The newspapers were merciless the next morning.

"September curse strikes again, Leeds United stumble into another trough!" screamed one headline in bold, black letters.

"2–0! Mourinho gets his revenge, Chelsea dump Leeds out of the League Cup!" another paper declared gleefully, as if Mourinho had personally delivered them the scoop wrapped in a blue ribbon.

The online chatter was even harsher. Message boards, blogs, and fan forums were filled with mocking posts and sarcastic comments. People seemed to conveniently forget that Arthur had sent out a second-string lineup, resting almost all his regulars except Torres. Instead, they latched onto the scoreline and parroted the narrative: Leeds had been beaten, Mourinho had his revenge, end of story.

What annoyed Arthur most wasn't the fans—it was Mourinho himself.

In the post-match press conference, José leaned back in his chair, that familiar smirk plastered on his face, and declared:

"From the moment I saw Leeds United's starting lineup, I knew Arthur wanted to give up the League Cup. It was obvious. No one brings that many children to fight against Chelsea."

Arthur wanted to throw a boot at the television when he saw it replayed on Sky Sports. He muttered to himself, "Give up? You field Drogba, Shevchenko, Lampard, Terry, and I'm the one giving up? Please."

But he didn't let it bother him for long. Leeds had bigger fish to fry.

The morning after the Chelsea defeat, Arthur gathered the squad at Thorp Arch. He gave them the day off to shake off the disappointment, then the next morning, training began again in full force.

He stood on the touchline, arms folded, whistling sharply as Alves chased a ball down the flank. The Brazilian veteran was barking encouragement at the younger defenders, trying to shake off the gloom of recent results.

"Move it quicker, lads! If Gerrard gets half a yard on Saturday, he'll shoot from Mars and still hit the top corner!" Alves shouted, earning a grin from Sneijder.

Arthur nodded approvingly. That was exactly what he needed—energy, spirit, voices. Because the truth was clear: two defeats in a row had dented morale. Even with all his tactical gadgets, system tools, and data at hand, Arthur didn't have a magic "morale boost" card he could pull out of his pocket. And after Sporting Lisbon, Leeds' blazing form had cooled noticeably.

Fortunately, their next opponents weren't flying either. Liverpool had drawn their last two matches, both dull 0–0 affairs, and were struggling to find rhythm.

September 29th. Elland Road. Leeds vs Liverpool.

The crowd was loud, but the atmosphere was cautious. Fans could sense their team's recent dip, and though they roared for every tackle, every pass forward, there was a nervous energy hanging in the air.

Arthur, in his black coat, stalked the technical area like a man pacing outside a hospital delivery room. He checked his watch, clapped his hands, shouted instructions. "Keep it compact! Don't give Stevie G space to shoot! Quick transitions!"

The first half was tight, neither side taking too many risks. Then, in the 34th minute, Leeds finally sparked to life.

Sneijder picked up the ball in midfield, glanced up, and saw Ibrahimović peeling away from Carragher. With a perfectly weighted through pass, he split Liverpool's backline.

Zlatan controlled it with his chest, let it bounce once, then calmly slotted past Reina.

Elland Road erupted. The stands shook with joy, scarves whirled in the air, and Arthur pumped his fist. "That's it, that's what I'm talking about! More of that, lads!"

At halftime, Leeds led 1–0, and Arthur reminded his players: "Don't sit too deep. Keep pressing them, keep moving the ball. Liverpool will push, but we hold strong."

The second half, however, was a grind. Liverpool began to edge forward, driven by one man—Steven Gerrard. He was everywhere: snapping into tackles, pinging long passes, driving forward with those trademark surges.

Arthur kept shouting from the touchline. "Close him down! Don't give him time!"

But in the 79th minute, disaster struck. Gerrard picked up a loose ball outside the box. He didn't hesitate—one touch, then a thunderous strike that flew past De Gea and slammed into the net.

The Liverpool end went wild, red shirts bouncing, Gerrard sprinting towards them with his arms wide. Leeds players looked gutted, and Arthur kicked the turf in frustration. "I told you not to let him shoot!"

The final minutes saw both sides pushing, but neither found a breakthrough. The whistle blew: 1–1. A draw.

Arthur walked onto the pitch, clapping his players, patting shoulders, forcing a smile. Inside, he was annoyed. A home draw after two defeats wasn't the result he wanted. But it wasn't a disaster either. At least they'd stopped the bleeding.

The Premier League table told a harsher story.

Leeds, with one loss and one draw in their last two games, had slipped to third with 16 points.

Manchester United, who had shaken off their shaky start and were now on a five-game winning streak, leapfrogged them with 17 points to take second place. Sir Alex was smiling again, and the press were already talking about United being "back."

But the real shocker was Arsenal. Written off all summer after selling their captain and making no big-name signings, Wenger's men had quietly strung together win after win. Undefeated since the start of the season, five wins in a row, they now sat on top of the league with 20 points.

Arthur sat in his office at Thorp Arch, staring at the table on his laptop. "Arsenal, really? The team everyone said was finished? And here we are, third. Brilliant."

He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his face, and muttered, "Alright then, Wenger. Enjoy the view from the top while you can. We'll be coming for you soon enough."

For now, though, Leeds had to regroup. The September curse had struck again. And Arthur knew October would not be any easier.

*****

Four days later, the roar of the Roman night greeted them.

The Olympic Stadium of Rome stood like a coliseum out of history, its steep terraces packed with fans clad in yellow and red. Fireworks crackled in the sky, banners of Totti and De Rossi rippled across the Curva Sud, and chants echoed as if the whole city had gathered to push their team forward.

Arthur adjusted his coat on the sideline and glanced around with the air of a man who had walked into enemy territory but rather enjoyed the hostility. He muttered to Simeone next to him, "Well, at least they still sing in tune here. Better than some of the booing symphonies we've been getting lately."

Roma, under Spalletti, were no joke. Arthur had studied them closely. At the start of the season, they had already lifted silverware—the Italian Super Cup, taken from Inter Milan thanks to De Rossi's ice-cold penalty at the San Siro. And in Serie A, they were flying. Three wins, two draws, eleven points, and top of the table thanks to goal difference. The Giallorossi weren't just in form—they were brimming with confidence.

Arthur knew this wasn't Sporting Lisbon or Reading. Roma were the one team in the group that could genuinely threaten Leeds' ambitions.

The match began at a furious pace. Roma pressed high, their midfield snapping at heels, their wingers darting in and out. Leeds responded in kind, with Ibrahimović holding the ball up, Sneijder trying to orchestrate, and Alves yelling at every full-back to stay awake.

It was tense, tight, and attritional. Neither side wanted to make the first mistake. By the 70th minute, the score still read 0–0, and both teams looked as though they were circling each other like boxers waiting for one clean punch.

Arthur stood with arms crossed, chewing on his lip. He had been patient, but patience wasn't his strongest virtue. "Alright," he muttered, "time for a little magic trick."

He reached for his trump card—the system's so-called lore card. This time, he chose Fernando Torres, who had come off the bench in the second half. If anyone could steal the spotlight in Rome, it was the Spaniard.

As soon as Arthur triggered the card, the system stats flashed before his eyes. Shooting accuracy? Maxed. Shooting power? Maxed. Player condition? Glowing red-hot.

Arthur chuckled to himself. "If Torres misses now, I'll eat Alves' shin pads."

And then came stoppage time.

Kaká picked the ball up on the left wing, ghosted past one defender, and threaded a perfectly weighted pass toward Torres. The Spaniard burst forward, using his raw pace to blow past Cicinho as if the Brazilian full-back had been running with lead boots.

Torres surged into the box. Juan came across to close him down, but Torres wasn't in the mood to be stopped. He nudged the ball with his right, leaned into Juan's challenge, and with one swift motion smashed a shot goalward.

The strike was ferocious. Roma's young goalkeeper, Curci, reacted instantly, diving full stretch, but it wasn't enough. The ball skimmed the inside of the post and rattled into the back of the net.

Silence. For one second, the Olympic Stadium froze. Then came the sound of 5,000 traveling Leeds fans erupting in the corner, their white shirts bouncing in joy as Torres slid on his knees toward them, arms stretched wide.

Arthur punched the air on the touchline. "That's my boy! I told you Cicinho's legs were made of spaghetti!"

1–0. Leeds had struck the fatal blow at the death.

When the referee's whistle finally rang out, Roma's players sank to the turf, gutted. Leeds, meanwhile, celebrated a hard-earned victory. Two games in the Champions League group stage, two wins. And with Torres' stoppage-time brilliance, Arthur's men had shown they could survive even in one of Europe's most intimidating arenas.

But there was no time to savor the victory.

The schedule was relentless. In just three days, Leeds would face their biggest domestic test yet—the ninth round of the Premier League, away at Old Trafford against Manchester United.

Rather than fly home to Leeds and then up to Manchester again, Arthur made the decision to take the team directly from Rome to Manchester. "Less travel, less hassle, fewer chances for players to sneak off for pizza," he quipped on the plane, earning a few tired laughs.

Back in England, however, the hype was already building to fever pitch.

The Manchester Evening News, United's unofficial loudspeaker, ran a bold headline:

"The Premier League's biggest clash—United vs Leeds United!"

Their column went further:

"It is undeniable that Leeds, under Arthur's guidance, have grown into one of the Premier League's most formidable sides. They've developed frightening consistency over the past three years. But the cracks are showing. Since returning from Portugal, Leeds have not won in the league, and even their Champions League victory over Roma came courtesy of a stoppage-time strike. Meanwhile, United have found their stride. After a slow start, Ferguson's men have rattled off five straight wins. At Old Trafford, revenge for last season's lost title will be very much on the agenda."

Arthur read it on the plane and rolled his eyes. "Of course they'd spin it like that. Five wins and suddenly they're world-beaters again. Typical."

In Yorkshire, though, the tone was very different. The Yorkshire Post came out swinging in defense of their beloved Leeds. Club legend Norman Hunter wrote passionately in his column:

"The so-called slump is nothing more than fatigue from an unforgiving schedule. Leeds played Sporting Lisbon in Europe, flew back, and within days had to face Reading in the league. Then Chelsea in the Cup. Anyone would look leggy. To call this a crisis is laughable. The away win in Rome is proof that Leeds remain sharp and dangerous. Against United, expect Arthur's men to show their true colors."

Arthur liked that one much better. He even clipped the piece out and waved it around the team hotel, telling the players, "See? Someone gets it. At least one paper isn't trying to bury us alive."

The stage was set. Leeds United vs Manchester United. Two giants, one stadium, and the memory of last season's title race looming over everything.

And Arthur, standing in the middle of it all, was already plotting how to silence Old Trafford the same way he had silenced Rome.