Chapter 85: Liverpool conquered

The match might've been long, but the tempo was absolutely bonkers—like two caffeinated squirrels playing ping-pong with a hand grenade. "Don't stop! Run! Speed up the pace!" Arthur bellowed from the sidelines like a man possessed. His voice cut through the Anfield air sharper than a referee's whistle at a diving convention. Even with the lead, Arthur wasn't about to let his players settle. No parking the bus, no cruise control—just more chaos. He could see it clearly now: Liverpool were dizzy. Not metaphorically. Half their squad looked like they'd been spun around blindfolded and shoved into a Sunday market. In the middle of the mess, only Alonso and Gerrard were managing to look remotely composed, like two librarians trapped in a rock concert. Arthur's tactical eye zeroed in on the weak spot like a hawk spotting an injured rabbit. Riise. Big, red-haired Riise. The poor man had just been nutmegged into oblivion by Lahm a few minutes ago, and now he looked like he was playing angry. The kind of angry where you make rash decisions and accidentally throw a chair at a wedding. In the last few attacks, Arthur had seen Lahm and Riise tangle multiple times—and Lahm had been knocked flat more than once. Riise wasn't just defending aggressively—he was on the verge of going full Viking. The guy was charging at people like they owed him money. Arthur knew the type. Riise wasn't a bad player—far from it. He was strong, fast, could fill in at left-back or midfield. But his fuse? About as short as a gnat's sneeze. Arthur had watched him in his previous life (or so it felt)—launching into wild tackles, collecting red cards like Pokémon. And now, Arthur smelled blood. As Leeds prepared to take a throw-in on the right, Arthur grabbed Lahm by the sleeve before he could jog over. "Philipp!" Arthur leaned in, speaking low. "Tell Mascherano to stay sharp on the left. You—go forward more. Keep pulling Riise out of position. He's twitchy. He's gonna snap." Lahm nodded, half-smirking. He knew exactly what Arthur was aiming for. Draw Riise out, rile him up, and let him explode like a cartoon character stepping on a rake. With the trap set, Leeds United began piling on the pressure. Minute by minute, the visitors bombarded Liverpool with the energy of a team that had guzzled three cans of Red Bull each. The home side couldn't breathe. Every pass was under pressure. Every clearance fell straight to a white shirt. It was like Leeds had suddenly grown twelve midfielders. Liverpool were pinned inside their own half like teenagers grounded by strict parents. Their only hope of advancing came from desperate long balls hoofed up the pitch, usually after stealing possession deep near their own box. Even then, it was more panic than plan. Half-hearted launches forward, hopeful punts, like chucking a message in a bottle and praying it finds a boat. The Liverpool fans, packed into Anfield expecting a bloodbath of their own making, were now watching a different horror show. Instead of raining goals, it was raining Leeds attacks—and every minute, the sky got darker. You could hear the confusion in the stands. Murmurs of disbelief. The occasional frustrated yell. One fan even dropped his pie, and for a brief moment, that got more attention than Liverpool's midfield. A newly-promoted side—Leeds, no less—was not only winning, but running the game at Anfield. Arthur stood with arms crossed, watching it unfold like a man who had written the script himself. And yet, this one-goal lead? It was just the beginning of Liverpool's very bad day. In the 39th minute, Arthur's trap finally snapped shut. It started innocently enough—Lahm received the ball on the right wing and pushed it forward, just like he had the last few times. And just like clockwork, here came Riise, charging in like a Norwegian battering ram with a grudge. The man looked like he wanted revenge for every embarrassing YouTube clip Lahm had ever created. Riise was still fuming from that earlier nutmeg. Sure, he'd managed to muscle Lahm off the ball a couple times since then, but that didn't erase the humiliation. Now, in his mind, it was personal. "I've figured you out, you tiny trickster," Riise muttered under his breath. "All I need is one good shoulder barge and boom, lights out." Just as Riise set himself to bulldoze the poor fullback again, Lahm—sneaky as ever—casually passed the ball to the right. Riise paused for half a second and turned his head to follow the ball, already preparing to pivot. That's when he spotted another white-shirted Leeds player tapping it right back—straight behind him. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Riise growled. By the time he fully turned, Lahm was already sprinting past him like a schoolkid running to the ice cream truck. "F***ing little dwarf's playing two-on-one with me now?!" Riise's face turned a shade of crimson that could get him flagged as a health hazard. Still, to his credit, he wasn't slow. He lunged into gear and chased Lahm down as the German darted into the penalty box. Lahm, ever the technician, had already spotted his teammates moving into position. He raised his left foot to deliver a cross into the danger area... And then—bam—pain exploded in his right ankle. Down he went. Legs flying. Arms flailing. Lahm hit the turf like a sack of bricks in the Liverpool penalty area, clutching his leg and rolling like he'd just been shot by a sniper from the upper stands. "PENALTY!!! RED CARD!!! SHAMEFUL!!!" Arthur exploded from the sideline before the referee could even blink. He didn't just call for a foul—he called for the holy trinity of football punishment. And while the ref was still running toward the scene, Arthur had already summoned the team doctor like a medieval general calling in the healers. He stormed toward the fourth official, barking out his own dramatic rendition of justice like an angry theatre critic who'd just seen a terrible Hamlet. His expression alone could've made a referee rethink their career choice. Over in the technical area, Rafa Benítez didn't even react. He just sighed, folded his arms, and stared out at the pitch like a man watching a vase fall in slow motion. Because as soon as Riise's foot missed the ball and clattered into Lahm's standing leg, Rafa knew. That was it. He didn't even argue. There was no use. He'd seen this kind of red-card moment before—the kind where you just accept fate and start planning for ten men. Sure enough, the referee arrived at the scene, took one look at Lahm writhing on the ground, gave Riise a "you've done it now" glare, and pulled out the big red one. Red card. Penalty. Riise stood there dumbfounded, then walked off slowly, probably trying to come up with a convincing excuse in his head like, "I was going for the ball... I slipped... There was a squirrel..." Meanwhile, Deisler stepped up to the spot like a man walking into a bakery. Calm. Confident. Slight smirk on his face. Reina stood tall, bouncing on his line. The whistle blew. Thud. Deisler rolled the ball into the bottom left corner with casual precision. Reina dove the wrong way. 2–0. Leeds United were flying. Two goals up at Anfield, and with a full extra man for the entire second half. Arthur didn't even celebrate wildly this time—he just smiled, hands in his coat pockets, like a man who'd just seen his elaborate prank work flawlessly. And Riise? He was probably halfway to the showers, still muttering something about "that little dwarf." After the chaos of the first half, Arthur marched into the locker room with the swagger of a man who'd just robbed a bank in broad daylight and gotten away with it. Lahm was already lying on the treatment table, getting his ankle checked out by the team doctor, who was poking, prodding, and occasionally slapping the poor guy's leg like it owed him money. Arthur stood there watching, arms folded, mentally preparing for the worst. But after a few minutes, the doctor gave a quick nod and said, "He's fine. Bit bruised, but nothing serious." Arthur let out a sigh that could've powered a wind turbine. "Good. Still, we're not risking it," he said, turning to Milner. "Warm up. You're going on." Milner blinked. "But boss, it's only halftime—" "Exactly. Half a match is more than enough time to make the universe regret underestimating James Milner," Arthur replied dryly. Meanwhile, over in the Liverpool locker room, the vibe was like a funeral for someone nobody really liked but had to pretend they did. The air was thick with disappointment, sweat, and the crushing weight of being down 2–0 at Anfield... to Leeds United. Benítez stood in front of his players, calm. Too calm. That quiet, clinical kind of calm that made the room feel ten degrees colder. He spoke slowly, without raising his voice, which somehow made things worse. "We will change tactics for the second half," he said. "You will follow the new plan. If we're lucky, we won't be humiliated." The players sat still, most of them staring at the floor like they were trying to hypnotize themselves into disappearing. Riise sat near the back, slouched, avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone like a student who forgot to do the group project and just tanked the presentation. Benítez glanced at him, sighed softly, and muttered under his breath, "At least now I'm sure Deisler's in top form... and his style fits our system. Trading him for Alonso might not be such a bad loss after all..." The poor guy next to Riise coughed awkwardly, pretending not to hear. After the briefest of breaks, both teams returned to the pitch. Liverpool made a change—Morientes off, Traoré on. The logic? Anyone's guess. Arthur raised an eyebrow and leaned back on the bench. "So they're taking off their aerial threat... and bringing on a second left-back?" he mumbled, turning to his assistant. "Is that Spanish for surrender?" He didn't even bother to stand for the second half. Instead, he pulled out a notepad and began scribbling transfer notes like he was ordering groceries. "Need another backup winger... and maybe a defensive midfielder if Mascherano ever gets bored and wants to punch a referee," he muttered. But out on the field, Deisler was on a mission. Freed from strict instructions and apparently auditioning for his next club, the man played like he'd just downed a triple espresso and remembered he used to be a wonderkid. With Leeds United cruising and Arthur giving him full creative freedom, Deisler went full superstar mode. First came another stunner of a free kick—curled it over the wall and into the top corner like he had a cheat code. Then came the assist. He danced down the right flank, nutmegged a poor Liverpool defender who'll probably never emotionally recover, and whipped in a cross that Falcao smashed into the net like he was settling a personal vendetta. 4–0. At Anfield. Even the Leeds bench couldn't believe it. Arthur didn't even celebrate. He just looked up from his notebook and muttered, "Huh. That'll save us some scouting time." After the match, during the post-game media circus, Arthur answered a few questions with polite nods and dry sarcasm before slipping away. That's when Moores found him. "Arthur," he said, walking over with a grin. "Liverpool have accepted your offer. Deisler for Alonso, plus €1.5 million." Arthur blinked. "You're serious?" Moores nodded. "It's done." Arthur paused, then chuckled. "Came to Anfield, humiliated Liverpool, and walked out with Alonso in the bag... Not bad for a weekend." He didn't skip out of Anfield, but he might as well have.