Chapter 43: Building a Solid team of Stars

**** 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 like it so far. *** After collapsing onto his hotel bed like a man who'd just run a marathon through a transfer window, Arthur answered Allen's call with the same enthusiasm someone might have for a surprise tax audit. "Boss," Allen started, wasting no time. "Bates just sent in another offer for Tevez. He's upped it to 20 million euros." Arthur blinked. Then, very calmly, he smiled like a cat that had just seen a mouse walk into a trap made entirely of cheese. Of course Bates raised the offer. The old man had probably seen the headlines about Arthur visiting Manchester United and panicked. Arthur didn't need a crystal ball to see it—just some basic psychology and a little media bait. He sat up straighter on the bed and replied, "Tell him it's still too low. Say other clubs have offered more, and we're still weighing our options." "Got it," Allen said, typing furiously in the background. Arthur added, "And while you're at it, keep an eye on West Brom's transfer activity. See how they're doing with player sales. If it looks slow, dig around a bit—see if they've applied for a loan recently. Quietly." "On it," Allen confirmed and hung up. Arthur tossed the phone on the bed and grinned. Bates was scrambling, just as planned. The man thought he was in control, but Arthur had already sold Tevez to Manchester United behind closed doors. The sale was signed, sealed, and hidden better than a teenager's search history. The best part? Tevez didn't even know yet. Arthur's next stop was Germany. More specifically, Schalke 04—home to Manuel Neuer, his future starting goalkeeper. Like with Modrić, the negotiations were already done. Today was just for the signature, a few polite smiles, and maybe some cake if anyone was feeling generous. After handling the Neuer paperwork like a seasoned bureaucrat, Arthur stayed to watch Schalke's training session. Not because he expected anything major, but it was part of his new "touring Europe like a football nerd" summer agenda. That's when it happened. As he stood on the sidelines sipping water, his eyes locked on a tall, skinny kid running drills like he was twice the age of everyone else. Arthur squinted. The kid looked about twelve. Maybe thirteen. Definitely didn't belong on the pitch with professionals, but there he was, blending in like it was just another Wednesday. Arthur quietly activated the system and checked the boy's stats. Name: Julian Draxler. Age: 12. Talent rating: A. A. Arthur nearly dropped his water bottle. Without hesitation, he called over Schalke's youth coordinator, grinned, and offered €500,000 for the kid on the spot. The coordinator blinked. Then blinked again. Half a million euros for a kid who still needed parental permission to download apps? Done. The Schalke staff, now thoroughly spooked, assumed Arthur was some kind of youth talent predator and immediately started throwing other academy players at him like street vendors. "What about this one? Or this one? This one's fast! This one's got a good left foot! Please buy more!" Arthur politely declined, making a mental note to never look too excited about a youth player again, unless he wanted to be ambushed by an entire development squad and their grandmothers. From Germany, Arthur flew to Monaco. No sightseeing. No casinos. He was there for business—and by business, he meant snapping up Maicon for €4 million. Another deal he'd pre-arranged. Another formality. After that, it was off to Donetsk. The Ukrainian summer wasn't exactly calling to him, but Arthur had one more player on his shopping list: Yaya Touré. For just €2 million, Arthur walked away with a midfielder built like a tank and capable of running the game like a maestro. Touré's price tag made him laugh. If Bates ever found out how much value Arthur was getting for these transfer fees, he might actually pass out. By the end of the week, Arthur had travelled across three countries, signed four players, uncovered a future star, and planted the seeds for one very public collapse from his old rival. And he did it all while avoiding English media, angry fans, and transfer rumors like a master of organized chaos. Back at the hotel that night, Arthur sat back in bed with a smug smile and a bag of overpriced hotel peanuts. Not bad for a man who was supposedly "destroying Leeds United." After gallivanting across Europe like a football-obsessed tourist with a billion-pound shopping list, Arthur finally returned to Leeds at the end of June. He had spent half a month hopping from one country to another, snapping up wonderkids, sealing budget-friendly deals, and occasionally eating questionable street food in the name of "experiencing the culture." All the while, Allen was back in Leeds doing the Lord's work: stirring the media pot like a master chef. According to Arthur's instructions, Allen released just enough information about the Tevez-Manchester United situation to keep the journalists foaming at the mouth. Nothing too specific—just vague hints, whispers of negotiations, and some speculative nods to the idea that the deal was "close," though what "close" meant was left intentionally unclear. Manchester United, for their part, played along beautifully. Every time a reporter asked Sir Alex about Tevez, he'd shrug like someone pretending they didn't know where the last cookie went. Reporters, being the vultures they were, eventually tried to bypass both clubs and go straight to the source: Tevez. But they were out of luck. The moment Arthur declared the start of the summer break, Tevez packed his bags, booked a one-way ticket, and flew back to Argentina so fast he might've broken airport records. He wasn't coming back until Arthur told him to. And he definitely wasn't picking up unknown numbers. Meanwhile, Allen kept Arthur posted. The latest update? Bates had finally received his bank loan. West Brom had cleared out a few players to free up space and funds, and just like Arthur predicted, Bates came back swinging with a new offer: 24 million euros for Tevez. Arthur read the message and smiled. "Hold him off," he told Allen. "We're not done playing." Allen didn't even need to ask what the plan was. At this point, he knew Arthur's strategy like the back of his hand. Delay. Stall. Drag it out like a daytime soap opera. Arthur wanted to keep feeding Bates just enough hope to keep him chasing. The real plan was to wait until Bates made his final, desperate offer—ideally for the full 29 million euros—and then break the news that Tevez had already been sold to Manchester United weeks ago. It was petty. It was ruthless. It was brilliant. By the time July rolled around, the Leeds United fanbase had descended into full-blown panic mode. It had all started with a bang: on the first day of the transfer window, Leeds announced the sale of several key players. The club's official website was flooded. Not with new signings. Not with reassurances. No, it was just... nothing. Total silence. For a whole month. No press conferences. No interviews. No new names coming in. Just a quiet void filled with anxiety and online forums full of fans posting things like: "Has Arthur gone into hiding?" "This club is finished." "He's sold our entire midfield and vanished." "Is he on a beach somewhere? Playing FIFA Career Mode with our actual squad?" It didn't help that Arthur was, in fact, on various beaches, cafés, and training grounds across Europe—but no one in Leeds knew that. To the public, it genuinely looked like he'd pulled the plug and vanished with the last shred of ambition. The backlash was intense. Outside the club offices, small groups of fans had started gathering daily. Some held banners. Others chanted "We want answers!" or "Arthur Out!"—as if they were protesting a government scandal, not a football rebuild. One guy even brought a megaphone and shouted at the receptionist for ten straight minutes before being escorted away by security. But Arthur wasn't bothered. This was all part of the plan. He had set the squad's return date for July 5. That was when everything would start moving. Until then, let the fans panic. Let Bates sweat. Let the press run wild with their theories. Arthur's timing was precise. And sure enough, on July 1, just as the fans were about to start a petition to locate their missing owner, something incredible happened: the official website updated. Just a small update. A quiet, harmless post. But it was like someone dropped water in the desert. It said: "Leeds United welcome back players on July 5. New signings will begin arriving shortly." That was it. No player names. No photos. No details. Just enough to spark an internet frenzy. Social media went ballistic. "Wait... are we actually signing people?" "Could this be a smokescreen?" "He's trolling us, isn't he?" Arthur, watching all of this from his office while sipping coffee, couldn't have been more amused. He had a full squad's worth of players already signed and ready to go—most of them completely under the radar. While the press obsessed over Tevez and the fans cried betrayal, Arthur had quietly assembled a team behind the scenes like a football version of a heist film. All that was left now was the reveal. And of course, the final cherry on top: waiting for Bates to reach deep, offer every last cent he had for Tevez, and then dropping the hammer. The end of Act One was approaching. Arthur leaned back, refreshed from his travels, calm in the chaos. The silence was about to end. And when it did, it wouldn't be whispers anymore. It would be shock. *** Bob Walton wasn't just any Leeds United fan—he was the Leeds United fan. Rain, shine, relegation battles, or promotion parties, Bob had been through it all. He had a scarf older than most of the club's current squad, a car horn that played "Marching On Together," and a deep-seated hatred of Manchester United that made him physically twitch every time he heard the word "Ferguson." So when Leeds began the summer by selling off what felt like the entire starting eleven, Bob didn't panic. Not immediately. Sure, he wasn't thrilled. Watching the team's key players get shipped off one by one felt like witnessing a garage sale of his favorite possessions. But Bob had faith. Arthur—yes, Arthur, their young, unpredictable, oddly composed manager—had pulled off miracles last season. The man had taken a squad built on loan players, scraps, and wild tactics, and turned them into Championship winners. So, in Bob's mind, Arthur earned a bit of leeway. But even Bob had his limits. As the weeks dragged on with no signings, no press conferences, and no updates from the club, his confidence began to wobble. Every morning, like clockwork, Bob would wake up, shuffle into his study in his fluffy slippers, open the Leeds United website, and brace for disappointment. Day after day, the homepage sat there like a stubborn stain—no changes, no news, just an eerie silence. Meanwhile, online forums had turned into a battleground. "Arthur's done a runner," one troll posted. "He cashed in and dipped. Leeds is cooked." Bob, naturally, replied: "You've got the football IQ of a turnip. Arthur's playing chess while you're eating the pieces." They called him delusional. He called them impatient, short-sighted muppets. He held the line for weeks, becoming the last Arthur defender in a sea of panic. But deep down, even Bob started to worry. What if they were right? Then came this morning. Bob poured his tea, burned his tongue, and marched to his study like it was any other day. But the moment his screen lit up and he loaded the Leeds homepage, he nearly spat the tea all over his keyboard. The homepage had changed. "WELCOME MANUEL NEUER TO LEEDS UNITED." Bob blinked. He blinked again. Manuel Neuer? As in the Neuer? He scrolled further. "WELCOME PHILIPP LAHM TO LEEDS UNITED." "What the..." Bob muttered. He kept going. "WELCOME YAYA TOURE TO LEEDS UNITED." Bob stood up. His chair rolled backward into the wall. Three international-level players. All in one announcement. He ran to the living room, yelling to his wife like they'd just won the lottery. "Margaret! It's happening! Arthur's done it!" Margaret, halfway through a crossword, replied, "Is this about football again?" Bob didn't care. He was already back in the study, furiously screenshotting the page like it might vanish if he blinked. He opened the forum, dug out the post he had made a month ago—the one where he predicted that Arthur was cooking something big—and slammed the screenshots in the comments section. BOB_WALTON_1964: To all the doubters: I TOLD YOU SO! Where are you now, 'Arthur is finished' gang? Neuer. Lahm. Toure. Wipe your tears with the backspace key! Within minutes, replies flooded in. Some congratulated him. Some told him to calm down. One guy called him "the Oracle of Elland Road." Bob was euphoric. He hadn't felt this proud since he fixed the boiler himself in '09. Later that afternoon, the news started trickling into newspapers and sports websites. It wasn't just Leeds fans paying attention anymore. The football world raised an eyebrow. Leeds, the club everyone assumed was being gutted like a fish, had suddenly revealed a hidden hand of elite young talent. By day's end, the total number of confirmed signings reached seven. Neuer. Lahm. Ribéry. Yaya Touré. Mesut Özil. Luka Modrić. Maicon. It was like someone had given Arthur a copy of Football Manager and an unlimited budget—except this was real life. Every player was under 23. Most had never played in England. All of them were bursting with potential. It wasn't a rebuild. It was a reset. A total overhaul. The football media scrambled to make sense of it. One headline read: "Leeds United's Youth Revolution: Bold or Bonkers?" Another said: "Arthur's Master Plan Unfolds: Can Teenagers Tame the Premier League?" A third, clearly written by a pessimist, snarked: "Good luck, kids. Drogba's coming." It wasn't a completely unfair question. The Premier League was no playground. These weren't second-division sides with inconsistent form and leaky back lines. This was the land of Henry, Rooney, Shearer, and that one Stoke defender who played like he wanted to send you to A&E every match. Could this young squad really handle that kind of heat? The jury was still out. But Bob? Bob had already made up his mind. He dusted off his lucky Leeds scarf, updated his forum signature to "Arthur's Army," and began planning his away-day schedule for the upcoming season. If Arthur wanted to take on the league with a bunch of baby-faced football prodigies, Bob was all in. He'd seen enough to know one thing: you never doubt a man who disappears for a month and comes back with Neuer. That's not madness. That's magic. Or, in Arthur's case, just another Tuesday.