Chapter 40: The scam shop is online

**** Join my Patreon for 30 or so Advance Chapters and my other stories ( currently 3) . Link is Below. Remove space after http https:// www.patreon.com/c/Virtuosso777?redirect=true Discord link Drop some stones , review , comments if you feel like it. *** Other than Milner, not a single one of Leeds United's main players had been spared. It was like a football-themed yard sale, and everyone had shown up early to grab a bargain. Emails were flooding in like spam from a sketchy online casino. And the offers? They were ridiculous. Not ridiculous as in bad, but ridiculous as in, "Wait, someone actually wants Caldwell?" Yes. Even Caldwell—the same Caldwell Arthur once joked he'd trade for a second-hand coffee machine and a couple of folding chairs—was attracting buyers. Newcastle, bless their optimism, offered 4 million euros for him. Arthur nearly fell out of his chair laughing. "Four million? For Caldwell?" he muttered to himself, still chuckling as he opened another email. "Do they want a signed thank-you card with that too?" After going through the offers and letting his laughter subside, Arthur called Allen, his trusted right-hand man and professional email-answerer. "Alright," Arthur said. "Talk to them. Anyone not named Milner is fair game. Let's see what we can milk out of this." With that, it was time to deal with the next wave of chaos—transfers into the club. If the squad was about to be raided like an unattended fridge, Arthur might as well use this as a chance to rebuild it the way he wanted. He grabbed the giant stack of scouting reports from the right side of his desk. This stack had been growing over the past few months like an overfed pet. It was thick, full of names, notes, and the occasional coffee stain. If anyone dared touch it without permission, they risked getting an earful—or a flying clipboard. He started flipping through the pages, sorting through forwards, midfielders, and the occasional "who the hell scouted this guy" candidate. Up front, Arthur already had his eyes on the prize: Falcao and Berbatov. These two were going to be the new engine of the Leeds attack. Whether it ended up being a classic 4-4-2 with both leading the line or Berbatov floating behind Falcao in a 4-2-3-1, Arthur felt confident. But every engine needs spare parts, and he wanted 1–2 extra forwards to rotate in. That's when one name jumped out at him from the pile: Edin Džeko. Arthur squinted at the report. Nineteen years old. Playing in the Bosnian league. Twenty appearances last season. One goal. One. "Wow," Arthur said. "Prolific." But then he checked the system stats. Džeko's current rating? D+. Not great. But his potential? A. A solid A. That was gold in system terms. And his price? A measly 20,000 euros. Arthur grinned. "That's cheaper than my assistant coach's watch." He slapped the report down in the "buy immediately" pile. And then, as if his brain had hit shuffle, another name popped into his head out of nowhere: Jamie Vardy. Arthur leaned back and smiled. Vardy—one of the greatest late bloomers in football. A guy who went from semi-pro games and energy drinks to Premier League glory. In Arthur's timeline, the kid was still 18, probably kicking a ball around on some pitch in Stoke's lower leagues. Not even a blip on the transfer radar. Arthur remembered reading about him after Leicester's miracle title run. Vardy had played in every small town possible before anyone took notice. But Arthur had the system. He didn't need to wait for miracles. He could just skip the line and scoop up the future legend before anyone knew who he was. He jotted Vardy's name down next to Džeko. "Two nobodies with A-level potential. That's the kind of shopping I like," he mumbled. In midfield, Arthur was already preparing his next experiment. The left side? That was going to Bale's turf. Bale was about to turn sixteen, but he'd already started showing promise beyond his years. Originally trained as a left-back, Arthur had made the youth coaches give him extra reps as a winger and left midfielder. That move was already paying off. His system rating had climbed to a B-, and he looked more than capable of holding his own in the Premier League. "Baby-faced rocket launcher," Arthur called him. Then there was the right side. Arthur hadn't expected much when he flipped through that section, but then a name jumped out that made him pause: Frank Ribéry. "Wait, that Ribéry?" Yep. The very same one. At 22 years old, Ribéry was about to become a free agent. He was scheduled to move from Galatasaray to Marseille next month, and in two years, he'd be sold to Bayern for a whopping 25 million euros. Arthur checked the system stats—B+ current ability, A+ potential. He could practically hear the cash register ding. "Why would I let him go to Marseille," Arthur said, "when I can grab him for free now and resell him for a fortune later?" And that was that. Ribéry was now at the top of Arthur's transfer list. The rebuild was officially underway. Some of the current players were about to be sold off like used furniture. But in their place, Arthur was lining up high-potential bargains, future stars, and a few very smart lottery tickets. All he had to do now was sign them, train them, and watch the value skyrocket. Simple, really. "Not bad for a day's work," Arthur muttered, tossing his pen down and leaning back. Then he saw another email come in. Another club wanted to buy Caldwell. Arthur snorted. "Maybe I should throw in that coffee machine after all." Now, about that defensive midfield. Arthur had options. He already had Milner, Yaya Touré, and Mascherano on the books—a trio that could tackle, pass, and probably solve a Rubik's cube if you gave them time. But Arthur wasn't satisfied. Oh no. He wanted one more. And that one more came in the form of a short Croatian genius who looked like he got lost on the way to a Hobbit casting call—Luka Modrić. Modrić wasn't even in the scout reports, which irritated Arthur to no end. "What am I even paying these scouts for?" he grumbled, sipping lukewarm coffee as he searched the name himself online. After a few clicks, there he was. Modrić had just returned to Croatia after a stint in the Bosnian League. His stats? Average. His current reputation? Nonexistent. But Arthur didn't care. Because the system told him something no scout had noticed yet—Modrić had S+ level talent. That's the same tier as Ronaldinho, minus the samba dancing and party lifestyle. The kid was pure midfield magic just waiting to happen. Arthur didn't even blink. "He's in. I don't care if I have to pick him up myself and drive him to Leeds in a rented van." With Modrić added to the midfield wishlist, Arthur turned his attention to defense, where things were a bit more complicated. Both Kompany and Chiellini had started attracting attention. Clubs were sniffing around like foxes near a chicken coop. But Arthur wasn't ready to let them go just yet. Not unless someone dropped a cool 20 million euros straight into his lap to trigger their release clauses. Otherwise, they were staying right where they were, preferably learning how not to kick the ball directly into their own net under pressure. Meanwhile, in the scout report stack, Arthur found another gem—Thiago Silva. Still young and stuck in Porto's reserve team, Silva was a diamond in the rough. His value was low, his visibility even lower, but Arthur knew what he was looking at. "This guy's going to be a monster," he mumbled, scribbling a big circle around Silva's name. Add him to a future backline with Piqué—who Arthur was still chasing—and you've got a defense smart enough to stop both attackers and, possibly, climate change. And Milner? Well, Milner could play defense too if needed. The man was basically football's version of duct tape—slap him anywhere and he worked just fine. Then came the full-backs. On the right side, Arthur had eyes on Maicon, currently at Monaco. Now, Maicon wasn't "world-class" just yet, but Arthur knew he was on his way to becoming one of the best right-backs in the game. Price tag? Five million euros. Not exactly cheap, but certainly worth it. Arthur didn't hesitate. "Right-back sorted. Next." The left-back situation was trickier. Arthur's dream signing was Philipp Lahm. The problem? Lahm had been at Bayern Munich since he was old enough to walk, and Arthur wasn't sure the guy even knew other leagues existed. Convincing him to leave the Bundesliga might be as hard as convincing a cat to take a bath. But Arthur was going to try anyway. "I've got system knowledge," he said. "And a decent PowerPoint presentation if it comes to that." If Lahm said no, well... he'd cross that bridge when he got to it. Meanwhile, McKenna and Mills—the current full-backs—weren't exactly making headlines. If someone wanted to buy them, great. Arthur would pack their bags himself. If not, they could stick around as rotation players, warming the bench and playing in the League Cup, or other matches that no one really wanted to be part of. Goalkeeping, though? Now that was a situation that needed handling. Schmeichel—the junior version—had been okay. Not bad. Not great. Just... there. He made saves, let in goals, occasionally shouted at defenders like he was his dad. But Arthur wanted something more exciting between the sticks. That's when he remembered the name: Neuer. Yes, that Neuer. At the moment, the 19-year-old was chilling in Schalke 04's youth setup, mostly unknown and definitely undervalued. Arthur's system revealed his potential was sky-high, with lightning reflexes and the kind of passing ability that made goalkeepers fun again. He'd bring him in as a backup, let him learn the ropes, and wait. In a few years, Neuer would be the guy yelling at his own defenders and terrifying strikers. But for now, he'd be Plan B. A very, very good Plan B. Looking at the list, Arthur did a quick count. Modrić, Silva, Maicon, Lahm (if he agrees), Neuer—five potentially world-class players. Add that to the likes of Berbatov, Falcao, Ribéry, and Bale, and Leeds United was shaping up to look like a Champions League team in disguise. Of course, Lahm might be the only real challenge to sign. The rest? Arthur was confident he could land them without selling a kidney or resorting to bribery via free sandwiches. He leaned back, looked at the board behind his desk now filled with names, arrows, and a questionable doodle of a cat labeled "Bale's haircut," and grinned. "Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all. Now all I have to do is not screw it up." And with that, he picked up the phone and started making the calls. Transfer season was in full swing, and Arthur was officially open for business. Arthur, having finally cleared the mental clutter that had been piling up like dirty laundry in a college dorm, exhaled deeply, shut off the system interface with a satisfying click, and leaned back in his chair. The plan was set. His transfer list was ready. Targets identified. Dreams dreamt. And most importantly, a ridiculous number of tabs were closed on his browser. Time to move things forward. He picked up the phone and called Allen, his right-hand man, the poor soul who had somehow become part-time assistant, part-time therapist, and full-time miracle worker. "Get in here," Arthur said. "We've got work." A few minutes later, Allen appeared at the office door, slightly out of breath, carrying what looked like three cups of coffee but had definitely started as five. "Morning, boss." "Morning," Arthur replied, sliding a thick stack of printed player reports across the table like a blackjack dealer at a shady casino. "Here's the hit list. Contact everyone on that list. Agents, clubs, players—don't care if you have to message them on Facebook or send smoke signals. Just make contact." Allen nodded like he was taking notes in a class he didn't sign up for. Arthur took a slow sip of tea, pretending to be a wise manager with everything under control (he wasn't), and casually threw out, "By the way, how's West Brom doing lately? Any movement since I replied to Bates' little email?" At the mention of the name "Bates," Allen visibly flinched like he'd been asked to babysit a raccoon. See, Arthur had been keeping tabs on West Bromwich Albion like a nosy neighbor with binoculars. After they tried to snatch Tevez a while back, Bates—West Brom's chairman and professional nuisance—had sent Arthur a painfully polite yet obviously passive-aggressive email. In it, Bates asked Arthur to "set aside personal history" and reconsider selling Tevez. Arthur, being the professional he was (and absolutely loving the power), sent a reply that was 30% cordial, 30% smug, and 40% "this player is hot property, mate." He hinted that Man United, Liverpool, and even AC Milan were already waving checkbooks in Tevez's direction. The message was clear: If you want him, pay up—or get lost. Bates, of course, responded by calling Arthur a greedy profiteer, which—let's be honest—wasn't entirely inaccurate. Allen cleared his throat, stepping into the verbal minefield. "So... yeah. Bates is definitely up to something." Arthur raised an eyebrow, waiting. "A few days ago, I got a call from someone close to their board. Apparently, they're planning a full rebuild this transfer window. Bates has started listing half the team for sale like he's having a garage sale. Everyone's on the chopping block." Arthur tilted his head. "So he's clearing space. For Tevez?" "Looks like it," Allen said. "But that's not all. Remember how you told me to watch the bank activity too? Word is, Bates has been poking around for a mortgage loan. No clue what he's using as collateral yet—his stadium? His soul? A collection of antique matchday programs?" Arthur snorted. "Let me guess. He's mortgaging the club to fund one flashy signing?" Allen shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time a desperate chairman did something stupid for a big-name player." Arthur leaned back in his chair, touched his chin like he always did when pretending to be deep in thought, and smirked. "So he's serious. Really thinks he can pull this off." There was a long pause. Then Arthur muttered, "Hehe... sorry, Bates. Business is business. Can't blame me for being ruthless." Allen watched him with a mix of admiration and concern, unsure if Arthur was plotting a transfer move or the plot of a mafia drama. Without another word, Arthur grabbed his phone and scrolled through his bloated address book. Past "Agent Who Still Owes Me a Call," past "Do Not Answer (Chelsea)," and finally stopped at the name he needed: Ferguson. Yes, that Ferguson. Sir Alex himself. Arthur didn't hesitate. He hit the call button. If Bates wanted a bidding war, Arthur was more than happy to invite the biggest name in English football to the table. Let the games begin.