The match ultimately went to a penalty shootout.
By the time Arthur, as the fifth penalty taker, sealed the victory with a shot that looked feeble yet somehow curled perfectly inside the post and into the side netting, Manager Harrison had become completely numb.
At the post-match press conference, a reporter pointedly asked, "Manager Harrison, do you believe Arthur King's two consecutive goals were purely down to luck? Will you continue to utilize such an… 'opportunist'?"
Harrison's plump face twitched. He grabbed the bottle of water in front of him, took a large gulp, and then replied with a tone of sheer resignation, "Luck? If luck brings victory every single match, I'll take it. Arthur will start in the next league game."
His statement caused an uproar.
Harrison's decision also sent shockwaves through the team.
On the training ground, Arthur became the most conspicuous presence.
While his teammates executed fluid passing drills, Arthur's passes missed their mark eight times out of ten. During dribbling exercises, his movements remained as stiff as someone in physiotherapy.
He was still the worst technical player on the pitch. That much hadn't changed.
But everyone's attitude had.
The way his teammates looked at him shifted from pure mockery to a complex mix of curiosity, jealousy, and a hint of… awe?
They would instinctively pass the ball to Arthur and then immediately scatter, as if waiting for a miracle to happen. The result was usually an awkward first touch from Arthur, leading to a round of laughter.
Yet, during intra-squad scrimmages, whichever side Arthur was on always seemed to win.
Because he always found a way to score.
Sometimes, an opposition defender would inexplicably scuff a clearance straight to his feet, and he'd only need to stick out a boot.
Other times, his wildly misplaced long-range shot would cannon off the crossbar, bounce down onto the goalkeeper's back, and trickle over the line.
Manager Harrison watched from the sidelines, feeling a pain in his liver.
He called Arthur into his office multiple times after training, trying to explain this phenomenon from scientific, metaphysical, or any other angle he could think of. Arthur would just scratch his head, his handsome and innocent face a picture of confusion, and say, "Gaffer, I don't know. I just try to kick it towards the goal."
Harrison eventually gave up.
The first league match arrived. Brambleford Wanderers were at home.
Harrison kept his promise. Arthur's name was prominently featured in the starting eleven, playing as the central striker.
Once the game began, Arthur's performance on the pitch was nothing short of a disaster.
He was like a twelfth man for the opposition's defense.
A teammate would play a perfectly weighted through ball, and Arthur would make a great run… only to let the ball roll past him and out for a goal kick.
He received a cross in the box and connected with a powerful header… directing the ball back towards his own half.
The fans in the stands went from initial anticipation, to disappointment, to outright fury.
"Get him off, Harrison!"
"What is that waste of space even doing on the pitch?"
Harrison sat on the bench, his face dark, his fists clenched white. He swore that if Arthur didn't score by halftime, he'd sub him off at the break and make him a permanent fixture on the bench.
The forty-third minute of the first half arrived. The score was still 0-0.
The Wanderers won a corner.
The ball came in, causing chaos in the box. Arthur was pinned by the opposition centre-back, unable to even jump.
The ball was headed clear.
Just as everyone thought the attack was over, the Wanderers' full-back met the clearance on the edge of the area with a thunderous volley!
The shot was powerful, but it smashed into the back of their own attacking midfielder, deflecting wildly.
In the ensuing melee, no one could track the ball's trajectory.
All they heard was a loud THUMP as the ball flew perfectly and slammed into the face of Arthur, who was being shoved and stumbling backward by a defender!
Arthur felt his nose explode in pain, stars dancing before his eyes as he fell flat on his back.
But the ball that had smashed into his face changed direction like a precision-guided missile, arcing in an impossible angle into the top corner of the net!
The goalkeeper stood rooted to the spot, motionless, his eyes glazed over.
Another goal.
The entire ground fell into that familiar, eerie silence.
A few seconds later, the home fans erupted into deafening cheers!
Arthur lay on the ground, clutching his bleeding nose, listening to the system's prompt in his ear and the celebratory slaps and shouts from his teammates rushing over. He couldn't help but grin.
It hurt like hell, but this feeling… was absolutely fucking brilliant!
After this match, the name "Arthur King" began to spread through the lower leagues of English football like a virus.
His highlight reels were shared frantically on fan forums, each clip packed with comedic moments and points of disbelief.
"Look! He's miscontrolled another one-on-one by five yards!"
"Hahaha! This time he passed it straight to the corner flag!"
"Here it is! The iconic moment! The face-goal!"
Opponents began to "study" him.
Before matches, opposing managers would repeatedly play clips of Arthur's "catastrophic" performances and "miraculous" goals in tactical meetings, saying with utmost seriousness, "Gentlemen, mark him! Do not give him any chance for 'luck'!"
The players treated him like a major threat.
They would assign three or four players to mark him in the box, even when he didn't have the ball.
They would follow him step-for-step, even if he was just wandering around the pitch.
They even started checking the turf around him before taking shots, terrified of another freak accident.
It was all useless.
Arthur's "Guaranteed Goal" rule seemed unbreakable.
In the second league match, an opposition defender pulled him down in the box. Just as the referee was about to award a penalty, the ball Arthur had unintentionally kicked as he fell rolled slowly into the net. Goal stands.
In the third league match, he shanked a shot towards an advertising board. A groundskeeper happened to be walking behind it, got hit by the ball, and it rebounded into the empty net.
…
Game after game.
Brambleford Wanderers, a team that had been fighting relegation just last season, went on an incredible winning streak, climbing the table with every victory.
And Arthur King, with his steady rate of a goal per game, firmly planted himself at the top of the scoring charts.
The media's tone did a complete one-eighty.
From "Lucky Waste of Space" to "Opportunist," they now coined a new nickname for Arthur—one filled with teasing yet carrying a hint of awe.
The sports headline of The Sun blared in massive font:
[Football's Oddity is Born! Beware the 'Mudslide' from England's Eighth Tier!]
The accompanying photo showed Arthur being celebrated by his laughing-yet-crying teammates after a goal, while in the background, the opposing manager was angrily smashing his战术board on the ground.
Amid doubt and astonishment, Arthur had step-by-step become the team's undeniable "savior."
He looked at the new nickname in the paper and smiled.
Mudslide?
Sounded… pretty cool.
Unbeknownst to him, in the higher echelons of the football world, scouts had already delivered reports—featuring "catastrophic technical ratings" paired with "world-class goal efficiency"—to the desks of major clubs.
A much larger storm was brewing.