Chapter 6: Mission accomplished

[Task: A Great Victory! — Completed] [Congratulations to the host for completing the system task!] [Task reward: 1 gold treasure chest has been issued.] As soon as Arthur saw the prompt, his eyes lit up like a child who had just found money under his pillow from the Tooth Fairy. "Finally!" he muttered to himself, sitting on the edge of his bed in his modest Leeds apartment. "That match was almost a heart attack and a half, but we pulled it off. And now..." He didn't wait. No hesitation. No dramatic pause. No "are you sure you want to open this treasure chest?" moment. He tapped the golden chest icon in the system interface, and with a jingle that sounded suspiciously like someone shaking coins in a piggy bank, the reward popped out. [Congratulations to the host for winning: Peak Drogba Template Experience Card (1 Month)] Arthur blinked at the glowing card hovering in the system window. "...Drogba? Peak Drogba?" He almost fell off his chair. For a moment, he stared at the card, half-wondering if it was a prank. But no. It was real. One-month experience card. Didier Drogba. At his peak. To the average football fan, Drogba meant power, precision, and the ability to bully defenders into early retirement. But to Arthur? Drogba at his peak was more than a footballer—he was a weapon of mass destruction. You didn't stop him; you prayed he tripped on his shoelace before getting the ball. "Okay, let's break this down," Arthur muttered, tapping the card and pulling up the stats. —Physical: Beast-level. Could wrestle a bear and still have energy to score a hat-trick. —Ball Control: Smooth like butter on warm toast. —Finishing: Clinical. You give him half a chance, and the ball's already in the net before the keeper even blinks. —Leadership: Off the charts. The kind of guy who claps once in the dressing room and suddenly everyone believes they're invincible. "Wow," Arthur said, placing a hand over his chest like he'd just seen his future child. "This... this is gold. Literally." Sure, it was only valid for one month, but a month of Drogba in the Leeds squad? That could change everything. Four or five matches with a striker bulldozing through defenders could be the difference between promotion and another miserable season in the Championship. The only question now was: who was he going to use it on? Arthur looked through the current squad list in the system. Honestly, no one in the forward line looked like they could handle the Drogba load. Maybe Simon Walton in a few years, but now? No chance. "...I'll think about it later. Maybe the system will give me a young gem to attach this to." He stored the template card in his system inventory, locking it under "High Priority – Use When Needed." He sat back and thought about the timing. With Drogba's template, he could create a match-winner out of thin air. And if they used it strategically—maybe against West Ham or one of the other promotion contenders—they might just nick crucial points. Even better, the leadership boost could raise the whole squad's spirit. But for now, Arthur had to return to reality. The win against Derby was big. Very big. It had saved his first system task and netted him this golden reward. But it was just one game, and the road ahead was long. Still, there was something else to smile about. After that match, Tim Howard's reputation in the squad had shifted dramatically. Before, most of the players viewed him as a gamble—Manchester United's backup, a keeper with slippery hands and a shaky track record. Let's be honest: more than one player had jokingly referred to him as "Butterfingers" in training. But after his heroics last night? The man was a legend. Arthur could already sense it—Howard had gained serious trust in the dressing room. You could tell from the handshakes, the shoulder slaps, the extra nods of respect. Even the defenders seemed to walk with a little more confidence, knowing there was a reliable wall behind them. In a team sport like football, this kind of cohesion wasn't just nice—it was essential. Once the players started believing in each other, they ran harder, passed sharper, and tackled fiercer. And a confident goalkeeper was like a cheat code for team morale. Arthur clicked his tongue. "Not bad, Tim. Not bad at all." Of course, Arthur wasn't running a charity. He was running a club. And while Howard was playing well, Arthur's mind was already calculating options. "Let's say," he mused, rubbing his chin, "Howard keeps this form going until the winter window..." The system had helped stabilize his performances, so chances were good. Maybe even great. But Arthur knew how football worked. Eventually, clubs would come sniffing. Especially clubs who needed an experienced keeper for the second half of the season. And here was the thing: Leeds wasn't exactly swimming in cash. They had just enough to survive—but not much more. So if someone, say, Fulham or Bolton or even a desperate lower-table Premier League side, came calling with a fat offer? Arthur would listen. In fact, he'd already decided. "If no one makes an offer by mid-December, I'll list Howard myself in the transfer market." A cruel decision? Maybe. But this wasn't personal. This was survival." Howard had been brought in on a budget. His wages were manageable for now, but they wouldn't be forever. The moment he started getting media attention—and let's face it, after that save and the post-match interviews, he was already on his way—clubs with deeper pockets would start circling. If Arthur could flip Howard for a decent fee in January, not only would he recover the money spent on him, he could reinvest it into the squad—maybe get a younger goalkeeper or a midfield dynamo. Howard had served his purpose, and if he kept shining, he'd serve a new one—funding Leeds United's next step up. That was the beauty of the system. It didn't just give him tools to win—it gave him options. Arthur leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. The sun was starting to peek through the curtains now. He hadn't even realized how long he'd been going through his thoughts. One match down. A gold chest unlocked. Drogba's power waiting in his inventory. And a goalkeeper ready to become either a hero... or a valuable piece on the transfer board. He let out a yawn, stood up, and headed for the kitchen. "Coffee first," he muttered. "Then it's time to plan for next week." Because in football, you celebrated the win today—but you prepared for the war tomorrow. Just as he was about to doze off, he received a call from someone named Allison. He accepted it without much thought, but the next moment, an angry shout pierced his ears. " What the fuck is wrong with you Arthur! I get that missing your dad's funeral for my shooting might be harsh, and I said sorry for that. Yet you cut off all contacts with me and didn't even reach out over a month! Is that how you treat your girlfriend?" Arthur tried to jog his memory as he tried to remember who his girlfriend was. He didn't even think this guy had something like that. Then his memories cleared up as the woman kept yelling. She was this dude's girlfriend for a year. She seems to be an upcoming British actress. When his dad passed away, She apparently got an acting gig , which made them have big fight. Arthur wanted to rely on her for support, but she was adamant about making it as an actress. She left for London without even attending his father's funeral, which made Arthur angry and break up, then cut off contacts with her. Arthur scratched his head and replied calmly, "Look lady, you have your priorities and I have mine. Good luck with the acting thing. But we aren't anything, not anymore. She started sobbing, saying she was sorry and and something like how the pig director asked her to suck his dick and then threw her out of the gig when she didn't. She now returned home to find Arthur was also gone and their friends told her he was busy with the cllub. Arthur just shrugged and replied, " Meh, not my girlfriend, not my problem. Good luck and don't call back." He hung up with a sigh. He then checked his phone and deleted their pictures together , even the spicy ones she sent before. He fought in his mind where to keep them or not. " This is injustice! Why does a virgin like me gets isekai'd as a guy who has a hot actress girlfriend, then I have to be the one to break up with her for dignity's sake! Maybe I could have taken her back and have some ..... No ! That's for simps! Believe in the grind Arthur!" He slapped his cheeks to wake himself up and forget about her. He had a club to rescue from bankruptcy. *** Arthur had just finished brushing his teeth and was still half-awake, staring blankly at his system dashboard, thinking about his newfound ex, when it pinged again like an overzealous doorbell salesman. [Ding! Task Triggered: Consecutive Victories!] [Task Requirement: Lead Leeds United to an unbeaten run and win the Championship's halftime title!] [Task Reward: Gold Treasure Chest x1] He squinted at the screen. "Consecutive victories, huh?" Arthur scratched his head. "Wait a minute... this sounds familiar." It didn't take long for him to figure it out. "So that big talk I gave during the interview yesterday—'We're going unbeaten! Half-time champions, baby!'—actually became a mission?" He chuckled and shook his head. "Well, guess I've got to be careful what I say from now on. Next time I blurt something out, the system's probably going to ask me to bring world peace." Still, a free gold treasure chest was hard to ignore. Especially if it was anything like the last one that gave him a peak Drogba experience card. Arthur still couldn't believe that one. If the next chest contained someone like peak Pirlo or Essien, he might cry tears of joy on the spot. But for now, he had a football match to deal with. Two Days Later — Priestfield Stadium, Gillingham Arthur was tucked into the back rows of the away section like a suspicious undercover scout—or a very budget cosplayer trying to blend in. He had thrown on a Leeds United hoodie, pulled the hood over his head, and even wore a cap so low you'd think he was hiding from MI6. He was sitting among a sea of Leeds fans, about 3,000 strong, who had made the trip down to Gillingham. The chants had already started before kickoff. The man next to him was holding two pints and shouting at someone on the phone, "Tell Dave he's missing a classic—Leeds are gonna batter 'em today!" Arthur nodded internally. Hopefully. The day before, he had spent some time going over Gillingham's squad using the system. It wasn't pretty. Every player was stuck in the C-rating category. One of their defenders even had a fitness rating that made Arthur wonder if the guy wheezed climbing stairs. "On paper, we should win this comfortably," Arthur muttered to himself. "But this is football. And football has a cruel sense of humour." Back on the pitch, the teams were warming up. The Leeds United squad looked sharp and motivated. After that hard-fought win in the first round, morale was high. Even training had been more upbeat. Players were focused. Jokes were flying. Someone had even printed out a "Howard is Hot" banner and stuck it to the locker room door. Speaking of Howard... After his man-of-the-match performance in the last game, Tim Howard had gone from "nervy backup keeper from United" to "local hero with magical gloves." Arthur had noticed something strange after that match. Players no longer avoided passing back to him. They no longer flinched when he shouted instructions. And during the last training session, head coach Kevin Blackwell had handed Howard the captain's armband. Right in front of everyone. Arthur was half-sure he saw a tear in Howard's eye. Or maybe it was just sweat. Either way, the man looked like he was ready to take on the world. As the teams walked off the pitch to return to their locker rooms for final instructions, Arthur pulled out his phone and flicked through the lineups again. "Right then," he mumbled. "We've got a strong eleven. No injuries. No weird surprises." The announcer's voice echoed through the stadium. "Number 1... Timothy Howard!" The away end erupted like someone had just handed out free beer. Leeds fans were jumping, clapping, whistling, and chanting: "Howard!" Howard looked up at them, gave a little wave, and then turned back toward the tunnel with a small grin on his face. For a brief second, Arthur could swear the man stood taller than ever before. Arthur leaned back in his seat and smiled. "Captain Howard, huh? Let's hope this fairytale continues." He could already see the headlines forming in his head. Blackwell was standing in front of the whiteboard, marker in hand, trying to keep it brief. "Alright lads, you know the drill," he said. "Gillingham's a physical team. They'll press early, try to drag us into chaos. But we keep the ball moving, stick to our shape, and we'll open them up." He pointed at a few spots on the board. "Watch their right-back—slow as Christmas. Winger, target him all day. Midfield, win the second balls. Tim—" Howard looked up from where he was adjusting his gloves. "Keep it steady. Same as last week. You've got the armband now, so keep the lads in line." Howard nodded. "No problem, boss." Blackwell turned to the rest of the team. "Now go out there and remind them who Leeds United are." Arthur could feel the atmosphere building. The match was just about to kick off. He stretched his legs out in front of him, exhaled, and crossed his arms. "Alright boys," he whispered under his breath. "Just give me a win. I don't care how ugly or how scrappy. Just win. I want that treasure chest." He glanced down at the system screen, which was now quietly pulsing with the current mission status. [Mission In Progress: Consecutive Victories (1/12)] "Eleven more to go..." Arthur sighed. He leaned back again, soaking in the chants around him as the referee blew his whistle. The match had begun. *** Bates was seated right at the top of the stands, looking smug as ever. Next to him sat Paul Scully, the chairman of Gillingham, holding a lukewarm coffee that had probably been terrible from the start. As the roar of the away end filled the stadium, Bates casually leaned over and said, "Look at this, Paul. Timothy's luck is unbelievable. Couldn't even keep his spot at United, yet one game in the Championship and he's suddenly the hero of Leeds." Scully chuckled, not looking up from his cup. "Ken, this isn't Elland Road. It's Priestfield. That lad's getting a reality check today." The match hadn't started yet, so the broadcast was still flipping between crowd shots and pre-game nonsense. Naturally, the camera eventually landed on the two old men chatting in the VIP section. Their faces filled the big screen, much to the amusement of the home crowd. Arthur, hidden deep in the away stand with a Leeds scarf around his neck and a cap pulled low over his face, spotted Bates immediately. "That old fox?" Arthur narrowed his eyes at the screen. "What's he doing here?" Arthur had taken over Leeds United for over two weeks now. Since the day he signed the final paper, not a word from Ken Bates. Not a letter, not a fax, not even a creepy silent voicemail. Arthur had assumed the man had finally moved on from trying to buy Leeds at a discount. Apparently not. "Why would he come all the way down to watch this match?" Arthur muttered to himself. "He doesn't care about the football. He's not a fan. This man thinks VAR is something you need a plumber for." Then it hit him. The TV screen cut back to the players emerging from the tunnel. Howard was leading the team out, captain's armband proudly on his arm. That's when Arthur's brain made the connection. "Ah, of course... that's why you're here," he said aloud. Bates wasn't here to watch Leeds. He was here to scout Howard. Arthur smacked his own thigh, startling a young fan next to him who had just sat down with a hot dog. "That sneaky old goat. He wants to see if Howard's the real deal!" Arthur now understood the whole play. Bates hadn't given up on Leeds—far from it. If anything, seeing the club win their opening match and Howard steal the show probably made him even more desperate. He wasn't here to cheer. He was here to poach. "If Howard keeps this up," Arthur thought, "that old buzzard's going to try and poach him before January." Meanwhile, back in the executive seats, Bates was watching every move Howard made. He wasn't blinking. Paul Scully was trying to talk about Gillingham's new right back, but Bates wasn't listening anymore. And so, the game began. Gillingham started off with a high press, their midfielders looking busy in the first five minutes, probably trying to impress their mums in the crowd. But it didn't take long for the match to swing Leeds' way. Howard was a wall in goal—again. He caught crosses like he was collecting stamps. Long shots? Gobbled them up. One-on-one? He stood tall, then dived with perfect timing, making saves that made the away fans chant his name over and over again. The moment of the match came early in the second half. Gillingham took a corner, Leeds cleared it, and Howard, wasting no time, hurled the ball like a cannon. It went flying halfway across the pitch and landed straight at the feet of Leeds' left winger, who took a touch and burst down the flank. Two passes later, Leeds had the ball in the back of the net. 1–0. Arthur grinned from the back row, biting into a cold meat pie that suddenly tasted a lot better. Then came the second goal. Leeds intercepted a sloppy pass in midfield and launched a quick counter. The ball zipped around like it had GPS, and the Gillingham defense looked like they were chasing shadows. Bang—2–0. With that, the match was sealed. As the final whistle blew, the away fans erupted in cheers, chanting Howard's name and singing victory songs that sounded slightly off-key but were full of joy. Meanwhile, up in the VIP box, Bates stood up slowly, brushing invisible dust off his coat. "Well, Paul," he said dryly, "always a pleasure." Paul Scully didn't even reply. His face was stiffer than a Gillingham full-back trying to keep up with Leeds' wingers. Bates made his way down the stairs with one thing on his mind: Howard. Arthur, watching from below, narrowed his eyes and muttered, "Here we go." He knew Bates' type. If Howard had another good game or two, Bates wouldn't just be calling agents—he'd be offering contracts, dinners, and probably a bag full of untraceable cash. Arthur, however, wasn't going to let him win that easily. "Let's see who plays the game better, old man," he muttered to himself. "You want Howard? Get in line—and bring your chequebook." He smirked evilly. " Then you'll get a nasty surprise."