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Arthur leaned back on the sofa in his office, still swirling the aftertaste of Raiola's earlier words in his head. His brow lifted slightly in surprise, though there was also that unmistakable grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh? So soon? When will it be announced?" Arthur asked, almost blurting it out. The tone was casual, but his eyes betrayed genuine surprise.
Transfers were one of those things Arthur never stopped monitoring. It was April, and the season was still raging on. Normally, big transfer business didn't get plastered all over the headlines until the sumr window swung open in July. But football never followed ordinary rules—especially when gastars were involved. If two clubs were already in agreent and the player himself nodded along, the announcent could co early. And for listed clubs? A shiny headline signing was as good as pumping a little adrenaline into their stock price.
Raiola, with his usual knowing smile, shook his head gently. "Not so fast, Mr. Arthur. Henry's personal treatnt is basically ironed out now, that part's settled. But the exact transfer fee? That's still on the table. Barcelona and Arsenal are… negotiating."
Arthur snorted, leaning forward as though about to poke Raiola's belly just to emphasize his point. "Tsk! Classic Wenger. The man's tighter than the lid on a jam jar. Henry's got one year left on his deal—just one! And he's still trying to play hardball? Careful he doesn't end up with nothing but regrets!"
He chuckled, the kind of laugh that was sharp but carried an edge of admiration for Wenger's stubbornness.
Raiola nodded, not disagreeing. In truth, he thought Arthur was spot on. But Wenger was Wenger, and Raiola wasn't about to start tearing into another manager while talking to Arthur. He simply let out that professional smile, a knowing one, while keeping his thoughts tucked safely behind his lips.
Arthur waved his hand as if brushing Henry's case aside. "Alright, so Barcelona's got their claws in him. But you didn't just fly up to Leeds to gossip about Thierry, did you, Mino? Co on, admit it—who from my academy are you here sniffing around for? Which poor lad have you co to stuff into your suitcase this ti?"
The grin on Arthur's face widened as he spoke. It wasn't entirely a joke. Since Arthur had arrived at Leeds, his academy was buzzing with talent like a disturbed beehive, and agents were forever circling. Among them, Raiola had practically set up camp. Half the prospects seed to have his fingerprints on their contracts. To be fair, he'd done a damn good job looking after those lads. Word had spread, and his reputation had ballooned along with his waistline.
But this ti, Raiola raised both hands like a man accused of stealing biscuits. "Mr. Arthur, you've got it wrong again. Honestly, you've misunderstood . I'm on my way to Brazil. It just so happened that Alan ntioned there was so progress on that other matter, so I thought I'd stop in to talk to you face-to-face. Besides"—his smile softened slightly—"it's been a while since we've caught up, hasn't it?"
Arthur's eyebrow arched. "Brazil?"
The word instantly pricked his curiosity. He leaned back and tapped his fingers on the armrest. In his head, he ticked through Raiola's long list of clients. Italians, Dutchn, Swedes… but Brazilians? None ca to mind. And knowing Raiola, the fat man wasn't about to drag himself all the way across the Atlantic without sniffing out so kind of golden opportunity.
His grin sharpened. "Mino, you rascal. You didn't tell which wonderkid you've found, did you? Planning to sneak into Rio, scoop up so future world-beater, and keep out of the loop?"
The accusation was delivered half in jest, half in warning. Arthur's eyes glead as if to say: I'll find out anyway, so spill it.
Raiola threw his head back with a helpless laugh, though it ca out more like a wheeze. He waved his plump hands again, his belly jiggling with the effort. "Mr. Arthur, I swear, not this ti. Honestly. I'm not flying all that way to watch so teenager kick a ball on a beach. This trip isn't about a kid at all. It's about… well, let's call it a rescue mission. I'm going to Brazil to help a forr genius who's nearly wasted away."
Arthur sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. "Forr genius? And nearly wasted? Now that sounds juicy. Go on then, don't leave hanging."
Raiola leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, suddenly looking more like a storyteller than an agent. "Mr. Arthur, do you know Gilmar Rinaldi?"
Arthur blinked, the na drawing a blank. He shook his head. "Nope. Should I?"
"He's an old friend of mine," Raiola explained warmly. "Another agent, a good one. Back before I really took off, Gilmar helped more than anyone else in my career. A proper friend. Recently, he told he's about to take up a role with the Brazilian Football Association. And because of that, he wanted to hand over one of his clients to ."
Arthur tilted his head, intrigued now. "Hand over a client? Must be soone big if you're grinning like a cat that just found the cream."
Raiola's smile widened. "You definitely know him. In fact, the whole football world knows him." He let the suspense hang for just a mont, then dropped the na. "Inter Milan's Brazilian striker… Adriano."
Arthur almost leapt off the sofa. "You've got to be kidding !"
The words burst out of him before he could catch them. Adriano? The Adriano? His mind reeled, the image flashing instantly to the powerhouse forward—the "Emperor" of Inter Milan, the man who could bully defenders like a wrecking ball and blast shots as if the ball had a personal vendetta against the net.
Arthur stared at Raiola, wide-eyed, then let out an incredulous laugh. "Bloody hell, Mino! You lucky fat bastard. Out of all the washed-up geniuses in the world, you stumble into the Emperor himself!"
He leaned back, still shaking his head in disbelief. The emperor who had fallen from grace… but make no mistake, he was still the Emperor of Inter Milan.
Arthur wasn't exactly what you'd call a fanboy of the Brazilian, but co on—who in football didn't feel a pang of sadness every ti his na ca up? This wasn't so random striker; this was the man who once looked like he could rule world football. The raw power, the rocket left foot, the way defenders bounced off him like kids running into a moving bus. He had everything.
But then fate, cruel as ever, took his father away at the very peak of his career. And from that mont, Adriano's story turned from triumph to tragedy. Alcohol, depression, endless nights lost in grief—he drifted through Italy like a falling star, bright one second, gone the next.
Arthur let out a low whistle, almost like he was trying to steady his own pulse. "Bloody hell… Adriano…"
Raiola arched an eyebrow at him, amused at Arthur's sudden transformation from bored gossip-listener to maniacal treasure-hunter.
Arthur, ignoring him, shot up from the sofa like a spring-loaded jack-in-the-box. He half-ran, half-tripped toward his computer desk, smacking the mouse awake with a loud clatter. "No, no, no, I need to see this myself. Can't just take your word for it, Mino. Adriano? The Emperor? The son of azza?!" He muttered frantically as he typed.
The screen lit up, search results spilling over, and soon Adriano's photo filled the display. The once-unstoppable Brazilian striker stared back at him, looking far older and heavier than he should have at twenty-five.
And then it ca—his system, as usual, decided to kick in, overlaying cold hard numbers right over Adriano's face.
[Adriano Leite Ribeiro]
[Age]: 25
[Offensive Threat]: 94
[Defensive Strength]: 23
[Body Balance]: 94
[Long Pass Accuracy]: 68
[Short Pass Accuracy]: 76
[Shooting Accuracy]: 87
[Dribbling Accuracy]: 86
[Shooting Skills]: 88
[Speed/Top Speed]: 88 / 90
[Injury Tolerance]: B
[Talent]: S
[Current Ga Status]: Very poor (affected by off-field factors and mild depression, all attributes decreased by 50%)
[Player Evaluation]: Son of azza, king of Inter Milan, an all-around striker rarely seen in a century. A perfect blend of speed and strength, violent aesthetics mixed with pure skill. Once a beast who could demolish defenses, now crippled by grief and depression. If not helped, he will beco one of the greatest tragedies in football.
[Comprehensive Assessnt]: A (currently downgraded to C-)
Arthur leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes for a mont, letting it all sink in.
"Damn it," he muttered softly. "It's exactly like I thought… He's right at the edge of the cliff."
Everything lined up with Raiola's words. Adriano was at his lowest point, and if Arthur's mory served him right, this was the sumr when he'd finally vanish from Europe's big stage.
Arthur's fingers drumd against his chin as he thought furiously. Could he intercept this? Could he sohow pull Adriano back from the abyss and bring him to Leeds?
And then his mind flashed back to sothing he had tucked away earlier: the injury recovery card he'd earned in his last mission. Originally, he had been saving it for Kaka. Everyone knew Kaka would suffer a brutal injury that nearly ruined his career. That card was ant to save him.
But then—Arthur smirked faintly—things had changed. Kaka was basically confird to leave AC Milan this sumr. And once he left, Arthur had no guarantee the sa injury would strike him at all. The tiline wasn't so rigid anymore.
On the other hand, Adriano wasn't "maybe injured." Adriano was absolutely, without a doubt, in pieces. His body wasn't shattered, but his spirit was. Depression, alcohol, confidence ripped to shreds. His stats were halved across the board. That recovery card was practically made for a man like him.
Arthur sat upright now, the idea blazing in his head like a neon sign. Adriano. Leeds United.
He actually chuckled to himself, imagining the scene. "Oh God, if I pull this off…"
Just the thought of his front line sent shivers down his spine. Ibrahimović. Torres. Adriano. And behind them—Reus, Podolski. Plus the younger guns like Džeko and Vardy waiting in the wings, hungry for minutes.
It was obscene. A lineup so stacked it would give even the greats nightmares. He didn't know if it would be enough to dominate all of Europe imdiately, but in the Premier League? They'd be terrifying.
Arthur smirked wider, leaning back in his chair and picturing defenders across England waking up in cold sweats at the thought of trying to deal with his new monster trio. Torres darting like a spear, Ibra smashing through with arrogance, and Adriano—revived Adriano—blasting cannons from outside the box.
"Ha! If this works," Arthur muttered with a gleam in his eyes, "we won't just walk through the league… we'll bloody strut sideways like a crab."
The image of Leeds United strutting arrogantly through the Premier League like a crab on the beach made him laugh out loud, earning a confused glance from Raiola, who was still sitting there, probably wondering if Arthur had lost his mind.
But Arthur didn't care. His brain was racing faster than a Torres sprint. The opportunity was too good. Adriano wasn't just a fallen genius—he was the genius, and Arthur had the one lifeline that might just pull him back.
For the first ti in a long while, Arthur wasn't just excited. He was absolutely buzzing.
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