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Chapter 236: The Crowning Match 7
🕑 Added 2025-11-08 20:10:02 +0000 UTCLondon at night was alive — neon lights flickering, crowds bustling, the usual hum of city life filling the air.
But in North London, time seemed to stop.
Cars lined both sides of the streets, engines off. Groups of people stood huddled around their phones, faces illuminated by the glow of the screen.
Inside pubs and bars, not a soul moved. Everyone’s eyes were locked on the television. If it weren’t for the commentary and the shifting camera angles, you might’ve thought the whole world had frozen.
All eyes were fixed on the ball — soaring toward Chelsea’s penalty area. Hearts thumped, breaths caught.
Martin Taylor’s voice carried the tension of the moment.
“Cazorla’s over the ball… one of the best set-piece takers in the league. Can he be the one to bring Arsenal back into this title race?”
Alan Smith added, “He’s got the technique, the precision… all he needs now is that perfect delivery.”
Cazorla ran up — struck the ball — and chaos erupted inside the box.
“The ball’s in!” Taylor shouted. “Far post!”
And then came the explosion.
“GOAL!!!”
“Goal! Goal! Goal! It’s Kai!!! It’s Kai again! Always Kai!”
“He’s done it! A towering header over Azpilicueta — and Arsenal are level in the 70th minute!”
“At the crucial moment, when Arsenal needed a saviour, Kai steps up once again!”
“The man in the number 4 shirt — the heartbeat of this side — turns the tide at the Emirates!”
As Taylor’s voice peaked, North London erupted.
A wave of sound rolled through the streets like thunder — cheers, laughter, horns blaring in unison.
Outside the bars, fans threw their arms into the air, screaming with disbelief and pure joy.
Car horns blared rhythmically; people hugged strangers; some were already crying.
Inside, beer flew everywhere as fans jumped and shouted, spinning around in euphoria.
In that moment, North London was alive — not with noise, but with pride.
At the Emirates, the roar was deafening.
Thousands of fans leapt to their feet, screaming until their throats burned, clapping until their palms stung red.
And out on the pitch, Kai ran along the touchline, fists pumping, shouting to the crowd:
“Come on! Let’s hear it!”
He waved both arms upward, urging the stands to explode with him.
Then he stopped — chest heaving, eyes fierce — and raised his hands high, a war cry on his lips.
In that instant, he looked untouchable.
A warrior draped in red and white.
The Emirates trembled under the sound of his name:
“Kai! Kai! Kai!”
The chant rolled through the stands, echoing across the pitch like a storm.
Martin Taylor could barely contain himself. “Oh my word, Kai! What a moment! What a header!”
Alan Smith laughed breathlessly. “I’ve run out of words, Martin. Every time you think he’s done enough — he goes and does that!”
“When everyone else had lost hope,” Taylor continued, “Kai stood tall! That’s leadership, that’s heart, that’s Arsenal!”
Smith added. “He’s dragged his team back into the title fight — and against Chelsea, of all teams!”
The Emirates roared again, a wave of emotion washing over every corner of the stadium.
This was the Premier League at its finest.
A clash between giants — and once again, it was Kai who stood tallest.
In a match of this magnitude, Kai’s performance was beyond words — simply extraordinary.
Martin Taylor tried to steady his tone. “That was clearly a rehearsed move. Walcott’s sudden dart into the box drew Terry and Cahill out of position!”
Alan Smith picked up, excitement creeping into his voice. “And while everyone’s eyes were fixed on that commotion, Kai quietly drifted to the far post — completely unmarked!”
“And what about the delivery?” Taylor added. “Cazorla’s cross was inch-perfect — wicked pace, lovely curve. That’s pure class.”
Smith nodded. “Now this is Arsenal — showing the composure and creativity of a true top side!”
Down on the touchline, the Arsenal bench exploded.
Coaches, substitutes — everyone jumped to their feet. Even Wenger, the ever-calm professor, couldn’t hold back.
He thrust both arms into the air, leaned forward, and roared, veins standing out on his neck.
Kai’s goal had come out of nowhere — a flash of instinct, timing, and courage.
For Wenger, the moment carried extra weight.
He thought back to that trip to Portugal in 2011, when he’d first spotted the young midfielder. Eight hundred thousand euros — a quiet signing, barely noticed by the press.
And now? That same player was worth a hundred times more, both in value and importance.
Behind him, Pat Rice was clapping and smiling — calm amid the chaos.
If there was one person who believed in Kai without hesitation, it was Pat.
He’d seen him grow, trained him, pushed him — and watched him turn potential into something special.
People called Kai a genius, but Pat knew better.
Genius wasn’t the right word. What they were witnessing was the product of relentless, exhausting work — endless hours on the training ground, sweat and repetition, the kind of effort no one else saw.
Kai wasn’t blessed — he was built.
And now, all that work had crystallized in this moment.
.
The Emirates shook as over 60,000 voices thundered his name.
"Ohhhhhh Kai, Kai, he’s our pride!
Born to fight in red and white!
Pass or strike, he makes 'em cry,
Arsenal's star—our boy Kai!"
(clap-clap, clap-clap-clap)
"Our boy Kai!"
(clap-clap, clap-clap-clap)
"Our boy Kai!
For every Arsenal supporter in that stadium, he was the hero — the heartbeat of their club.
.
Mourinho stood frozen, staring at the pitch in disbelief.
The roar from the stands hit him like a wave.
He thought the game was done.
He thought Arsenal were finished.
But Kai had dragged them back from the brink — first with an assist, now with a header that tore Chelsea’s defensive plan to pieces.
“How is he there?” Mourinho muttered. “How does he do that?”
He clenched his jaw, a flicker of frustration flashing across his face.
Why doesn’t he play for me?
All his meticulous counter-attacking patterns — undone by that same player. Twice.
Twenty-five minutes still to play.
Mourinho’s expression hardened as he barked orders: “Torres! Salah! Warm up!”
On the opposite side, Wenger was already responding.
“Ramsey! Wilshere! Get ready!”
Their eyes met across the technical area — two generals locked in battle.
Neither spoke.
A cold snort from each, and both turned away, ready for the next phase of war.
