charged toward him, leaning in, hoping to force a rushed decision. Zlatan wasn't fazed. With a slight shift of his left foot, he rolled the ball forward into space and slipped around Senderos with a casual man-ball split. It looked like something from street football—a move honed on concrete more than grass. Senderos stumbled as he turned, realizing too late that he'd been left behind. But Arsenal were still organized. Their defense hadn't pushed forward recklessly on the previous possession, and both full-backs—Gaël Clichy and Emmanuel Eboué—had already raced back toward their defensive third, cutting off the flanks. The Gunners were scrambling, but they were not undone—yet. Kolo Touré, Arsenal's defensive anchor, quickly barked orders, waving Clichy toward Fernando Torres, who had begun drifting dangerously on the right. Then, without hesitation, Kolo closed in on Zlatan, who had paused at the edge of the box. Zlatan saw him coming. Instead of continuing forward, he stopped abruptly, a brake so sudden it kicked up a spray of grass beneath his boots. Kolo slowed too—but Zlatan had already planted his right foot and flicked the ball wide with the outside of his foot, simultaneously shifting his body the other way. It was as elegant as it was brutal—Touré lost his footing and lunged, trying to poke the ball away. But Zlatan wasn't shooting. With a deft toe-lift, he rolled the ball just over Kolo's outstretched leg, escaping the trap. Now past two defenders, Ibrahimović was near the penalty spot with a clear line of sight—until Senderos re-entered the scene, having recovered and positioned himself between Zlatan and the goal once more. But Senderos was off-balance. In his rush to recover, his weight had shifted awkwardly toward his own goal. His knees were bent, his torso leaned back—his whole body telegraphing desperation. Zlatan smirked. He glanced right, where Torres was making a cutting run. His body shifted slightly, eyes darted, and he sold the idea of the pass. Senderos bit. He lunged with his leg outstretched to block the supposed through ball. Too easy. With the subtlest of touches using the inside of his right boot, Zlatan pulled the ball left, dragging it back across Senderos's momentum. Gone. The Swiss defender spun mid-air like a marionette whose strings had just snapped. Now it was just Lehmann, the German goalkeeper, standing in front of the roaring Elland Road crowd. The veteran had readied himself at the near post, crouched, arms spread wide, eyes locked onto the ball like a hunter on the edge of his pounce. But Zlatan wasn't done dancing. As Kolo Touré rose to his feet and sprinted back toward him from behind, Zlatan leaned left, shielding the ball with his body, keeping Kolo to his shoulder. Then, with one final movement, he slipped the ball past Lehmann with a smooth strike using his left foot, keeping it low, hugging the grass. It wasn't power—it was placement. Precision. Poetry. Lehmann flung himself sideways, his fingertips brushing the ball. But it wasn't enough. The ball clipped the inside of the right post with a clean, ringing "Bang!"—a perfect punctuation mark to an utterly dazzling solo effort. The net rippled. Elland Road erupted. Commentators struggled for words, mouths hanging open for seconds before the words finally came out. "Absolutely magnificent!" one finally shouted. "A goal sculpted by genius, start to finish!" Arthur turned to his bench with a satisfied nod. He didn't jump. He didn't celebrate wildly. He just exhaled slowly, his eyes still focused on the pitch. "That," he muttered to no one in particular, "is why we bought him." Zlatan stood near the corner flag, arms outstretched, face stone-cold. No wild celebration. No sprinting shirt toss. Just a quiet, commanding message to the stadium: "You just witnessed art." And indeed they had. **** "Ahhh... someone explain to me how that was real!" roared Eddie Gray, nearly dropping his headset in the commentary booth. "You're telling me that a six-foot-five Viking from Malmö just danced through Arsenal's entire backline like he was pirouetting on a ballroom floor?! That wasn't a goal—that was a gladiator's opera!" Gray's voice cracked with emotion as the sound of Elland Road swelled into deafening roars. Thousands of fans erupted, fists in the air, scarves waving, grown men jumping like kids at Christmas. "Kolo Touré, Senderos, and even Lehmann—none of them could stop him!" Gray continued, his voice hoarse but unrelenting. "Zlatan! Zlatan Ibrahimović! Thank God for Arthur! Thank God he brought this artist from Italy to our pitch!" The camera panned to Zlatan, who stood by the corner flag with arms wide open, soaking in the love like a king receiving tributes. Fans chanted his name in waves: "ZLA-TAN! ZLA-TAN! ZLA-TAN!" The Swede took his time, eyes scanning the crowd with quiet pride. Then, with a slight smile, he jogged back toward the bench—and straight into the arms of Arthur. Arthur laughed, hugging him tightly. "That was insane," he muttered into Zlatan's ear. "You know that, right?" "I told you," Zlatan said coolly, "I don't score goals. I create monuments." Before Arthur could respond, the referee's whistle pierced the stadium. The first half was over. 1-0. Leeds United led. Inside the Leeds dressing room, the mood was serious but electric. Arthur knew a single goal against Arsenal wouldn't be enough. He pulled out his marker and sketched out a subtle shift on the tactics board. "They're going to change it," he said, pointing to the midfield zone. "Wenger's no fool. Fabregas is going to drop deeper, mark my words. They'll try to control the build-up from the back. That gives them time. Space. We can't allow that." Turning to Toure and Mascherano, he tapped the board. "The second he crosses the halfway line, I want you in his face. I don't care if he's got the ball or not—get to him. Cut the strings before he pulls them." The second half began—and just as Arthur predicted, Wenger made his move. Fabregas shifted back, sitting just ahead of Gilberto Silva. From that pocket, he started dictating passes with the elegance of a chess master moving pieces across a board. Arsenal's shape turned into a trapezoid, allowing their midfield to stretch and rotate, with Rosicky and Clichy overlapping down the left and Eboue providing width on the right. But Arthur wasn't rattled. He calmly stood by the touchline, hands in his pockets, watching as his midfield pressed high and disciplined. Every time Fabregas stepped forward, Mascherano or Toure was right there, snapping at his heels, jostling his rhythm. Leeds' midfield line—now horizontal—acted like a moving wall across the center, shifting in unison to block Arsenal's passing channels. The minutes ticked by. Arsenal tried cross-field switches, they tried overlaps, they tried quick one-twos. But Leeds United refused to blink. By the 75th minute, with time slipping away, Wenger had seen enough. He clapped his hands once and shouted toward the bench. Freddie Ljungberg and Robin van Persie were up next. Off came Gilberto and Hleb. Wenger was going all in—switching to a full-throttle 4-3-3. Van Persie would join Henryand Adebayor up top, while Ljungberg added flair and unpredictability in midfield. Arthur saw it coming a mile away. He immediately signaled two substitutions of his own. Piqué and David Silva, who had both run themselves into the ground, were replaced by fresh legs in defense. But more importantly, Arthur changed Leeds United's shape. "Drop Bale and Camoranesi into full-backs!" he barked. "I want a classic back four—no gaps, no tricks. We're parking the bus now." It wasn't pretty. It wasn't bold. But it was smart. Arthur transformed from the stylish tactician into something colder, more calculated—a pragmatic Mourinho clone, grinding the game to a halt. Wenger, watching from the other side, was livid. He barked in French. He kicked a water bottle. He muttered something under his breath about betrayal and anti-football. But Arthur didn't care. The last 15 minutes were war. Arsenal threw everything forward. Long balls. Crosses. Overlaps. Short interplays between Henry and Van Persie. They probed every inch of Leeds United's back line, but they couldn't find a crack. Leeds United refused to break. Every time the ball entered the penalty box, Kompany was there, rising like a tower to clear it. Every time Henry tried to dribble through, Mascherano threw himself into a perfect tackle. Every time Fabregas found a pocket of space, Toure was already reading the next move, intercepting, pressing, frustrating. Even Torres and Zlatan, isolated up front, tracked back just enough to keep Arsenal's backline guessing. Long balls were hoofed forward when necessary, buying precious seconds and dragging Arsenal's defenders out of position. It was ugly. It was tense. It was pure football warfare. And then came the final moment. Three minutes of added time. One last Arsenal corner. Ljungberg took the kick. He whipped it in with pace and curl, targeting the back post. It was Arsenal's last chance to salvage a point. Kompany soared through the air and met the ball with his head—clean, decisive. The clearance flew past the box and bounced near the touchline. WHISTLE. It was over. Leeds United had done it. As the final whistle echoed through Elland Road, a tidal wave of cheers crashed down from the stands. Arthur didn't punch the air. He didn't leap into a celebratory sprint. Instead, he turned to his bench, exchanged high-fives, and allowed himself a rare, satisfied grin. The scoreboard glowed bright under the night sky: Leeds United 1 – 0 Arsenal A hard-fought victory. A tactical masterclass. And most importantly—three points. The fans stayed long after the whistle, singing, waving, chanting names. Zlatan, Kompany, Mascherano—they were all heroes tonight. But the loudest chant was saved for one man. "Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!" The mastermind. The one who outwitted Wenger. Again.