GRANDMAESTA_30

UPDATE

Hey everyone, this is Grandmaesta_30.

I’m really sorry to say there won’t be any chapters today. Over the past few weeks, I haven’t been feeling well. Usually, I try to recover quickly and get back to doing what I love — bringing you chapters — but this time, it’s different.

I’m currently going through a sickle cell crisis, and it has affected my leg. For those who may not know, my illness causes my red blood cells to become crescent-shaped, which makes it hard for blood to flow properly through my vessels. The result is severe pain — and right now, I’m feeling it deeply.

This message isn’t typed; I’m using my voice because the pain makes it difficult to do much else. I can’t say exactly when I’ll be back, but I’m hopeful that within a week, I’ll be feeling much better.

I just wanted to keep you all updated and thank you for your support and understanding. Take care of yourselves, stay healthy, and I’ll see you soon.

Peace out,

everyone.

Chapter 236: The Crowning Match 7

London 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.

Chapter 235: The Crowning Match 6

The usually buzzing Emirates Stadium had fallen eerily quiet. Arsenal fans were biting their nails, their tension thick in the air.

Two quick goals conceded had completely killed the early optimism. Now, the atmosphere was filled with anxiety.

Everyone in red knew exactly what was at stake — lose this, and their title hopes were as good as gone.

Arsenal had never been famous for resilience — even their own fans admitted that much.

Once they fell behind, they seemed to lose their rhythm, their belief. It was a long-standing flaw, the reason their performances often crumbled when the tide turned.

For Arsenal, it was always one of two extremes: either they launched a furious comeback and tore the opponent apart, or they simply faded away.

Those miracle nights fans loved to talk about? They rarely belonged to Arsenal.

Even though this version of the team had shown flashes of grit recently, the old perceptions were hard to shake off.

“Bloody hell!”

Meadows clenched and unclenched his fists, his jaw tight.

Just when they were so close to a title… they were falling apart, and at home, of all places. He hadn’t seen that coming.

Beside him, Billy was gnawing at his fingers — or what was left of them. His nails were shredded down to splinters, but he didn’t even notice. That was how much this meant.

The stands stayed silent. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the pitch, searching for someone to believe in.

And then, almost instinctively, the crowd’s gaze drifted toward one number.

Number 4.

“Kai will turn this around! Just believe!” someone shouted from the stands — but even that sounded more like hope than conviction.

Yes, Kai had rescued them countless times before. But could he do it again?

Luck didn’t always smile twice.

“What I’d give for Suarez right now…”

“Oh, come on, just once — give us this title!”

“This is torture!”

Complaints rippled through the stands. Arsenal fans hated this feeling — being behind, helpless, doubting their own side.

And against Chelsea, of all teams.

Their anxiety deepened.

On the pitch, Arsenal pressed on. After releasing the ball, Kai glanced toward the crowd.

The once-deafening roar had died to a suffocating silence.

He knew this problem well. Ever since joining Arsenal, he had sensed it.

Unlike the other European giants, Arsenal — still without a Champions League trophy — carried the weight of being a pseudo-elite.

Yes, they looked the part, but deep down, there was insecurity.

That’s why the fans shouted about being a big club— not from pride, but from the need to believe it.

For Kai, the true hallmark of an elite side wasn’t just winning — it was courage. The ability to find hope when there seemed to be none.

And that was what Arsenal lacked.

Could that spirit be built? Kai didn’t know. But he believed it could grow — one victory at a time.

He took a deep breath. The atmosphere was stifling; something had to change.

“Forward!”

“Make the run!”

“Too slow — move it!”

“Back! Reset!”

The shouts on the pitch were desperate now. Faces were tight, voices strained.

Anxiety was everywhere.

Chelsea’s defense felt like a wall — every move was stopped cold.

Shots came, but they were rushed, forced.

And the players… they were exhausted.

This game felt heavier than any before — the kind of fatigue that seeps into your bones.

It was as if the grind of an entire season had come crashing down at once. Legs felt like lead, runs grew shorter, bodies slower.

Rosický took a pass from Cazorla, turned, and drove forward.

It wasn’t the smartest choice, but he had no intention of backing down.

If he could just beat Ivanović, Arsenal might finally crack Chelsea’s shape.

He wanted to be the spark.

He’d had enough of empty seasons. Since joining in 2006, he’d watched Arsenal slip year by year. The FA Cup last season had been nice, but it wasn’t the league title.

This — right here — was their best shot in years.

He couldn’t let it slip.

So he went for it.

Bump!

Just as Rosicky pushed forward, Ivanović came crashing in with a hard slide.

No hesitation, no mercy. He didn’t even let Rosicky plant his foot.

Chelsea weren’t going to let Arsenal off the hook. Not tonight.

“Damn it!”

Rosicky slammed the turf and roared in frustration.

The anxiety was spreading fast.

Kai tried to rally them, shouting to calm things down, but it was useless.

Everyone wanted to be the hero. Everyone wanted to break through on their own.

Good intentions — but it was tearing the team apart.

Martin Taylor’s voice came through the broadcast, sharp with concern.

“The Gunners are losing their heads here. Everyone’s trying to do it alone — they can’t even see the teammates around them anymore.”

Alan Smith nodded beside him.

“Exactly, Martin. This isn’t about effort now; it’s about composure. Arsenal need someone to take charge — and right now, all eyes are on Kai.”

.

Cooperation

Teamwork

That’s the foundation of the Gunners’ success — and they can’t afford to throw it all away now.

Seeing Arsenal’s players getting carried away with reckless forward runs, Billy shifted his gaze toward Wenger, as if expecting the Frenchman to intervene.

Wenger, unable to sit still any longer, stepped up to the touchline, shouting out instructions.

He wanted to calm his players down, to rein in this wild, headlong attacking play — but Arsenal were like a runaway car at full throttle, impossible to stop once they’d picked up speed.

Though his posture appeared calm, Wenger’s eyes were sharp — constantly analyzing, adjusting.

Kai’s gaze drifted toward Azpilicueta.

The Spanish full-back stood at 178 centimeters — solid but hardly dominant in the air.

Kai knew if he timed his leap right, he could win that duel.

But only if someone managed to distract Terry first.

He turned and met Walcott’s eyes.

A subtle nod toward the penalty area was all it took.

Walcott hesitated for a heartbeat — uncertain, but trusting — then made his move into the box.

Just as planned, Terry was now caught between Walcott and Podolski.

Kai exhaled slowly, preparing himself.

“Set piece, taken by Cazorla… though without Mertesacker, Arsenal have lost a big aerial presence,” said Martin Taylor.

Alan Smith replied with a note of concern, “Yeah, you look at the lineup now — Podolski, Walcott, Rosický — not exactly giants, are they? Especially against Terry and Cahill.”

Cazorla glanced at the referee, who was raising the whistle to his lips. He still hadn’t seen a clear route — until he noticed a hand quietly lifted at the far post.

Cazorla’s eyes lit up. The whistle blew — and he whipped the ball in instantly.

It curled toward the penalty area, fast and low, just skimming above the crowd of players.

Walcott and Podolski’s runs drew Terry and Cahill forward.

By the time the two center-backs realized the cross had flown over them, it was too late.

“Back post!” Terry shouted, twisting around.

Azpilicueta followed the flight of the ball — then froze as a figure came charging in.

He tried to jump, but his reaction came a fraction too late, his leap too low.

Kai soared above him — towering, balanced, powerful — his body angling mid-air as he met the ball cleanly with his forehead.

Bang!

The strike thundered like a cannon, rocketing into the back of the net.

Whoosh!

The sound of the ball smashing into the goal was followed by a stunned, collective silence across the Emirates.

For a moment, not even a breath — just the echo of the net rippling and the image of Kai, suspended in the air, arms outstretched in triumph.

Chapter 437: All-Star Weekend 2

February 25th,2012

All-Star Weekend, Amway Center, Orlando.

Lin Yi wasn’t in any individual events this year, so for once, he could sit back and just enjoy the show. After two years of being part of the entertainment, it felt kind of nice to be a spectator.

At least, that was the plan—until a giant hand suddenly landed on his head.

Big Yao grinned as he took the seat beside him, rubbing Lin Yi’s head like he was polishing a trophy. He didn’t stop for a solid thirty seconds.

Lin Yi: “…”

Big Yao: awkward smile.jpg.

Lin Yi looked toward the ceiling, speechless. He’d been relieved that Duncan wasn’t playing this year, thinking he’d finally escaped the annual rub Lin’s head tradition. But apparently, fate had other plans.

They were relentless. Every player who stopped to greet him just had to mess up his hair.

Gallinari was the worst offender.

“Lin, you could actually make money off this,” Gallo said with a smirk.

“Huh?”

“Here—take a hundred.”

He gave Lin’s head a quick pat, tossed a $100 bill on the floor, and strolled off.

Lin Yi: “…”

So this is what despair feels like.

What Lin didn’t realize was that on the other side of the court, Durant was watching all this, feeling a little left out.

Why doesn’t anyone say hi? He thought gloomily.

To be fair, he wasn’t exactly blending in tonight. At Westbrook’s brilliant suggestion, Durant had shown up in a bright pink suit. During his camera close-up, he even struck two poses—confidently, perhaps too confidently.

“I finally get why his popularity can’t touch yours,” Paul said, walking back after tossing his own bag in the trash.

Lin Yi raised a brow. “Yeah?”

Paul patted his chest. “Being shabby isn’t a crime, but being shabby and dressing to offend everyone? That’s a talent.”

Good thing Durant was sitting far away. Otherwise, Paul’s comment might’ve turned the All-Star Game into the All-Star Fight Night.

This year’s All-Star Game wasn’t quite as thrilling as the Dallas or L.A. editions, and the locals were feeling it—especially those who’d hoped to make a small fortune off the weekend hype.

As the cameras kept cutting to Lin Yi in the stands, fans started joking online that Lin's not participating in the competitions caused it not to be thrilling.

And the reason was the Lockout.

If there hadn’t been a lockout, Lin wouldn’t have skipped the Dunk Contest, and viewership wouldn’t have dipped.

But honestly, few felt sorry for Orlando. This was the same city whose media had spent months bashing Dwight Howard—so much that fans nearly voted him out of his own hometown All-Star Game.

Many fans said, "Why hold back with someone like Howard?" He had the body of a beast but the mindset of a clown.

Meanwhile, LeBron—say what you want—never blamed coaches or teammates. When he joined Wade and Bosh, that wasn’t forming a super team. That was brotherhood basketball.

And when he went back to Cleveland? That wasn’t chasing assets. That was hometown basketball.

Sure, Kyrie left later… but details, details.

The point is, many thought Howard deserved the criticism.

Sadly, even scolding him couldn’t wake him up from his happy-go-lucky beast phase. He wasn’t just behind Shaq in skill—he lacked the hunger, too.

The first event of the night was the Shooting Stars Challenge.

This year, Yao represented the Texas team, and he absolutely nailed it—sinking two half-court shots in both rounds. Lin Yi cheered as Big Yao smiled, hoisting the trophy like a giant kid.

“That was awesome!” Lin Yi said, giving him a thumbs-up.

“Amazing? Please,” Yao chuckled. “It’s just an exhibition.”

Lin Yi clicked his tongue. “Fine, enjoy your humility, champ.”

Next up was the Skills Challenge.

Lin Yi, last year’s winner, wasn’t competing—but his clone, DeMarcus Cousins, was. The big guy had gone around bragging to the guards beforehand that big men could handle skills, too.

That… didn’t age well.

Cousins fumbled in the prelims, failed to advance, and looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. Meanwhile, Tony Parker quietly slipped through and won the whole thing with composure and precision.

Watching from the sidelines, Lin Yi buried his face in his hands.

Kenny Smith laughed from the commentary table.
“Lin’s probably thinking: ‘DeMarcus, are you a contestant or a comedian?’”

Cousins sulked, but Lin Yi knew it wasn’t all bad—his fundamentals were solid. He just needed more composure. That’s what separated Parker from the younger guys like Kyrie Irving. When Kyrie made a mistake, he panicked. Parker just adjusted and finished strong.

The night’s highlight was the Three-Point Contest. Durant—now suitless—battled Kevin Love in a tense showdown.

Both tied with 16 points in the final, forcing a tiebreaker. Love hit clutch after clutch to take the title, earning high praise from analysts.

This version of Love was a beast: 20 points, 15 rebounds, 3 assists per game—Garnett-like numbers with a modern twist.

Then came the Dunk Contest… and let’s just say, it was painful.

Barkley sighed into the mic, “Man, this is rough. Forget perfect scores—forty would be generous tonight.”

Lin Yi, watching from his seat, was secretly pleased.

The worse the dunks, the more people would miss him.

After all, Carter’s 2000 performance still lived rent-free in fans’ memories. Lin Yi knew what he was doing—build the legend, let the nostalgia do the rest.

So when Jeremy Evans from Utah lifted the trophy to a chorus of muted applause mixed with boos, Lin Yi quietly stood up and slipped out of the arena.

He had an appointment with ESPN’s Insider.

Time to share his thoughts on what he just saw.

...

Even before the 2012 All-Star Game tipped off in Orlando, the weekend was already taking heat online.

Fans were fuming — especially about the Slam Dunk Contest. Many locals said they showed up to the Amway Center buzzing with excitement, only to sit through one of the weakest dunk shows they’d ever seen.

Lin Yi wasn’t surprised. He knew this stretch of All-Star history was infamous for its disappointing dunk contests. The NBA had tried tweaking the format, changing the judging, even adding gimmicks — but nothing worked. It wouldn’t be until a certain Zach LaVine showed up in the future that the event would truly catch fire again.

Right now, though, Commissioner David Stern was practically pulling his hair out. He knew most fans came for the Dunk Contest.

But what could he do? Lin Yi had saved the show two years in a row — you couldn’t expect him to carry it forever.

Poor Jeremy Evans. The Jazz rookie had barely lifted the trophy before the entire arena was chanting “Refund! Refund!” His big moment turned into a nightmare, all because Lin Yi’s legendary performances in past years had set the bar absurdly high.

...

“Lin, what do you think about the fans booing Evans after the dunk contest?” asked ESPN’s Tom, who was already waiting for him in the parking lot. Lin Yi climbed into Tom’s tiny Beetle, folding his tall frame awkwardly, and chuckled.

“I think people are being too harsh. Honestly, Evans did fine,” Lin said. “The 2012 contest just… wasn’t great overall. He wasn’t bad; the others were just worse.”

Tom smiled. “A lot of people think the drop in All-Star attention this year has to do with you not competing. Any thoughts on that?”

“Huh? I’m not that powerful,” Lin replied, grinning. “Fans don’t all show up just to see me, right? I think there are plenty of reasons. But if fans really want me back in the dunk contest… well, I’ll seriously think about it.”

Lin didn’t mind taking the blame. In fact, he kind of liked it.

If ratings drop because I didn’t show up, he thought, then maybe that just proves I’m doing something right.

Sure, the lockout had hurt viewership more than anything else, but Lin didn’t mind carrying the league’s fall guy tag. After all, if someone had to be blamed, why not him?

Tom raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you’d actually come back for it?”

“Serious — more real than a heart attack,” Lin said with a grin. He really was considering it. Most of his best ideas had already been used, but he still had a few streetball tricks left in the bag. And, honestly, judging from recent competitions, he didn’t see anyone capable of matching him anyway.

Lin knew how powerful the dunk contest could be. His meteoric rise in popularity these past two years had a lot to do with those nights in Dallas and Los Angeles.

Put simply: dunk contests make stars. Vince Carter proved it in 2000 — that single performance made him immortal. Even years later, people still talked about it. And Lin wanted that same kind of legacy.

This was a shortened season, and he’d been pacing himself. But if he managed to repeat as MVP this year, a third straight MVP next season would be history-making. Only Bill Russell, Chamberlain, and Larry Legend himself, Bird, had ever done it in his past life.

If Lin wanted to be considered one of the greatest ever, his résumé had to be outrageous. Three straight MVPs would defy expectations.

He knew the politics behind it, too. The league couldn’t just hand him another MVP without backlash. If he really went three-for-three, it would crown him as one of the top five players in NBA history, maybe higher. That was a lot for the NBA to sign off on.

But Lin had never been afraid of a challenge. In fact, he thrived on it.

If the NBA is a movie, he thought, I don’t just want to act in it — I want to direct it.

For him, greatness wasn’t about waiting for history to be written — it was about writing it himself.

...

As soon as the All-Star events wrapped up on the 25th, and the internet began roasting the weekend, ESPN dropped a bomb: Lin Yi was seriously considering returning to the Slam Dunk Contest next year.

The story blew up instantly.

David Stern, who had been mentally drained all weekend, suddenly felt alive again.

“Get me up,” he said to his staff. “I’ve got ten more years in me!”

To him, Lin Yi wasn’t just a superstar — he was a godsend. The Dallas All-Star weekend had been a global spectacle. Los Angeles broke records. And now, just one hint from Lin, and suddenly, fans were hyped again. Stern knew the truth: attention equals money.

The Knicks’ championship the previous year had already made them the most valuable franchise in North America — proof of what star power could do. Stern smiled. Basketball was king again.

Within hours, Lin Yi’s Twitter exploded. Traffic didn’t just spike — it multiplied. Fans flooded his mentions, begging him to confirm. It was like a million-person petition in real time.

Lin, of course, stayed calm. He’d said he was considering it, not confirming it. You don’t waste good hype by giving away the ending too soon.

Besides, Lin had learned a thing or two from his competitor, LeBron — never spoil the storyline before it peaks. When the time came, if he did return, it would be on live TV, with all eyes watching.

Still, teammate Chris Paul couldn’t resist teasing during practice with the East squad the next day.

“Yeah, Lin’s thinking about it,” he said to reporters. “But for now, we’re focused on defending our title.”

That little confirmation set the internet on fire again.

Meanwhile, the Orlando fans could only groan. “Why not our city, Lin? What did we do to deserve this?”

On the 26th, as the spotlight returned to Dwight Howard’s home court, the crowd turned on their own star. Superman looked across the court at Lin Yi, envy written all over his face.

Chapter 436: 2012 All-Star Weekend

Unlike the previous two All-Star Games, this year’s felt different. With Paul and Anthony moving to the East—and Orlando hosting the event—the Eastern All-Stars were seen as the favorites before tip-off.

Besides the already-announced starters, the East’s reserves were: Carmelo Anthony, Derrick Rose, Chris Bosh, Al Horford, Deron Williams, Paul Pierce, and Joe Johnson.

Horford had finally earned his All-Star spot this year. The Celtics, on the other hand, were in decline—only Pierce made the cut.

The Eastern backcourt was stacked, and in the frontcourt, Anthony had nearly overtaken LeBron in the fan voting.

For the West, the reserves were Dirk Nowitzki, Aldridge, Danilo Gallinari, Tony Parker, Marc Gasol, Kevin Love, and Kyrie Irving.

With Paul gone, Westbrook became the biggest winner—Russ would start at point guard for the West.

And since Curry was injured, Irving basically hit the jackpot.

From the looks of it, Gallinari’s move to the Nuggets had paid off. The West’s frontcourt was in a transitional phase, and if he’d stayed in New York, he might’ve missed the cut entirely.

...

On the morning of the 24th, the Eastern All-Stars gathered for a joint practice.

Since coaches can’t lead consecutive All-Star teams, Erik Spoelstra was in charge of the East this year, while Scott Brooks handled the West.

But neither could match the aura of last year’s D’Antoni and Popovich.

While explaining his tactics, Spoelstra stumbled over his words, visibly nervous in front of so many superstars.

Even worse, Rose and Deron weren’t buying into his system. “If we’re following all your plays,” one of them joked, “why don’t you just let LeBron run the offense himself?”

Thankfully, LeBron stepped in before things got awkward.

“Relax, guys,” LeBron said with a grin. “It’s the All-Star Game. We’re here to have fun. Just follow the flow.”

With that, LeBron grabbed the clipboard and started sketching plays. Watching from the side, Lin Yi couldn’t help but think LeBron looked more like the real head coach than Spoelstra.

Not that the tactics really mattered.

Everyone knew how the game would go—find Paul, set the screen, run the pick-and-roll, and have fun with it.

When everyone wants the ball, the guy who can play off-ball becomes the most valuable.

Last night, Lin Yi had dinner with Paul while discussing the ball. He’d planned to take it easy this weekend, but suddenly felt like life needed some spark.

After all, earning an MVP for the time consecutively sounded pretty tempting.

...

While Spoelstra was still figuring out rotations, Brooks already had his team locked in.

The veterans out West were ready to let a young star take the spotlight—and since Durant wanted that role, Brooks wasn’t going to stop him.

Kobe, meanwhile, wasn’t really into it this year. The Lakers’ season had been a mess, and it weighed on him.

With Melo gone East, Durant had become the West’s go-to scorer.

And for KD, this felt like his moment. He’d led the league in scoring and finally believed the fans saw him as a true superstar—especially after racking up over a million All-Star votes.

...

After about an hour of light practice, Lin Yi and Paul headed back to the hotel.

That afternoon, O’Neal gave Lin Yi a call.

“Come down to the arena tonight,” Shaq said, brimming with confidence. “You’ve gotta watch me destroy Barkley.”

With nothing else planned, Paul decided to tag along with Lin.

...

That evening at the Amway Center, the Rookie Challenge tipped off: Team Shaq vs. Team Charles.

Following Lin Yi’s suggestion, O’Neal started Wall, Klay, Paul George, Markieff Morris, and Cousins.

Barkley’s starting five were Irving, Hayward, Leonard, Griffin, and Monroe.

On paper, both lineups looked solid in their primes—but right now, Shaq’s team clearly had the edge.

Barkley couldn’t figure it out. Shaq had somehow snatched all the players he wanted, and that just didn’t sit right.

“How the hell does that big meathead suddenly know basketball?” Barkley grumbled.

The game began, and just as Lin Yi expected, Griffin coasted through it to save energy for the main event. Barkley subbed him out for Tristan Thompson not long after.

Shaq’s team, meanwhile, ran the floor like madmen. Wall pushed the pace, Klay fired from deep every chance he got, and Paul George—still raw but athletic as hell—kept attacking.

Markieff Morris and Cousins filled the lanes perfectly.

Before long, Team Shaq had a 15-point lead.

Barkley, fuming, called a timeout.

Shaq just grinned at the camera, pulled out a cigar, and smirked like a man who’d already won.

Commentating solo, Kenny Smith couldn’t help laughing. “Charles always said Shaq didn’t know tactics—but looks like tactical Charles is getting schooled by Shaq.”

It was pure chaos and completely one-sided.

Barkley, for all his basketball IQ, couldn’t have predicted how the modern game would evolve—fast pace, spacing, and shooters like Klay who thrived even in an All-Star setting.

Lin Yi’s advice to pick all three Knicks rookies had also paid off. Wall’s passing kept everyone involved, and the Knicks trio were playing comfortably off the ball.

Irving, as always, was dazzling.

.

“Charles is having a nightmare,” Lin Yi said to Paul, sitting courtside.

Paul chuckled. “Yeah, Shaq’s loving this way too much.”

And he was. Team Shaq’s fast breaks and threes were rolling, while Team Barkley could only rely on Kyrie’s isolation plays.

At one point, Shaq even danced on the sidelines during a timeout—then ran over and threw Barkley’s clipboard away.

“Dam it! Shaq!” Barkley yelled, nearly losing it.

Shaq, meanwhile, looked like the happiest man alive.

And if things kept going this way, the Rookie Challenge was about to turn into a full-blown massacre.

..

.

Team Shaq absolutely crushed Barkley’s squad—so badly that Charles probably started questioning his life choices.

By the second half, commentators across major networks were having a field day at Barkley’s expense. Chris Webber quipped, “Looks like Chuck’s coaching talent is about one-tenth of his basketball talent—and maybe one-hundredth of his TV talent.”

Kenny Smith, Barkley’s long-time sparring partner, added with a grin, “If we didn’t know who the coaches were, you’d swear Team Shaq was coached by Auerbach, Phil Jackson, or Popovich—and Team Charles by, say, Byron Scott. I guess having a ring makes a difference.”

“Poor Charles,” Kenny went on, laughing. “I think this game just ended his coaching ambitions once and for all. I’m telling you, Shaq must’ve worn his lucky red underwear tonight—Team Shaq looks like a squad of Supermen.”

Barkley, too busy drawing up plays to hear the mockery, might’ve burst a blood vessel if he had. Normally, he’s the one doing the teasing, but tonight everyone seemed eager to return the favor.

This was no ordinary beatdown—it was a full-blown pig-slaughtering feast.

At first, Barkley was genuinely frustrated. He knew coaching wasn’t easy, even if he liked to talk like it was. But as Team Shaq’s dominance became undeniable, a single thought kept echoing in his head: was he getting rusty, or was that big oaf O’Neal suddenly a genius?

Then Barkley noticed something. Every timeout, Shaq grabbed the tactics board—then looked straight at Lin Yi, sitting quietly behind Team Shaq’s bench.

“Damn it,” Barkley muttered to himself. “You can’t just bring in outside help!”

.

Back on the sidelines, Chris Paul leaned back in his seat at the Amway Center, munching popcorn. “Lin, how’d you know Team Shaq would run away with it like this?”

Lin Yi gave him a look. He obviously couldn’t say, Because I’m a time traveler who knows exactly how these guys develop and how basketball evolves in the next decade.

Instead, Lin just shrugged. In truth, he’d made an educated guess—using everything he’d learned in the NBA so far and all the basketball instincts he’d honed over the years. He’d given Shaq a few tips, but even he didn’t expect the team to look this good.

He’d simply bet on the natural evolution of basketball—spacing, speed, and shooting—and these young guys were built for that.

Klay’s just a version of Bill with a maxed-out shooting stat, Lin thought. And Wall? Give him space, and he’s a chef at point guard.

It was just unfortunate that Wall was too low-key for his own good. In future rankings, people would list all the great guards—then suddenly remember, “Oh right, there’s John Wall too.”

Paul George wasn’t yet the smooth, balanced star he’d later become, but the athleticism was absurd. The guy was electric. Ironically, if PG hadn’t suffered that brutal injury in the future, he might never have developed such a deadly jumper. Sometimes, players only find new skills when they’re forced to.

Morris and Motiejunas were solid, versatile guys, while Cousins—the baby giant who mimicked Lin’s inside-out style—was on the verge of breaking out. As long as he stayed healthy, that kid would be a nightmare matchup for anyone.

Team Shaq’s offense—fast, open, unselfish—fits this generation’s strengths perfectly. Lin’s prediction had simply aligned with where the game was heading. Their dominance wasn’t luck; it was a preview of basketball’s future.

Paul leaned forward. “ It is still impressive.”

Lin patted him on the back. “Chris, you’ve got to think broader. When it comes to tactics…” He grinned jokingly. “You’ve still got room to grow.”

Paul laughed and gave Lin a playful whack on the knee. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Lin winced. “Man, can we stop making my knees a target? Between you and Steph, I’m going to need hazard pay.”

Paul chuckled. “Alright then, Mister Genius—between Klay, George, and Wall, which of your rookies do you think has the highest ceiling?”

“Klay,” Lin said without hesitation.

Paul nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. I used to think he was just a shooter, but his defence is coming along fine too.”

Lin smiled knowingly. “Give him time. He’s not even close to what he’ll become.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

Lin leaned back. “Klay’s going to be the gold standard for 3-and-D players. Maybe even the best.”

Paul handed him the last piece of popcorn. “Bold words.”

Lin took it, grinning. “I like a good gamble.”

Paul nodded. “You know what, Lin? I think we’re going to build something special together.”

Lin smiled while returning to the game. “We will.”

..

Team Shaq eventually wrapped up the game with a ridiculous 161–119 win.

After the final buzzer, O’Neal strutted over to Barkley, arms wide like a conquering hero. Barkley, pretending to offer a handshake, suddenly puts him into a rear wrist lock before transitioning into an arm bar on the court.

“Oh! That’s a clean lock! Charles Barkley takes down Shaquille O’Neal in a heavyweight match!” Kenny Smith shouted from the booth, barely containing his laughter.

The crowd erupted. Even the losing players couldn’t stay mad—how could they, when the whole thing turned into comedy gold? And credit to Shaq; without his cooperation, Chuck would never have pulled off that throw so cleanly.

Shaq got the win, Barkley got his revenge, and everyone left smiling. It was the perfect opening act for the Orlando All-Star Weekend.

Wall was named MVP with 23 points and 24 assists. Klay hit 12 threes, also setting a new Rookie Challenge record.

Team Shaq drilled 25 threes total—a number that once seemed absurd, but now felt like a glimpse of where basketball was heading.

The league’s three-point revolution was in full swing, and the man most responsible for lighting that fuse—Lin Yi—was busy patting Klay on the head postgame.

“Klay, do you know why you didn’t get the MVP tonight?” Lin asked seriously.

Klay nodded earnestly. “Because I didn’t work hard enough.”

Lin smiled. “No, no. Because you’re not selfish enough. Remember, Kobe once said—”

Paul groaned beside them. “Oh god, here we go again.”

Klay nodded seriously, soaking in every word, while Paul just shook his head.

“This kid’s doomed,” he muttered.

Chapter 435: A Weekend to Breathe

On the 22nd, the Mavericks—who’d decided to play it safe and rest their stars—got cooked by the Knicks at home.

Before the game, Knicks owner James Dolan had even jokingly promised that if the team scored over a hundred points and won, every fan in attendance would get a free bowl of braised beef noodles.

Mark Cuban, the Mavericks’ owner, heard that and was completely lost.

"Braised beef noodles? What does that even mean?” he asked one of his staff.

After someone explained the joke to him—that it was a play on the Mandarin name for the Mavericks—Cuban immediately vowed to get the team’s Chinese name changed.

In his view, Little Cow sounded way too weak. It didn’t match the swagger of the English word Mavericks.

Lin Yi, overhearing the story later, almost laughed out loud. Some words were truly not meant to be translated in languages.

In the end, the game was as lopsided as the score suggested—118 to 97. The Mavericks didn’t even bother pretending to fight back. The Knicks wrapped it up by the third quarter. By the fourth, both sides were basically just running out the clock.

David Stern, watching from his office, was fuming. This was supposed to be one of the marquee matchups before All-Star Weekend—a ratings magnet. And the Mavericks… decided to rest everyone?

That was a slap in the league’s face.

The NBA had long been sensitive about players sitting out marquee games. Fans paid premium prices to see the stars—so when they didn’t play, the complaints rolled in fast.

A few hours later, the punishment came down: $250,000 fine for the Mavericks. Stern made an example out of them—a message to every other team: “Rest your ass and get fined, or get up and play.”

But Cuban didn’t flinch. He understood how the game worked. He wasn’t short on cash, and Coach Rick Carlisle knew exactly what he was doing. The veterans needed rest; without it, they’d fall apart before the playoffs even started.

Popovich and the Spurs had been fined plenty of times for the same thing, but everyone knew his methods worked. Thanks to his rotation strategy, Duncan and Ginobili stayed sharp for years longer than expected.

That approach—spreading out minutes, resting stars strategically—would soon become the norm. Sure, old-school legends would grumble that the modern NBA was getting soft, but those same guys had often paid the price with blown knees and careers that ended too soon.

There were plenty of durable men in NBA history—but far more players who’d burned out early.

So, rotations it was. That was the future.

After dismantling Dallas, the Knicks flew to Miami for a back-to-back game on the 23rd—and this time, they fell 97–109 to the Heat. It was their first time failing to break 100 points all season.

With the shortened schedule, cramming 66 games into just four months, Lin Yi was getting sick of back-to-backs.

This wasn’t a video game. Fatigue, injuries, cramped flights, bad sleep—everything piled up. No matter how good your form was, reality always found a way to bite back.

The team’s red-hot momentum had cooled off. The rookies were hitting their rookie wall, and the veterans just wanted to survive until the playoffs. For the Knicks—focused on development this season—a single loss didn’t matter much.

Unfortunately, LeBron didn’t see it that way.

When the Heat won at home, he was fired up—thinking he’d closed the gap. Only if he knew that Lin and D’Antoni were already planning to ease off before the break.

Even after the loss, the Knicks were still six wins ahead of Miami.

Sometimes, winning felt strangely hollow.

And just like that, the first half of the 2011–12 season was over. Lin Yi sat comfortably atop the MVP rankings, with LeBron, Durant, Wade, and Paul right behind.

LeBron’s fans weren’t happy. They argued that outside of that legendary 86-point game, Lin had been mid in the clutch. They even threw ESPN’s advanced stats into the mix, showing that LeBron’s fourth-quarter scoring outshone Lin’s.

Lin’s fans, of course, clapped back immediately.

“What can we say? Our guy can’t play in the fourth quarter if the game’s already over!”

That… actually made sense. Hard to argue with that one.

...

On the 24th, Lin led his teammates to Orlando for the All-Star Weekend.

Klay, Markieff Morris, and Motiejunas were all playing in the Rookie Challenge, and the three of them were buzzing with nervous energy on the flight. Klay tried to act calm, but his constant questions gave him away. They huddled around Lin as if he were their All-Star tour guide.

This year’s Rookie Challenge had a twist—20 players from the first and second years split into Team Shaq and Team Chuck, drafted by none other than Shaquille O’Neal and Charles Barkley themselves.

Shaq had even texted Lin earlier, asking, “Got any tips to win this thing?”

Lin almost laughed when he remembered how this game went in his past life. Shaq had completely botched his draft—passing on John Wall and Kyrie Irving just to pick Jeremy Lin first.

Still, Lin decided to help the big guy out.

After all, Shaq had been reluctantly hyping him up on TNT all season. Lin didn’t usually care much about outside opinions, but getting daily praise from one of the all-time greats?

Yeah, that felt pretty damn good.

"Shaq, listen—pick John first, then Klay, and after that…” Lin Yi leaned back in his seat, phone in hand, as the team plane touched down in Orlando.

On the other end of the line, O’Neal sounded puzzled. “Wait, shouldn’t I grab Blake first?”

Lin Yi almost laughed. “Blake’s starting in the All-Star Game, man. You really think he’s going to go all out in the Rookie Challenge? He’s just gonna jog around and smile for the cameras.”

O’Neal grunted. “But if I follow your plan, I won’t have any bigs! What kind of team has no interior presence?”

“Who needs bigs in a Rookie Challenge?” Lin replied. “Nobody’s defending anyway. Just let John run wild on the break—he’s faster than anyone there. Klay and the shooters can rain threes all day. Kelly and Jeremy are solid, but not playmakers. Let Wall push the tempo, keep spacing the floor, and you’ll be fine.”

O’Neal was quiet for a moment, then chuckled. “You know what? I like that. You sound like you’ve been taking coaching notes."

Lin grinned. “Just helping you get that W, big man.”

For Shaq, this wasn’t just a casual game—it was personal. Ever since Barkley had been teasing him on Inside the NBA, he’d been waiting for a chance to fire back. This Rookie Challenge was his revenge match.

“The Big Aristotle is about to educate Chuck on basketball IQ,” Shaq declared proudly.

Lin could almost hear him puffing his chest through the phone.

When the call ended, Lin stretched and smiled.

“Finally,” he muttered, “I can actually enjoy an All-Star Weekend for once.”

No dunk contest. No three-point shootout. No skills challenge. This year, he was there just to relax—maybe grab some popcorn and enjoy the show from the sidelines.

Chris Paul, on the other hand, was in high spirits. It was his first time starting for the Eastern Conference All-Stars, and he looked like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Hey Lin,” Paul said after they landed, “you’re really not going to pad your stats this time?”

Lin blinked. “What?”

He stared at Paul, speechless. Since when did I become the guy who pads stats?

But then he thought about it—and frowned.

Wait a second... this year’s Eastern Conference All-Star lineup… wasn’t he the focal point of the offense?

So that led to a new, dangerous thought.

Three straight All-Star MVPs... should I go for it?

Chapter 434: Rest? What’s That?

With Billups out for the season and Livingston sidelined for two months, Coach D’Antoni decided to activate McGrady. On the 20th, in the Knicks’ home back-to-back against the Hawks, McGrady came off the bench as Paul’s backup.

For McGrady, once an NBA scoring champion, the past two years had been humbling. Reality can be cruel — if you don’t adapt, it breaks you.

His body was nowhere near what it used to be, so D’Antoni kept things simple.

On offense, he wanted T-Mac to play like Livingston — use his size to post up smaller guards and act as a secondary playmaker.

On defense, D’Antoni didn’t expect miracles. He just asked him to contest shots, not chase every drive. After all, this wasn’t the young McGrady flying through the air anymore.

And in his season debut, McGrady did exactly what was asked. In 13 minutes, he put up 6 points, 2 rebounds, and 3 assists — solid numbers for someone who hadn’t played meaningful minutes in a long time.

“Clearly, injuries can’t stop these Knicks!” Barkley declared after New York’s win over Atlanta.

Kenny Smith nodded, visibly impressed. McGrady’s box score wasn’t spectacular, but the way he moved and read the game looked better than anything he’d shown in the last two seasons.

“While a lot of teams are scrambling for trades or signings, the Knicks just… look inward,” Kenny said, turning to Shaq. “Shaq, you’ve been part of this Knicks team before. What’s the secret? How do they always seem to help players find their confidence again?”

Before O’Neal could answer, Barkley flexed his arm with a smirk, making Shaq roll his eyes and cough twice before collecting himself.

“The Knicks probably have the best team atmosphere I’ve ever been in,” Shaq pondered a bit before saying. “Coach D’Antoni knows how to use his players, and Lin… man, Lin always cracks jokes and makes sure that everyone is comfortable during practice or games. When you play in that kind of environment, it’s hard not to perform well.”

Barkley grinned and leaned back. “Yeah, that’s what a real MVP does. Lin’s still my pick for MVP this season.”

“…”

Shaq, meanwhile, silently swore that one day he’d write an autobiography exposing all the behind-the-scenes chaos of this Lin Yi Fan Club they call a TV station.

McGrady’s comeback was a success, and Lin Yi had his own upgrade. Against the Hawks, his Dream Footwork badge leveled up from gold to amethyst.

Now, only Rebounding Maniac and Limitless Range remained at gold.

With the amethyst Dream Footwork unlocked, Lin gained a few new tricks in the post — moves that felt almost like cheating. He even started wondering if, by continuing to evolve his Ankle Breaker, he could somehow stay as agile and flexible while bulking up.

Most big men are slimming down these days… he thought. But if I can pull this off, I could just live in the low post and dominate anyone who comes near me.

To Lin Yi, that sounded like the perfect plan for the future. In a league where traditional big men were vanishing, who would stop him once the paint was all his?

...

On the 21st, the Knicks finally got a day off. Billups and Livingston’s injuries had already kept the medical team busy, but lately, the doctors were more confused than anything.

Was Lin Yi even human?

They’d told him countless times to ease off the intensity during mid-season, but Lin always brushed it off with lines like, “How can I get better if I don’t put in the work?” or “I need to see New York at 3 A.M.”

What could they say to that? The team doctors could only look up helplessly and sigh.

Back to business — before the upcoming All-Star Weekend in Orlando, the Knicks were set to face the Mavericks at home and the Heat on the road. Clearly, Stern had gone all-in for ratings again.

Lin had planned to take it easy during the All-Star break, even skipping all the individual competitions this year. If the schedule had been kinder, he could’ve gotten nearly ten straight days of rest.

His mindset wasn’t that different from most Chinese office workers — take your annual leave right around National Day, stack a few weekends, and you basically get half a month off.

But reality had other plans.

Because no matter how early you hand in that leave request, the boss can always stamp it Denied.

Still, what was supposed to be an anticipated rematch of the NBA Finals lost a bit of shine when the Mavericks announced before tip-off that both Nowitzki and Stoudemire were sitting out.

This season, Dallas had started managing minutes carefully — Nowitzki skipped most back-to-backs, and Stoudemire rested depending on how he felt.

To be fair, Stoudemire was thriving in this timeline. Without the devastating injury from Lin’s past life, he was healthy and explosive again. The Mavericks’ system, filled with pick-and-rolls, suited him perfectly. Even though Irving wasn’t exactly a playmaking maestro, Kidd’s mentorship helped him run solid drive-and-kick sets.

Stoudemire’s scoring touch was still elite. Before that injury in Lin’s original timeline, he’d carried the Knicks on his back, averaging nearly 30 a game and keeping them in the playoff hunt. It was only after Anthony arrived — and took over much of the offense — that his numbers dipped closer to 25.

A lot of people used to say Stoudemire couldn’t play without Nash, but that wasn’t really true. Once he developed a reliable mid-range jumper, he could go toe-to-toe with Duncan and Garnett for a bit.

So, when Dallas decided to rest their stars before facing New York, Lin couldn’t help but feel a little targeted.

It was like everyone in the league was scheming to conserve energy to make his life harder in the playoffs.

He clenched his fist and silently swore that once he hit his peak, he’d pay them all back — with interest.

And when that day came, he’d flash a smile and say, “The future’s yours.”

Chapter 234: The Crowning Match 5

Conceding a goal within five minutes of the restart was the last thing Arsenal needed.

And for Mertesacker, it was a nightmare. His lack of agility — that slow turning speed — was being brutally exposed.

Eto’o wasn’t even the same explosive player he’d been in his prime, but even at this stage of his career, his quick shifts of direction were more than enough to torment Mertesacker.

On the touchline, Wenger’s face tightened. He turned abruptly and shouted, “Mustafi! Warm up!”

Mustafi sprang up, excitement flashing across his face as he jogged to the sideline to start his warm-up.

Pat Rice approached, lowering his voice. “You’re thinking of taking Mertesacker off?”

Wenger nodded. “His turning’s killing us. Against a forward like Eto’o, it’s too risky. Mustafi’s lighter on his feet; he’ll cope better.”

Pat frowned slightly. “You could have Koscielny mark Eto’o. Per’s still our best in the air.”

Wenger shook his head firmly. “That would overload Koscielny. He’s already got to keep an eye on Schürrle and Hazard. If we stretch him any more, we’ll collapse down that side. Mustafi’s safer. And for aerial duels—” he gestured toward the pitch “—we’ve got Kai.”

Pat nodded. He knew Wenger was right.

Kai had proven himself in the air, especially in those Champions League battles with Cristiano Ronaldo. Despite not being the tallest, his timing and leaping ability were exceptional — and he had the stamina to keep doing it.

All Arsenal needed was for him to drop back on set pieces; for open-play crosses, Mustafi and Koscielny could manage. After all, aerial play was never Eto’o’s strongest weapon.

But Mustafi’s warm-up didn’t go unnoticed. Mertesacker, glancing toward the sideline, felt his stomach tighten. He knew exactly what it meant.

Wenger’s patience was running out.

His mind raced as he tried to refocus, but nerves began to creep in.

Meanwhile, Mourinho caught sight of the movement on Arsenal’s bench. His expression sharpened, and he immediately stepped forward, yelling from the technical area, “Go for another one! Push now!”

He knew exactly what Wenger was doing — and exactly which player was vulnerable.

Before the substitution could happen, Chelsea had to strike again.

Arsenal, trying to regain composure, pushed their formation forward.

Kai received the ball near the centre circle, turned his body slightly, and fed it to Cazorla.

Cazorla spun and played it quickly to Rosický.

Without hesitation, Rosicky unleashed a long-range strike — powerful but too central.

Čech caught it cleanly and instantly launched a booming kick upfield.

“Rosicky’s shot—straight at the keeper! And Čech wastes no time — Chelsea are breaking!” called Martin Taylor on Sky Sports.

The long ball soared toward Matic, away from Kai’s reach.

Matic rose, leaning back slightly, and flicked a header straight into Schürrle’s path.

Schürrle brought it down smoothly and cut diagonally across midfield. Before Vermaelen or Koscielny could close him down, he slipped a pass through to Eto’o.

Eto’o took it in stride and drove straight at Mertesacker.

Both Kai and Wenger’s instincts flared at once — this looks bad.

Mertesacker’s legs felt heavy. After being beaten twice already, doubt had crept in.

Eto’o, calm and confident, shifted the ball sideways, probing. Mertesacker shuffled to block the angle.

Then, suddenly — Eto’o exploded forward.

Mertesacker tried to pivot and follow, but a moment later, the striker stopped dead.

Mertesacker’s big frame couldn’t react in time — his boots skidded, and he stumbled awkwardly, taking two unsteady steps forward.

Eto’o darted into the open space, leaving him completely stranded.

Desperation kicked in. Mertesacker reached out instinctively and tugged at Eto’o’s arm.

The striker felt the pull and theatrically threw himself forward.

BEEP!

The Howard Webb's whistle pierced through the noise.

Mertesacker froze, hands immediately raised, panic flashing across his face.

Kai hurried over, trying to appeal. “Ref, that was just a normal challenge!”

But the Chelsea players swarmed in.

“That’s a foul! Penalty and a red card for being the last man, ref!” shouted Terry, waving an arm.

The Arsenal fans inside the Emirates were holding their breath.

After a brief commotion, the referee pointed to the spot — and held up a yellow card for Mertesacker.

“Chelsea has a penalty! And once again, Arsenal’s weak point has been exposed — Mertesacker’s having a nightmare out there,” said Martin Taylor.

Alan Smith added, “You can feel the tension around the stadium. That early goal shook Arsenal, and now this could really change the momentum of the match.”

Kai tried to argue with the referee, hands gesturing in disbelief, but the official’s decision stood firm. There was no changing it now.

Eto’o placed the ball on the spot.
Kai and his teammates stood just outside the box, waiting, every muscle tight with anticipation.

The atmosphere in the Emirates turned heavy — almost suffocating. The once-roaring crowd had fallen into nervous silence.

Beep!

Eto’o began his run-up.
He struck low to the left — Szczęsny went the other way.

The net rippled.

Kai had already started to rush in, but when he saw the ball cross the line, he stopped and looked up at the sky in frustration, swinging his foot through empty air.

“Eto’o again! That’s a brace for the veteran striker! The African Lion has put Chelsea ahead — and you have to say, this title race is now wide open!” shouted Martin Taylor.

Alan Smith followed, “Arsenal led early, but Chelsea has turned it around. Can Wenger’s men respond here at the Emirates?”

In the stands, Arsenal fans buried their faces in their hands, disbelief etched across every expression.

Mertesacker stood rooted in place, guilt written all over him. His mistakes had cost two goals — and possibly the match.

Then came the substitution.

Mustafi was already waiting on the sideline. Mertesacker didn’t need to look; he knew his time was up. He dropped his head, looking utterly defeated.

“Hey! Wait up!”

Mertesacker turned to see Kai jogging toward him.

“Go on, have a go at me,” Mertesacker muttered, his voice low and drained. “I deserve it.”

Kai frowned. “What? You think I came to scold you? I’m here to back you up.”

Mertesacker blinked, caught off guard. “You’re comforting me by telling me you’re comforting me?”

Kai waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t overthink it. Just watch from the bench. We’re not out of this yet — and if we turn this around, you’re buying dinner.”

He grinned, raising a fist. “And trust me, it’s gonna cost you.”

A small smile crept onto Mertesacker’s face. Gratitude flickered in his tired eyes.

He slapped Mustafi’s hand as the younger defender came on.

“It’s yours now.”

Mustafi nodded firmly. “Got it.”

As Mertesacker walked off, he passed Wenger, who turned and said quietly, “Don’t blame yourself, Per. That’s on me. I set up for Torres, not Eto’o. If I’d known, you’d have had support sooner. Watch now — your teammates will pull you through.”

Those words hit Mertesacker harder than any criticism could. He nodded, sat down, and fixed his gaze on the pitch.

Come on, lads… he thought. Make this right.

Back on the field, Mustafi took position.

Kai turned to Vermaelen and called out, “Captain! You gonna say something or what?”

Vermaelen threw up his hands. “You’re a captain too, you do it!”

Kai rolled his eyes, then took a deep breath and shouted across the pitch.

“Listen up! It’s just one goal! One! We can get it back — play our game, step by step! Don’t rush it! Mark tight, move the ball, make your runs — we’ve drilled this a hundred times!”

He looked around at his teammates, voice rising above the noise.

“Get your legs moving! The game’s not over — we’ve still got time!”

His words steadied them. The tension eased, replaced by focus.

It was only the 55th minute.

There was still a fight to be had.

Chapter 233: The Crowning Match 4

As time went on, the chants of Arsenal supporters grew louder, echoing across the Emirates.

The first half was nearly over, and Chelsea still hadn’t managed to mount any real threat. Arsenal held the lead, and the visitors were stuck in an uncomfortable, reactive position.

That early goal had hit Chelsea harder than they expected — it had completely thrown their rhythm off.

Moments later, Howard Webb's whistle brought the half to a close.

Both sides began walking toward the tunnel.

“Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful!”

Billy downed the last of his beer, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and laughed. “One-nil up at halftime, controlling the midfield — Chelsea can’t even break out. This is the dream scenario!”

Around him, Arsenal fans were all smiles.

From the very first whistle, the Gunners had dictated the flow. Their shape, movement, and discipline were everything Wenger had preached all season.

The fans were electric. Watching this kind of Arsenal made them believe again — that they were finally one step away from England’s grandest prize.

Just the thought of it sent shivers down their spines.

..

Inside the Arsenal dressing room, the atmosphere was steady but focused.

“Keep the rhythm, don’t rush it!”

“Good job, everyone!”

“Stay switched on — we’re leading, but we can’t relax!”

The players exchanged quick encouragements before taking their seats.

Then Wenger walked in, clapped twice, and said firmly, “Eyes on me.”

Everyone turned toward him.

“Your first half was excellent,” Wenger began, his tone calm but sharp. “But there are still a few details we must fix. Don’t get overconfident. We need control, not chaos. Be patient, be precise — understand?”

“Understood!” the players responded in unison.

Wenger turned to the tactics board and began sketching adjustments. The overall plan stayed the same — possession with discipline — but the tweaks were clear.

“Cazorla, switch flanks with Walcott when needed,” Wenger explained. “Chelsea’s back line isn’t pushing up, so we’ll have to create from the wings. Theo, stay alert — one good run at the right time could kill this game.”

Then he looked toward Kai.

“Kai, keep pressing in midfield. Don’t give Oscar any space — he’s not your equal there.”

Kai nodded confidently.

He’d already figured Oscar out during the first half. The Brazilian seemed… off. His play was rougher, his creativity dulled.

Last season, Oscar had been unpredictable — sharp passes, clever turns. This version seemed slower and seemed out of it.

Kai wondered if that someone was him.

..

In Chelsea’s dressing room, Mourinho stood before his players, eyes intense.

“We need to wake up,” he said, voice low but cutting. “The first half is done — forget it. I know what you can do. You’ve shown it before.”

He paused, scanning the room.

“But listen carefully — on this pitch, you can’t be the good guys. Good guys don’t win in football. When you face a group of bastards, you have to become even bigger bastards. That’s the reality.”

His words hung in the air.

Then he looked directly at Oscar, who sat quietly, his jaw tight.

“I’m not making any changes,” Mourinho said firmly. “I trust every one of you. That trust is a responsibility — not a gift. Play like men who want to win this trophy for our fans in West London. They’re counting on you.”

He straightened up. “Be the villains here at the Emirates — and the heroes when we go home to Stamford Bridge.”

Chelsea captain John Terry rose to his feet, his voice booming.

“This is it — last match of the season! If you don’t want it to end like this, then bleed for it! Let’s remind Arsenal who we are — show them that they’re nothing compared to us! They are relics of the last era!”

He clapped his hands hard. “Come on, boys! Let’s go out there and prove the Premier League belongs to Chelsea!”

Applause and shouts filled the room, their morale restored.

Moments later, the staff called for both sides to return to the pitch.

Under the floodlights, the players walked back out, faces set and focused.

Everyone knew — the next forty-five minutes would decide everything.

No changes. No excuses. Just the final battle for the English crown.

..

Arsenal kicked off to start the second half — but almost immediately, things began to unravel.

Chelsea came out like a team possessed. Their tackles were sharper, their pressing relentless. Every Arsenal player who received the ball was instantly surrounded.

The Gunners’ smooth passing rhythm began to stutter. They were forced to retreat, playing back through Kai to recycle possession, often passing laterally across their own half.

Kai, controlling the tempo, frowned as he surveyed the pitch.

Chelsea’s energy was different now. Whatever Mourinho had said at halftime had clearly worked. The same players who’d looked sluggish in the first half were now fired up, hunting the ball like wolves.

Clap!

Cazorla had just taken a touch when Oscar and David Luiz pounced — one from the front, one from behind.

They stripped him clean.

Oscar didn’t linger on the ball. Instead, he quickly passed it back to David Luiz, who didn’t hesitate. The Brazilian looked up and launched a long, arcing pass straight toward Eto’o.

Kai turned the instant Luiz struck it, sprinting back at full pace — but the distance was too much.

Eto’o brought the ball down with effortless control, glided past Mertesacker again, and surged into the box.

One-on-one with Szczęsny, he coolly slotted the ball into the bottom-left corner.

The net rippled.

Just five minutes into the second half, Chelsea had drawn level.

It was ruthless — pure counterattacking precision.

Martin Taylor’s voice rose on Sky Sports commentary.

“Eto’o! The African Lion strikes again! A massive goal for Chelsea — they’ve levelled it at one-all! Barely five minutes into the second half, and that’s the response Mourinho wanted! The Blues are showing exactly why they can never be written off!”

Alan Smith added, “It’s that killer instinct. They barely had a sniff in the first half, but the moment Arsenal relaxed, bang — punished.”

Eto’o sprinted toward the corner flag and, with a grin, leaned on it like a walking stick.

It was his cheeky answer to Mourinho’s earlier jibe about his age — a dig that had sparked plenty of headlines in recent weeks.

Mourinho, on the sidelines, just smiled and clapped, clearly pleased with both the finish and the defiant humour.

Kai stood near the centre circle, expression hardening as Chelsea celebrated.

For all the talk about age, the veteran’s control and composure were still world-class. One chance — that’s all he needed.

A few hundred Chelsea fans erupted in one corner of the stadium, but their cheers were quickly drowned out by a wall of boos from the Arsenal faithful.

As play resumed, Arsenal’s players trudged back into position, visibly shaken.

Mertesacker, in particular, looked crestfallen.

Two times now, Eto’o had gotten past him. Both times, his lack of pace had been ruthlessly exposed.

In past matches, Kai’s defensive presence in front of the backline had shielded him. But now, as the midfield conductor, Kai couldn’t drop as deep as before.

Without that cover, Mertesacker was left to face Chelsea’s strikers on his own — and it was starting to show.

Chapter 232: The Crowning Match 3

On the BBC Premier League Channel Two broadcast, the camera cut to the commentary booth—where Mike John was joined by three familiar faces: Thierry Henry, Patrick Vieira, and Michael Ballack.

The moment Walcott’s volley hit the net, Henry and Vieira leapt to their feet almost in unison.

“Wow!!!” Henry threw his hands up, leaning back with that classic grin, clearly enjoying every second of it.

Vieira’s eyes widened. “That’s brilliant football!”

Mike John chuckled as the replay rolled. “Beautifully worked goal! Arsenal at their very best—quick, fluid, intelligent movement.”

Henry couldn’t help himself. “ Kai’s pass there was genius. Everyone expected him to go for a long-range strike—he sold it perfectly, and then just scooped it through. He fooled everyone on that pitch! And Walcott read it instantly. That’s the connection between them.”

Vieira nodded firmly. “I have been saying this for the longest time. People sleep on Kai’s technical ability.. Because he’s often tackling and intercepting, they think he’s just a destroyer. But look at that pass—subtle, perfectly weighted.”

Mike John turned toward Ballack, who had been quiet, arms folded, and a hint of frustration on his face. “Michael, your thoughts?”

Ballack exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. “Fine. It was a great goal—credit where it’s due. But Matic lost his man. He should have tracked Kai’s forward movement. Rosicky’s off-ball run pulled him out of position, and that opened the channel. Once Kai stepped up unmarked, everything fell apart for Chelsea.”

When Mike asked whose contribution was more important, the panel found rare agreement—it was Walcott’s.

Henry explained, “Kai’s pass made it possible, but Walcott’s timing made it happen. He read the play perfectly, burst forward, and finished with composure. He made that run count.”

Vieira chuckled. “Typical striker—always giving the credit to the one who scores.”

Henry laughed. “Hey, no offense, Pat. Just calling it as I see it.”

...

Down on the touchline, Wenger was already celebrating, fists pumping toward the crowd.

For a moment, it was like the clock had turned back ten years—the Professor’s eyes gleamed again with that old passion, the fire of the Invincibles era.

Arsenal’s early lead was exactly what they needed. Against Chelsea, conceding first or being stalled by their defensive wall could easily turn into a nightmare. Breaking through was crucial. And they had done it.

Across the pitch, Mourinho stood motionless, a deep frown cutting across his face.

His gaze burned into his players—especially the midfield.

Mistakes. Sloppy marking. Complacency.

In Mourinho’s eyes, those errors were unforgivable.

“Kai rarely pushes forward,” he muttered under his breath. “And still, nobody tracks him.”

He suddenly barked from the touchline, “Wake up! Mark your men!”

The goal had rattled Chelsea.

For a few moments, their energy dipped—but under Terry’s fierce shouting, they regrouped quickly. Chelsea weren’t about to crumble that easily.

After the celebrations, both sides reset. Arsenal looked fired up; Chelsea, tight-lipped and focused.

The Blues kicked off, eager to respond.

But Arsenal pressed immediately, swarming high up the pitch.

Kai urged caution, waving his arms, but his teammates were full of adrenaline, closing down every blue shirt in sight.

It was brave—but risky.

Sure enough, Chelsea suddenly found a gap.

Oscar slipped past Cazorla and quickly threaded a pass to Hazard on the wing.

Hazard darted forward, hugging the touchline. As Kai approached to close him down, Hazard smartly released the ball early, not giving him the chance to engage.

Kai turned and sprinted back.

Up front, Samuel Eto’o—still dangerous even at 33—brought the pass down with his thigh, cushioning it effortlessly. Despite a heavier frame and fading pace, his explosiveness and instinct remained sharp.

He flicked the ball with his left foot, bursting past the slower Mertesacker.

Koscielny rushed across, but he was a fraction too late.

Eto’o had already wound up for the strike.

“Danger here!” Martin Taylor’s voice rose sharply.

Eto’o unleashed a thunderous shot—

Bang! Bang!

Two quick impacts—and the ball flew out of bounds!

“Kai!!!” Alan Smith shouted in surprise.

Replays showed it—Kai had launched himself in a last-ditch slide, blocking the shot cleanly with his shin just as Eto’o pulled the trigger.

The Emirates exhaled collectively.

Goalkeeper Szczęsny walked up and patted Kai on the shoulder. “Brilliant block!”

Kai got up, dusted himself off, and immediately yelled toward his teammates, “Hey! Calm down and get back in shape! No more gaps—mark properly!”

Cazorla and the others immediately looked a bit embarrassed.

After the goal, they had indeed gotten a bit carried away — pushing too far forward in their excitement.

Kai’s sharp shout brought everyone back to their senses.

As Chelsea lined up for a corner, the now-composed Arsenal side stayed calm and organized. Mertesacker rose highest and headed the ball clear, straight to Cazorla.

Cazorla didn’t rush forward. Instead, he held it up, glanced around, and waited for Kai to move into position before laying the ball off to him.

With no one closing him down, Kai took a moment to assess the field. He lifted his head, spotted Flamini on the left, and played a controlled pass his way. Flamini quickly relayed it to Cazorla again.

After a failed attempt to beat his man, Cazorla passed it back, allowing Arsenal to reset.

They slipped back into rhythm, controlling possession and dictating tempo.

Seeing this, Martin Taylor commented, “The Gunners have steadied themselves. Arsenal’s still a young team, and with youth often comes impatience. They get caught up in the moment — the tempo rises too quickly, and the aggression follows. That’s when you need someone to say, ‘enough.’ Kai’s exactly that kind of player.”

Alan Smith nodded in agreement. “He just turned twenty, but look at the composure he brings. That calmness — it’s the backbone of this Arsenal side.”

As Martin and Alan praised Kai, the Arsenal fans in the stands were quietly thrilled.

For them, anyone who spoke well of Kai was instantly a friend.

They adored him — for his strength, his courage, his intelligence, his humility, his decisiveness.

To the fans, Kai seemed flawless despite his lack of speed and finesse dribbling.

When you love a player, you see every virtue in high definition — and every flaw fades from view.

That was exactly how Arsenal fans felt about him.

By the 40th minute, Chelsea were starting to show signs of frustration.

Trailing in the first half was far from ideal, and they were eager to pull one back before halftime.

But Arsenal were now dictating the game’s rhythm through their midfield. Chelsea’s defensive counter-attacking plan had lost its bite.

It was like a spring — the more you compress it, the stronger it rebounds. But when Arsenal refused to press, Chelsea couldn’t find any tension to release.

Oscar and the others chased hard, trying to force an opening, but Arsenal’s midfield trio — with Rosický and Walcott dropping deeper — had the numbers and control.

When in doubt, they recycled possession, switched play, and kept Chelsea chasing shadows.

For now, the Blues found themselves in an increasingly passive position.

Chapter 231: The Crowning Match 2

“Kai’s long-range effort! Ahhh—Čech! What a save!”

Martin Taylor’s voice carried a mix of surprise and regret.

“He struck that beautifully,” Alan Smith added. “Perfect timing on the shot… I thought that was heading straight into the top corner.”

But Čech was sharp, reading it early and reacting just in time.

On the pitch, Kai shook his head in frustration. He’d aimed for the far post, thinking Čech might not react quickly enough—but the veteran keeper was clearly alert to his intentions.

Arsenal’s corner.

Kai gestured for Mertesacker to attack the header while he stayed outside the box to support.

As he moved into position, Oscar came charging over, shoving him repeatedly.

The Brazilian’s hands were all over him, jostling and pushing.

Kai wasn’t even in the box and had no idea why Oscar suddenly decided to pick a fight.

When Kai didn’t respond, Oscar got even bolder, sticking to him like an octopus.

Even the calmest player has his limits—and Kai wasn’t known for his patience.

Taking advantage of the referee turning away, Kai grabbed Oscar by the collar, pushed him, swung his leg around, and—

Oscar hit the turf with a thud.

“Ahhhh!” Oscar howled, clutching at the ground, but Kai stood there coolly as if nothing had happened.

The scream drew the referee’s attention, and heads turned.

Kai quickly raised his hands, an innocent look on his face.

“He threw me!” Oscar shouted furiously.

Kai shook his head. “No idea what he’s talking about! He’s making it up!”

The referee eyed them both suspiciously before giving each a verbal warning.

Oscar got up, visibly frustrated.

As the ref walked off, Kai muttered, “Come on—keep going.”

Oscar bristled, but when Kai stared him down, the fire went out of him immediately.

There was a clear difference in build—Oscar knew he’d lose a fight.

And after all, Kai’s reputation preceded him. He’d once flattened Pepe and even argued with Ramos in a Champions League match.

No one wanted to test that.

Seeing Oscar back off, Kai gave a cold snort, then shook his head. Sometimes, having a fearsome reputation really did come in handy.

The match resumed. Cazorla stood over the corner again, swinging it toward Mertesacker. But Chelsea were ready—Terry wrestled Mertesacker just enough to throw him off balance. The header lacked power, and Čech easily caught it.

Arsenal’s attack fizzled out—but before they could reorganize, Čech launched a booming kick toward Hazard.

Hazard was ready to bring it down, but out of nowhere, Kai leapt and met the ball cleanly, heading it straight into touch.

“Čech with a quick launch—Chelsea looking to counter! Hazard—no! Kai’s there again!” Martin Taylor exclaimed.

Alan Smith added, “Brilliant read from Kai. He’s cut out another counter before it even started. His awareness is just outstanding—he’s everywhere tonight!”

Landing firmly, Kai immediately turned and barked, “Drop back!”

Arsenal’s players quickly retreated into defensive shape.

Even before Čech’s kick, Kai had already sprinted to anticipate the ball’s path.

If you wanted to beat Chelsea, you had to cut off their counterattacks—and in that department, Kai was unmatched.

Chelsea took the throw-in, but as soon as the ball came in, Arsenal pressed in numbers. Two, three players swarmed the receiver. Under pressure, Oscar lost possession again.

Arsenal recovered and pushed forward once more.

Watching from the Sky Sports booth, Martin Taylor chuckled, “Arsenal is completely bossing the midfield right now.”

Alan Smith nodded. “Oscar just can’t handle the press. Arsenal’s midfield trio are suffocating him every time he touches the ball.”

In the stands, Arsenal fans roared with laughter and chants:

“Fake’s still a fake—he’ll never be Kai!”

“The boy wants to be a man! Dream on!”

“The imitation can’t beat the real thing!”

On the pitch, Oscar’s expression was darkening by the minute.

A string of poor touches, missed passes, and lost duels had drained his confidence. The once-celebrated prodigy looked a shadow of himself.

He’d tried so hard to mold himself into Mourinho’s ideal midfielder—but no matter how much he worked, he couldn’t become another Kai.

The more he forced himself to change, the more he lost what made him special. His creativity had been replaced with mechanical discipline, and yet, he still lacked Kai’s physical presence and defensive bite.

Now, he was neither here nor there—a utility midfielder who couldn’t truly impose himself.

Still, he ran tirelessly, trying to make up for that gap with effort alone.

Spotting Kai with the ball, Oscar sprinted forward, determined to win it back.

But Kai, seemingly aware of him approaching, suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

Oscar crashed straight into him, chest-first. Pain shot through his ribs as his breath caught.

Before he could recover, Kai burst forward again, shrugging him off and driving past with ease.

That tiny sequence summed it up—the gulf between them was glaring.

Kai carried the ball upfield, scanning Chelsea’s setup.

Mourinho’s side had already dropped deep into their defensive shell. The back line stayed compact, never overcommitting, which ruled out any hope of a ball slipping in behind.

Walcott’s pace, one of Arsenal’s biggest weapons, was being smothered by the lack of space.

Arsenal regrouped, probing again.

Kai fed the ball to Cazorla, allowing the Spaniard to orchestrate the next move from the front.

He hesitated for a moment, debating whether to push forward himself—but eventually chose to hold his position near the edge of the box, ready to pounce if a shooting chance came.

If they couldn’t break through, they’d strike from range.

Arsenal poured forward once more, peppering Chelsea’s defense with wave after wave of pressure.

The Emirates roared in approval.

The fans could feel the confidence radiating from their players—this was Arsenal at their best: aggressive, brave, full of intent.

Even against heavyweights like Real Madrid or Chelsea, they refused to back down at home.

But the question remained—how to carve out the perfect opening?

“Cazorla glides past David Luiz… Terry steps up… backheel from Cazorla!” Martin Taylor’s voice rose with excitement.

The ball flicked diagonally back—straight to the edge of the area, where Kai was already shaping to shoot.

“Kai—goes for it!” Alan Smith exclaimed.

But instead of blasting it, Kai scooped the ball beautifully with his right foot. It lifted high into the air, arching gracefully over Terry and Cahill.

Behind them, Walcott appeared right on cue, darting diagonally through the line. He met the falling ball in stride, swinging his leg horizontally—

—and swept it cleanly into the net.

For a moment, the Emirates fell silent in disbelief.

Then came the eruption.

The Arsenal crowd exploded in celebration.

But as the noise swelled, Chelsea’s players threw their hands up, appealing for offside. Terry, Cahill, and Ivanović all surrounded the linesman.

After a tense pause, Howard Webb pointed to the center circle—goal given.

Arsenal led Chelsea 1–0 in the 21st minute.

“No offside! The goal stands!” Martin Taylor shouted, his voice rising above the din. “What a stunning move from Arsenal—quick, clever passing, and that cheeky scoop from Kai! A beautiful finish from Walcott to top it off!”

Alan Smith laughed. “That’s vintage Arsenal, isn’t it? Crisp, incisive, unpredictable. You never know which touch will lead to the goal!”

“Goooooooooooal!”

The Emirates erupted into chaos—fans were on their feet, flags waving, scarves spinning in the air. The sound rolled through the stands like thunder.

Fireworks of emotion burst everywhere. It felt like a volcano had erupted in North London.

Outside the stadium, the chants could already be heard echoing through the streets.

On the pitch, Kai threw an arm around Walcott and gave his head a vigorous rub.

“Great run!” he shouted, grinning.

Before that pass, the two had exchanged just a glance—enough. After countless matches together, they knew each other’s instincts perfectly.

The moment Kai flicked his foot under the ball, Walcott had already made the diagonal sprint, using his explosive burst to get behind the line.

One touch later, it was in the back of the net.

A goal built on trust, timing, and pure chemistry—the kind of connection that turns a good team into a great one.

Lin Yi's Limited Edition 86 Points Sneakers

Chapter 230: The Crowning Match

Standing in the tunnel, Kai could already feel the thunder outside — the wall of noise rolling in from the stands like an ocean tide.

He took a slow breath, his pulse syncing with the roars beyond the tunnel.

This was it. Arsenal fans had flooded North London in red, turning the city into a living heartbeat of hope and noise. After a decade of waiting, everything came down to this one match.

Chelsea stood in their way — powerful, disciplined, relentless.

But Arsenal could not lose. Not today.

Kai steadied himself, forcing the adrenaline down.

The Premier League title.

Just a few years ago, it was something he wouldn’t have dared to dream about. Even when his professional career began in Portugal, the thought of standing in the Premier League — let alone fighting for the title — felt distant, almost unreal.

And yet, here he was.

Three years had changed everything. Joining Arsenal. Winning the FA Cup. Reaching the Champions League semi-finals.

He’d stood beneath stadium lights brighter than he’d ever imagined, heard tens of thousands chant his name.

It was addictive — but he knew that kind of love had to be earned.

They cheered because he gave them reasons to. And he’d keep earning it, one match at a time.

“Alright, get ready!” Vermaelen’s shout echoed through the tunnel.

Kai’s focus sharpened instantly. It was time.

Martin Taylor (commentator): “The players are lined up in the tunnel. The stage is set at the Emirates — the title decider is about to begin. Let’s take a look at both lineups.”

Arsenal (4-2-3-1):
Goalkeeper: Szczęsny

Defenders: Sagna, Mertesacker, Koscielny, Vermaelen

Def. Midfielders: Kai, Flamini

Att. Midfielders: Walcott, Cazorla, Rosický

Forward: Podolski

Chelsea (4-2-3-1):
Goalkeeper: Čech

Defenders: Ivanović, Cahill, Terry, Azpilicueta

Def. Midfielders: Matić, David Luiz

Att. Midfielders: Schürrle, Oscar, Hazard

Forward: Eto’o

Alan Smith: “Arsenal are close to full strength, apart from Suarez. Chelsea, on the other hand, is without Lampard and Fàbregas — that’s a big loss for Mourinho’s side. Both managers are sticking with the 4-2-3-1, but Arsenal will look to control the middle of the park, while Chelsea will likely stay compact and look to counter.”

Martin Taylor: “And keep an eye on that midfield battle — Kai’s been superb this season, calm and commanding. How Oscar handles the pressure against Arsenal’s trio of Cazorla, Kai, and Flamini could decide everything tonight.”

As the players shook hands, Oscar’s eyes locked on Kai.

To him, this was personal. Mourinho had pushed him to model his play after the Arsenal midfielder — a comparison that had eaten at him all season.

Now, he had a chance to prove himself.

When their hands met, Oscar’s grip was firm — too firm.

Kai raised an eyebrow but didn’t flinch. He simply smiled.

That smile made Oscar even more unsettled.

Moments later, the players took their positions. Eto’o stood over the ball at the centre circle, waiting for the whistle.

Around them, the Emirates roared — waves of chants rising in unison.

“Go, Gunners!”

“Champions!”

“Keep it at the Emirates!”

Helicopters hovered above, capturing the electric sea of red and blue.

At five o’clock sharp, referee Howard Webb blew his whistle.

Beep!

Martin Taylor: “And we’re underway! It’s the 38th and final matchday of the 2013–2014 Premier League season — Arsenal versus Chelsea — a straight fight for the title!”

Alan Smith: “Just one point separates them, Martin. Arsenal with 93, Chelsea with 92. The math couldn’t be simpler — win, and you’re champions.”

The roar of the crowd reached a fever pitch as Arsenal pressed forward from the first whistle.

Kai started to advance, but after two quick strides, he suddenly broke left, reading the play.

At that exact moment, Oscar tried to thread a pass toward Schürrle — only to find Kai flying in from nowhere.

Kai slid low, hooked the ball cleanly with the inside of his boot, and was up in one motion.

Martin Taylor: “Kai! Brilliant interception! He read that perfectly — outstanding anticipation!”

The stadium erupted, Arsenal fans screaming his name.

It was only the opening minute, but that single tackle sent a message — Arsenal were ready to fight.

Schürrle tried to press, but Kai used his body to shield the ball, muscling the German off as he surveyed the pitch.

Chelsea’s back line was sitting deep, clearly wary of Arsenal’s quick transitions.

Kai spotted the pattern, then fed Cazorla with a simple pass and raised his arm.

“Push up!” he shouted.

The Gunners responded, flooding into Chelsea’s half.

In earlier seasons, Kai might’ve hesitated to push that high, but after Madrid, after all those battles, he trusted his instincts — and his teammates.

Now, Arsenal were pressing in waves.

Kai operated between the lines, contesting every header, orchestrating every press, even firing a long-range effort when the chance arose.

“Pass!”

“Run!”

"No, back off!"

“Come on, give it back!”

Arsenal’s players began communicating actively on the pitch—short calls, quick gestures, sharp looks exchanged.

Through that connection, they slipped into match rhythm faster than Chelsea.

“Tsk,” Mourinho muttered, a glint of reluctant admiration in his eyes.

Kai’s gestures and constant shouting had helped Arsenal settle quickly.

Chelsea’s Terry did similar things, sure—but he didn’t have Kai’s young, raw energy.

Then—

A gasp erupted from the crowd.

Mourinho almost yanked at his beard in surprise.

As Arsenal pushed forward, Kai suddenly pulled the trigger from a distance.

The shot came out of nowhere. Fortunately for Chelsea, Čech reacted in time—diving full stretch to his right, just managing to get a palm on it. The ball ricocheted off the post before a defender scrambled it clear.

Even so, the entire stadium had felt the air shift.

Arsenal’s players were holding their heads, groaning in disbelief. That effort was inches away from giving them the dream start.

On the touchline, Pat Rice rushed out of the dugout, clutching his head.

“It almost went in!” he yelled, still half laughing, half in agony.

From that angle, it had looked destined for the top corner.

Wenger exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples before forcing himself to calm again.

It was fine. The goal hadn’t come, but the intent was perfect—it had rattled Chelsea.

Arsenal were sharp, hungry, and confident.

And Kai—he looked like a man possessed.

Chapter 229: The Speech

Wenger stood at the exit, his gaze fixed on Kai, who was still standing tall on the roof of the car.

Surrounded by fans, the 20-year-old had completely won over all of Arsenal.

“ARSENAL!!!”

“ARSENAL!!!”

“ARSENAL!!!”

Even inside the office building, staff who hadn’t gone home yet leaned out of their windows, arms raised, cheering along with the fans below.

The entire Colney complex was shaking with energy.

Pat Rice, normally calm and reserved, couldn’t help but join in the cheering.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Arsenal this alive — this united.

The passion had reached a fever pitch, erupting like a volcano.

Pat turned to Wenger, eyes gleaming. “He’s not going to be another Vieira, Arsène. I promise you that. He’s going to be the most legendary captain in Arsenal’s history. He’s given this team its soul.”

Wenger smiled faintly, watching Kai with quiet pride.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, “my greatest contribution to Arsenal was bringing Kai here.”

Pat cupped his ear. “What was that?”

Wenger chuckled, shaking his head. The laugh grew louder until it became a full, hearty laugh that carried over the noise of the crowd.

The Premier League!

They could feel it — everyone at Arsenal.

From the manager to the kitman, from the players to the fans outside — they all believed.

They would fight. They would endure.

At that moment, Wenger’s heart was filled with confidence.

...

Two days later, May 11th arrived — the final round of the Premier League season.

The match everyone had been waiting for: Arsenal versus Chelsea — the title decider at Emirates Stadium.

Thousands of Arsenal and Chelsea supporters poured into North London, flooding the streets in a sea of red and blue.

To keep things under control, police were deployed across the city. Barricades lined key junctions, separating rival fans and preventing clashes — though a few scuffles still broke out, leading to several arrests.

Around the Emirates, the atmosphere was already on fire.

Hours before kick-off, both sets of supporters were singing at the top of their lungs, chanting and trading taunts back and forth.

Many Chelsea fans didn’t even have tickets but came anyway — standing outside, hoping to be part of the moment.

Arsenal had allocated only 5,000 away tickets. Chelsea’s owner, Roman Abramovich, wasn’t happy.

“Arsenal are being unsporting!” he complained to the press.

Arsenal’s official response was simple: they were prioritizing their own fans.

And the supporters agreed. Ticket prices might have been steep, but no one wanted to miss this.

This was the game — the match that would decide the title.

At 4 p.m., both team buses arrived almost at the same time.

The street outside the stadium erupted.

“Go on, Arsenal!”

“Chelsea! Chelsea!”

“Arsenal! Never give up!”

“Chelsea are the champions!”

The air was filled with chants and counter-chants, red and blue banners waving furiously.

One by one, the players stepped off their buses to thunderous cheers.

Then, as Kai emerged last from Arsenal’s coach, the noise hit another level entirely.

“Kai!!!”

“Kai!!!”

“Kai!!!”

The entire Arsenal section exploded, fans screaming his name like a war cry.

He might not have had the global fame of Suarez or other stars, but to these supporters, Kai was everything — the heart, the captain, the symbol of Arsenal’s fight.

To them, Arsenal could lose anyone — but not Kai.

“This is Sky Sports live from the Emirates,” said Martin Taylor in the commentary box, his voice buzzing with energy. “And I tell you what, Alan, it feels like we’re sitting on top of a volcano here tonight!”

Alan Smith laughed. “You can feel it through the headset, Martin! This atmosphere is absolutely unreal — the place is rocking!”

The cameras panned across the stadium, capturing the bouncing stands. The fans were jumping in unison, their chants rolling like thunder through the air.

“The stage is set,” Taylor continued. “This is it — the final day of the 2013–2014 Premier League season. Matchday 38. Arsenal versus Chelsea — and the title comes down to this one game.”

“No one expected it to go this far,” added Smith. “The title race right to the wire, and it’s a head-to-head at the Emirates. You couldn’t script it any better.”

“Both sides are carrying a few scars,” Taylor noted. “Suarez’s injury has hit Arsenal hard, while Chelsea are missing Lampard and Fabregas — so it’s even in terms of setbacks. But what a showdown this promises to be.”

As he spoke, cameras showed staff carrying a large podium to the players’ tunnel. They set it down and carefully placed the Premier League trophy — gleaming, crowned, and wrapped in neutral ribbons of red and blue on each side of the handles respectively— on top.

“Oh, look at that,” said Taylor, excitement in his tone. “The Premier League trophy is already here at the Emirates. It’s ready to be handed out tonight — whichever way this goes.”

Smith chuckled. “That’s motivation right there, Martin. You can bet both teams have clocked it already.”

Indeed, during warm-ups, players from both sides couldn’t help glancing toward the trophy.

Kai stood before it for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before turning and jogging back to his teammates.

After the warm-up, both sides retreated to their dressing rooms.

Outside, the fans were still trading chants, but Arsenal’s crowd clearly held the upper hand.

“Arsenal! Go on, Arsenal!”

“Forward, Gunners!”

“Champions! Arsenal are the champions!”

In the East Stand, Billy waved a massive flag so fiercely that it nearly hit the fans behind him.

Beside him, Meadows was red-faced, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Louder! Come on! Drown them out!”

Their roars merged with those of the thousands around them, filling the stands with energy.

...

In Arsenal’s locker room, Vermaelen had just finished his speech when he turned and called Kai forward.

He knew his own limits — he wasn’t the type to stir emotions. That was Kai’s domain.

And sure enough, before Kai even said a word, the room began to buzz. His teammates started cheering and clapping, their adrenaline kicking in the moment he stepped up.

Vermaelen could only smile helplessly.

Kai stood at the centre of the room, slowly scanning the faces around him. His tone was steady but heavy with purpose.

“Guys,” he began, “after everything we’ve been through this season, we’ve finally reached this moment. The trophy is right there — within our grasp.”

He paused, his eyes sharp and voice rising.

“We’ve endured frustration, disappointment, and doubt. But tonight… it ends. We’re the ones who’ll change it!”

Kai clenched his fist. “Let’s bring back the trophy Arsenal has been chasing for a decade! It’s ours for the taking!”

He turned and pointed toward the tunnel. “Out there — that’s where we’ll write our names into history! Think about it — our victory, our colours, red and white ribbons on that trophy!”

The room erupted into shouts.

Kai raised his voice above the noise. “Everyone’s watching us. For ourselves, for the fans, and for Arsenal — let’s go win this!”

He turned toward Szczęsny. “Wojciech, keep your focus. You’re our last line — don’t lose your head.”

Szczęsny nodded, his expression serious.

“Defenders,” Kai continued, “stay disciplined. Don’t bite too early. Captain, lead from the back!”

Vermaelen gave a firm nod. “Got it.”

“Cazorla, Flamini — the middle’s yours. Control it, dominate it, and keep the ball moving.”

Then his tone hardened as he looked toward the forwards. “You lot — finish the job. No mercy. This is a title decider. Only the winner gets to smile at the end!”

He took a deep breath and stretched his arm forward. “Come on. Bring it in!”

The players gathered around him, forming a tight circle with their hands stacked together. Their faces were tense, determined.

Kai’s voice dropped low. “Stay calm. No rash moves. Talk to each other. Play with your hearts — and keep your heads. Got it?”

“Yeah!!!” the team roared back.

Kai nodded, then shouted, “Right then — let’s fire up! It’s time!”

Their energy hit a peak.

“Arsenal!” Kai roared.

“Arsenal!” the players shouted back.

Their voices echoed through the dressing room as their hands slammed down and shot up together.

By the time Kai turned for the tunnel, the room was electric — pure fire and focus.

Chapter 228: The Arsenal Spirit

The entire city of London was already engulfed in a feverish atmosphere.

Especially in North and West London — the strongholds of Arsenal and Chelsea — tensions were running high as the 38th round of the Premier League loomed.

The Battle of London was about to erupt.

Arsenal’s Suarez was ruled out with an injury, while Chelsea was missing Lampard and Fabregas.

Both sides had gone deep into the Champions League, leaving their squads battered and fatigued.

One lacked dynamism up front, the other control in midfield — it was almost perfectly balanced.

...

“We have to take the initiative in midfield. Lampard and Fabregas being out gives us a chance to control the game,” Wenger said, standing before the tactics board as his players listened intently.

“Mourinho will likely go with a midfield of Matic, David Luiz, and Oscar. They won’t look to dominate possession — they’ll focus on disrupting our rhythm. So, we need to control the tempo and find gaps in their shape.”

As he spoke, Wenger’s gaze shifted toward Kai.

Kai gave a small nod.

Although he had only been the team’s midfield core for two matches, his performances had been impressive. With Cazorla supporting him ahead, Wenger had every reason to trust his young midfielder.

In Wenger’s eyes, Arsenal’s midfield — anchored by Kai — was superior to Chelsea’s.

If Chelsea surrendered the midfield, Arsenal would dictate the rhythm and play their trademark possession football.

The tactical meeting went on for nearly two hours before finally wrapping up.

Back in the dressing room, Chamberlain walked over to Kai.

“Feeling nervous?” he asked with a grin. “You don’t look nervous.”

Kai let out a short laugh. “I am, actually.”

Chamberlain blinked in surprise. To him, Kai was the calmest man on the pitch — someone whose heartbeat barely changed, even in chaos.

Kai shrugged. “It’s the title on the line. One game for everything — the Premier League and the hopes of the Arsenal fans. You can’t expect me to be completely calm. This could be my first league trophy.”

Chamberlain nodded thoughtfully. “I just hope I’ll get a chance to play.”

Kai gave his shoulder a light pat. “You’ll get your moment. Don’t worry.”

...

Meanwhile, over at Chelsea’s Cobham Training Ground, Mourinho was delivering his final orders.

“We have to disrupt Arsenal’s passing. Press the midfield hard, don’t give them space to breathe.”

After finishing, he looked at Oscar. “This transformation we’ve been working on — it’s time to show results.”

Oscar nodded, but his expression was tight.

He wasn’t happy with his role anymore. Mourinho’s changes had bulked him up; his body felt heavier, slower. The finesse and agility that once defined his game had faded.

The transformation was supposed to make him more complete — instead, it had blurred his strengths.

But at Chelsea, refusing Mourinho wasn’t an option.

“Do you think Oscar can handle it?” asked assistant coach Steven Holland quietly after the meeting.

Mourinho gathered his notes without looking up. “That depends on him. We’ve done everything we can. If he can’t deliver, it’s on him.”

Holland exhaled. He wasn’t convinced.

He knew how obsessed Mourinho was with Kai — perhaps more than any midfielder he’d ever managed.

The Portuguese coach had repeatedly pushed the club to raise their offer for Arsenal’s midfield general, promising that with Kai, Chelsea would usher in a new era of dominance.

But Arsenal wouldn’t budge. Not a single inch.

No matter the price, no matter the persuasion — Arsenal rejected every bid outright.

Later, alone in his office, Mourinho sat down and replayed Arsenal’s Champions League clash with Real Madrid.

He had watched it countless times, but each viewing left him both awestruck and frustrated.

Kai — the perfect midfielder.

Positionally sharp, fearless in tackles, crisp in distribution, and showing leadership and composure beyond his years.

Everything Mourinho ever wanted in a midfielder.

He smiled wryly to himself. There’s a kind of love that can only stay one-sided.

But he wasn’t done.

He’d beat Arsenal — and then, he’d make Kai see that his future didn’t lie in red.

He’d show him that under his command, he could become the best in the world.

“After we win,” Mourinho murmured, “he’ll understand.”

A small, confident grin tugged at his lips. “I’ll get you eventually.”

(Yo, The Special One got some wild ideas, lol)

...

At Arsenal’s training base, Kai suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.

“Cold wind,” he muttered to himself before heading to the locker room for a shower.

Later, as he and Chamberlain walked to the underground car park and got into the car, they were met with a shocking sight the moment they drove out.

A huge crowd of Arsenal fans had gathered outside the gates, surrounding the players’ cars.

The fans were pounding on the cars, faces flushed with excitement.

Kai could see several teammates’ vehicles also blocked, while the overwhelmed security staff struggled to maintain order.

“What’s going on?” Chamberlain asked, startled.

Through the glass, they could hear the shouts.

“We’re winning the League, right?”

“We’re gonna win, right?”

“Give us an answer!”

Kai frowned.

The noise was growing chaotic. Some fans had started pushing against the barriers; security personnel were trying to hold them back, but tempers were flaring.

If it continued, things could spiral out of control.

He unbuckled his seatbelt.

“What are you doing?” Chamberlain grabbed his arm. “Are you mad? It’s dangerous out there!”

Kai glanced at him calmly. “If no one steps in, this could get ugly fast.”

Before Chamberlain could respond, Kai pushed open the door and stepped out into the noise.

The moment Kai stepped out of the car, the crowd surged forward and surrounded him.

More fans poured in from every direction.

. He could feel hands pressing against his shoulders, arms, even his back — too close for comfort.

Frustration boiled up inside him. He drew in a deep breath and roared — a guttural, commanding bellow that cut through the chaos.

“EVERYONE, QUIET!!!”

The roar echoed through the air like thunder. The mob froze. The wild noise that had filled the parking lot seconds ago suddenly vanished into dead silence.

Kai’s outburst wasn’t new — he’d done this in matches before, rallying teammates or breaking tension — but no one had expected it here.

Taking advantage of the pause, Kai steadied himself against the hood, pushed off, and leapt onto the roof of his car.

From up high, he could finally see the scale of it. The entire area around the training base was packed — hundreds, maybe thousands of Arsenal fans, all staring up at him.

Their faces carried the same mixture of longing, hope, and fanatic energy.

Inside the nearby cars, his teammates looked on in disbelief.

Vermaelen muttered, half-horror, “Has he lost it?”

Cazorla gawked. “Kai… he actually got out! That’s mad!”

Mustafi shook his head. “That’s a brave man right there.”

Standing tall on the car roof, Kai swept his gaze across the crowd and shouted, his voice booming across the parking lot.

“What are you doing here?!”

“What are you trying to get from us?!”

“What’s your reason for gathering like this?!”

Silence.

The fans exchanged uneasy glances. The security staff, taking advantage of the lull, quickly formed a protective circle around Kai.

They couldn’t afford for anything to happen to him.

Kai’s voice rose again, cutting through the stillness.

“I’m disappointed in you — all of you!”

He pointed at the fans, his tone sharp but full of conviction.

“I’ve always believed Gunners fans were brave, proud, and confident. But look at yourselves! What’s this? Fear?!”

“Are you afraid of Chelsea?!”

The fans fell quiet.

Kai’s eyes blazed. “Afraid of Mourinho?”

Still no answer. Some lowered their heads.

“Answer me!” Kai thundered. “Don’t make me look down on you!”

A fan finally broke the silence. “We just want the League!”

Another voice followed. “That’s right! The League!”

Soon, the chant spread like wildfire.

“We want the League!”

“Kai! Tell us! Can you win it?!”

“Kai! Say something!”

The chaos threatened to erupt again until Kai’s deep, commanding voice sliced through it once more.

“Quiet!”

Instant silence.

When he spoke again, his tone was firm — less anger, more heart.

“No one can promise you anything,” he said, his eyes sweeping across the sea of faces. “Only the strong deserve the Premier League. Strength isn’t just about skill — it’s about spirit.”

He pointed toward the crowd. “Look at you right now. This isn’t strength. This is fear before the battle even begins.”

“The old Arsenal — the Invincibles — they went 49 matches unbeaten. Do you think those fans stood around trembling before big games? No! They believed!”

“The Premier League isn’t decided by us alone — it’s decided by you as well.”

“If you’ve got this much energy, save it for match day! Scream your lungs out for us then — not here, not like this!”

His voice cracked with passion. “You’re scared! Scared of losing, scared of being mocked — but fear doesn’t win trophies!”

He clenched his fist and shouted, “Be confident!”

“Believe in yourselves! Believe in us! And believe in Arsenal!”

“I can’t promise you the Premier League — but I can promise you this: no one, and I mean no one, will conquer our home. Not Real Madrid, and definitely not Chelsea!”

The fans fell silent again, this time not out of fear, but reflection.

Kai signaled the security team, who began ushering the crowd back in an orderly manner.

“Now go home!” Kai called out. “Rest up. Save your energy. If you want to help, then shout louder than ever when the match comes. That’s what matters most!”

“Go on — home! All of you!”

Slowly, the crowd began to disperse.

Kai exhaled heavily, relief washing over him. He was just about to step down when the noise started up again.

He froze, glancing over. The fans were still there — but this time, smiling.

“Kai!” one of them shouted from the front. “One more!”

Others joined in.

“One more, Kai!”

“Let’s do it once!”

“Kai!”

“Kai!!”

“Kai!!!”

Their voices echoed like waves, full of energy rather than desperation.

Kai smiled, shaking his head helplessly. He raised his hands slightly — instantly, the crowd fell silent again, all eyes fixed on him.

He planted his feet, bent slightly, and drew his fist to his chest, gathering his voice.

Then he bellowed from the depths of his lungs:

“ARSENAL!!!”

The crowd erupted, leaping and roaring back in unison —

“FORWARD!!!”

Kai threw three powerful punches into the air.

“ARSENAL!!!”

“ARSENAL!!!”

“ARSENAL!!!”

The entire Colney Training Centre seemed to shake under the echoing roar of the fans.

Kai raised both arms high.

“ARSENAL!!!”

The fans went wild. Arms shot up like a forest swaying in the wind.

Security staff, players, even club workers watching from the windows couldn’t help themselves — they joined in, fists raised, shouting with every bit of passion they had left.

“ARSENAL!!!”

“ARSENAL!!!”

“ARSENAL!!!”

For that moment, North London’s heartbeat was one.

Chapter 433: When Legends Meet at the Point

At this point, Lin Yi honestly wanted to grab a rocket launcher and blow up TNT headquarters in one shot.

Was Barkley’s jinx just a normal jinx? Hell no. Although the man was the No. 1 Knicks' hype man, when his mouth opened, sometimes it could be basically a death sentence..

Could the Knicks survive it?

Apparently not.

...

On the 17th, the Knicks hosted the New Orleans Hornets.

Before tip-off, Gallinari and Lou Williams received their championship rings at Madison Square Garden. The fans gave them a warm round of applause — the kind reserved for those who once helped raise a banner.

This season, Gallinari has been impressive — 20.5 points, 7.4 rebounds, and 2.9 assists a night, while hitting 40% from three. He was making 2.8 triples per game, and everyone agreed he deserved a spot on the Western Conference All-Star reserves.

Lou Williams wasn’t far behind either — 17 points and 3 assists a game. With those two leading the charge, the Hornets were sitting ninth in the West and looked like a legitimate playoff team.

Gallinari had been declared the new Hornet King on Twitter by the fans. Unfortunately for him, he ran into Chris Paul, who was ready to remind everyone how monarchy works.

Midway through the game, Paul got a switch against Gallinari. One sharp crossover later, Danilo was down — both figuratively and literally.

Facing his old team, Paul showed no mercy. If you wanted to make it sound dramatic, it was like he was saying goodbye to New Orleans in his own cold-blooded way.

Gallinari hadn’t changed much, though. Before the game, he was already getting along with Knicks rookie Chandler Parsons. Lin Yi even saw him hand Parsons a list of addresses and phone numbers — all familiar night spots from Gallinari’s New York days.

Good thing Klay was still recovering at home. Otherwise, Lin Yi was sure the three of them would’ve ended up in a long philosophical discussion about... nightlife.

During the game, Lin Yi also noticed something unusual — Gallinari’s thinning hair seemed to have miraculously grown back. Turkey sure does work wonders.

So naturally, after the game, Lin Yi had to touch it — and somehow that turned into a five-minute conversation about hair care routines.

Final score: Hornets 99, Knicks 108.

After the loss, Gallinari said he regretted not being able to beat his old team, but still gave them credit.

“I hope they keep this up,” he said. “As a former Knick and champion, I’m proud of what they’re doing.”

Two days later, before the Knicks’ matchup with the Nets, the All-Star starters for the 2012 Orlando game were announced.

Eastern starters: Chris Paul, Dwayne Wade, LeBron James, Lin Yi, Dwight Howard.

Western starters: Russel Westbrook, Kobe Bryant, Kevin Durant, Blake Griffin, Yao Ming.

Carmelo Anthony and Chris Paul joining the East — and Yao Ming not retiring — had completely rewritten history. Normally, Derrick Rose would’ve been the East’s starting point guard, but Paul’s arrival pushed him to the bench. Even Anthony couldn’t crack the starting five.

To be fair, Melo’s new life as the main man of Cleveland had made him insanely popular. He nearly dethroned LeBron in the voting, losing by just over ten thousand votes.

Lin Yi couldn’t help but suspect Stern had a hand in that. With the way nine out of ten fans were James haters these days, there’s no way Melo wouldn’t have stolen the spot otherwise.

Honestly, he thought it would’ve been hilarious if Anthony had forced prime LeBron James to watch the All-Star Game from the bench. The mental image alone made Lin Yi shake his head.

After barely holding onto his starter spot, LeBron told the media, “Starter or reserve, it doesn’t matter. I will represent.”

Of course, fans immediately asked, “If it doesn’t matter, why not give Melo his spot?”

James then followed up, saying, “Being an All-Star starter is an honor. Getting selected itself is a recognition of a player’s work. The All-Star Game represents the peak of a career.”

This season, James’s PR situation was tanking faster than the economy. Just recently, after a loss to Dallas, he said he didn't like playing power forward and wanted to move back to small forward.

The problem?

The media turned into something opposite of what he said, painting him as a villain.

Oof

Back to basketball — the Knicks handled the Nets easily on the 19th. Klay returned from injury, but the Barkley curse wasn’t done yet.

Another one went down.

Lin Yi literally facepalmed.

This time it was Shaun Livingston.

He twisted his knee mid-game. The MRI confirmed it — out for four to eight weeks.

Not as bad as Billups’ injury, but eerily similar to last season.

“Shaun, be honest,” Lin Yi joked after the game, “you didn’t sign that minimum contract thinking you’d only play half a season again, right?”

Livingston nearly coughed up his hydration drink laughing — then gave Lin Yi a friendly punch to the side.

It wasn’t like he wanted to get hurt. But now, even if he healed up fast, the earliest he could return would be near the end of the season.

He looked up helplessly, thinking, So much for perfect attendance… maybe next lifetime.

Lin Yi, meanwhile, couldn’t help but feel sad for Livingston. Every time the man seemed to be balling, his knee slams the built-in auto rest button— and forces a shutdown when it gets tired.

He wasn’t too worried, though. Livingston’s current style didn’t rely on explosive athleticism anyway.

What did worry him was that Paul suddenly had no backup point guard left.

“Chris,” Lin Yi sighed, “are you cursed or something?”

Paul just stared at him then spread his hands with that classic “what do you want me to do?” look — equal parts helpless and annoyed.

After Livingston went down, D’Antoni didn’t hesitate. He decided to activate McGrady and slot him into the rotation as the backup point guard.

So now, the Knicks’ backcourt rotation was officially… Paul and McGrady.

Lin Yi stared at the lineup sheet for a moment, then chuckled to himself.

Paul and T-Mac, huh? he thought. If this were five years ago, that combo would’ve broken the league.

He leaned back on the bench, half amused, half nostalgic. Somehow, the sight of McGrady running the point again felt oddly poetic — like basketball history looping back on itself.

“Who knows,” Lin Yi murmured, “maybe it’ll actually work.”

For a moment, even he had to admit… the Knicks’ backcourt looked kind of beautiful.

Chapter 432: Back-To-Back Injuries

Chris Webber couldn’t help himself during the postgame show.

“You know,” he joked, “some guys don’t even last as long as Lin did getting that triple-double. That’s ridiculous.”

Anyway, back to basketball.

Against the Lakers, Lin Yi posted 22 points, 21 rebounds, and 18 assists, just two assists shy of a 20+ triple-double.

After the game, he turned to Chris Paul and half-jokingly said, “Chris, you’re basically our Kobe out there.”

“Loving someone so much you can’t stop teasing them?” Paul muttered. “Give me a break. That’s just trolling with extra steps.”

Kobe, who bricked his way to 24 missed shots that night, refused to do any postgame interviews.

He wasn’t angry at Lin Yi’s performance. He was just fed up. This Lakers team gave him zero hope.

If they somehow made it out of the Western Conference this season, Kobe figured it would take a miracle.

Before the season began, many people were optimistic about the Kobe–Nash partnership — two MVPs joining forces. But the reality? Nash’s defensive struggles were a gaping hole, and even the league’s best defender couldn’t cover for him.

After the game, when Nash chatted with Mike D’Antoni, the coach teased him, “Steve, you really should’ve joined Lin this summer. Look at this ring — championship-grade craftsmanship.”

Nash just gave him a wry smile.

D’Antoni, once known for his easygoing nature, now carried himself differently. The hesitation was gone, replaced by a quiet confidence.

Winning an NBA championship — is it really that hard?

Sometimes it’s not, as Mengke Bateer and Sun Yue could tell you.

But then there’s Malone, Stockton, Iverson, Nash, Carter… guys who chased it all their lives and never caught it.

For Nash, tonight’s loss just added another bitter layer.

He joined the Lakers hoping to chase one last dream — to finally wear a ring before calling it a career.

But fate wasn’t kind. Between a roster that made no sense and the Buss family’s brewing power struggle, the Lakers were sinking into a mess that would last for years.

After the game, Lin Yi, who now held the NBA record for the fastest triple-double, found himself surrounded by reporters again.

He felt a twinge of guilt. In another timeline, this was supposed to be Jeremy Lin’s season — Linsanity was meant to light up the league. There was even supposed to be a documentary about it.

But now? Forget documentaries. Lin Yi’s rise had completely overshadowed it.

The 86-point game was still fresh in people’s minds, and now this first-quarter triple-double was redefining what fans thought was possible.

Jeremy Lin’s story didn’t create the same frenzy this time, but Lin Yi didn’t see that as a bad thing.

He even remembered that Jeremy’s real-life documentary drew plenty of criticism — people thought he should’ve focused more on basketball instead of marketing himself, especially since he wasn’t even an All-Star then.

Back then, the Chinese basketball market was starving for a new idol.

But now? Fans were spoiled. Lin Yi had them eating five-star meals every night — we're talking about caviars, lobsters, and scallops.

Even with Yao Ming nearing retirement, his legacy continues to resonate deeply with fans. And Yi Jianlian’s solid play in Washington gave them something else to cheer about, so the spotlight on Jeremy Lin dimmed naturally.

On February 11th, after crushing the Lakers at home, the Knicks flew straight to the frozen north — Minnesota.

The Knicks won again, 118–107, proving that while the city was cold, it still couldn't freeze out this red-hot Knicks team.

After that, the team finally earned two well-deserved days of rest.

...

On February 13th, the day before Valentine’s, Klay Thompson rolled his ankle during practice.

Typical of the soon-to-be “Splash Brothers,” his injury was in the exact same spot as Curry’s.

Still, Klay wasn’t fragile—he was actually one of the more durable guys on the team. The real problem was that he’d been pushing himself too hard lately.

It wasn’t hard to see why. The Knicks had Lin Yi, the ultimate workaholic, who treated every training session like a life-or-death battle. Klay didn’t want to fall behind, so he upped his own workload to match.

In a way, Lin Yi’s model student persona indirectly contributed to this injury.

During the long grind of an NBA season, most players know better than to overtrain. The goal is to maintain your form—work on timing, execution, and chemistry with teammates. But Lin Yi? He was the exception to every rule.

Klay, still a rookie, had taken Lin’s routine as gospel. He pushed himself past his limits… and his ankle paid the price.

It was that kind of year. Every team in the shortened season was battling some kind of injury bug. The Knicks, who had been lucky so far, finally joined the group chat. Though, to be fair, the rest of the league probably wanted to kick them right back out.

Compared to other teams falling apart physically, the Knicks were still the picture of health.

Fortunately, Klay’s injury wasn’t serious. The team doctor said it was a mild sprain—about a week’s rest and he’d be fine. He even added that Klay could play through it if Coach D’Antoni needed him.

When D’Antoni heard that, he nearly blew a gasket.

“What do you mean, play through it?” he said. “You think I’m that kind of coach? Send him home to rest. A week, two weeks—whatever it takes. Just get him healthy.”

So Klay was sent home immediately.

Later that day, Lin Yi stopped by to check in. He knew this injury didn’t exist in his memory of how things should have gone, and he didn’t want to see Klay turn into another injury-prone star down the road.

“Klay,” Lin said, “you’ve got to control your workload. Look at Chris—his training volume is scientific. He knows when to push and when to pull back.”

Most rookies didn’t. Markieff Morris, for instance, had already hit the rookie wall—his numbers were dropping fast. It was normal.

Rookies tend to go full throttle at the start of the season, then crash when fatigue and scouting reports catch up. That’s the rookie wall in a nutshell.

Klay scratched his head. “But Lin… how come you train so hard and never seem tired?”

Lin looked up dramatically, searching for an excuse.

“That’s an illusion,” he said, keeping a straight face. “I only do it for the cameras. If I can rest, I’ll rest.”

Klay blinked. He wasn’t buying it. Still, he decided not to argue. Lin was a freak—talented, driven, and ridiculously disciplined. Try to match him, and you’d break before he did.

The sprain would sideline Klay for three to five games. It bothered him; he was in the middle of two battles—one for Rookie of the Year against Kyrie Irving, and another for Sixth Man of the Year against James Harden.

“I’ll be smarter about it next time,” Klay promised. “No more overdoing it during the season.”

Lin grinned and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder before giving him a big-ol-bear hug. “Good. Learn from it. Longevity wins in the end.”

"I...ca-n't...brea-the," Klay whispered before Lin put him down.

Lin hung around for a while before leaving.

He was relieved—Klay wasn’t the type to ignore advice. But Lin didn’t know that Barkley’s usual bad-luck commentary was still hovering in the air, waiting to strike.

...

On Valentine’s Day, the Knicks traveled to Toronto.

Midway through the second quarter, during a fast break, Billups suddenly went down clutching his leg.

Lin Yi froze on the bench. The moment he saw the pain on Billups’ face, he knew—it was that injury. In his previous life, Billups had suffered a devastating tear around this time. It was the injury that ended his career.

Even after rehab, Billups was never the same.

This season, Lin had brought Chris Paul in partly to reduce Billups’ workload, but the brutal, compact schedule was catching up with everyone. No amount of rotation could fully protect players from fatigue.

The Knicks won 105–97, but there was no celebration afterward. The locker room was silent.

The MRI confirmed Lin’s fear—Billups had a torn Achilles and would be out for the season.

Fans flooded the Knicks’ website with messages of support. Former teammates sent encouragement on Twitter.

It was the first time Lin Yi had seen one of his teammates ruled out for the year.

He had always been the healthy one—the guy whose presence seemed to keep the team afloat. But even that luck couldn’t hold forever.

When the Knicks returned to New York, Lin took a few teammates to visit Billups in the hospital.

Surprisingly, the veteran was in good spirits. He was already cracking jokes and cheering the team on before his surgery. The visit hit everyone hard—if Billups could stay positive through this, none of them had an excuse to sulk.

...

On February 15th, the Knicks hosted the Kings at Madison Square Garden for the second game of a back-to-back.

The last time the two teams met, New York had embarrassed Sacramento by 69 points—a loss that sent the Kings into a tailspin. They hadn’t won since.

With Billups out, D’Antoni planned to bring McGrady back into the rotation, though T-Mac didn’t play that night.

Even on tired legs, the Knicks cruised.

Rookie Tristan Thompson, however, looked completely lost. He glanced around the roaring Garden, watching the energy, the lights, the fans chanting Lin Yi’s name—and couldn’t help but feel bitter.

In his head, this was supposed to be his world.

Having tasted life in New York during his brief time he played against the Knicks, going back to Sacramento felt like exile. To him, it was better to warm the Knicks’ bench than to start for the Kings.

By the final buzzer, the scoreboard read 88–127.

Another blowout.

After the game, Barkley sighed on TNT, “The Knicks have been through some rough luck lately, but somehow, their core guys are still standing. It’s a tough stretch ahead, but if they keep this mindset, they’ll be fine. They’ve got to keep fighting.”

Talk about jinxing.

Chapter 227: Mark, The Professional Capper

“The 2013–2014 Premier League season is about to reach its final round. Arsenal and Chelsea remain locked in a tight title race, with only a single point separating the two. The upcoming 38th round of the Premier League will decide who lifts the trophy. Fans from...”

Billy sat at home, eyes fixed on the TV as the sports news anchor’s voice echoed through the living room. His heart was pounding.

For weeks, Arsenal’s title chase had left him restless. Every day, he’d drift off into daydreams—imagining the moment the Gunners would lift that silver trophy again.

Ten years.

It had been a full decade since Arsenal last won the Premier League.

A decade of frustration, of settling for Top Four. A decade of rivals mocking them as the Fourth-Place Specialists.

But now, things were different. Arsenal were back—fighting, believing, and just ninety minutes away from ending the drought.

Billy took a deep breath.

“Imagine it,” he murmured to himself. “Wenger holding that trophy again. Kai leading the team out. Chelsea crushed at the Emirates...”

The thought alone made his chest tighten with excitement.

He grabbed his jacket and keys.

“I’m heading out,” he muttered. Moments later, the sound of his car faded into the distance.

Half an hour later, Billy pushed open the door of the Oak Bar.

Even though it was only Thursday, the place was buzzing. Arsenal shirts, scarves, and laughter filled the air.

“Pint, please!” he called out.

A few seconds later, Meadows slid a cold glass across the counter. “You and half of North London, Billy.”

Billy chuckled after taking a long sip. “Crowded today, huh?”

Meadows smirked. “They’re all like you—can’t sit still at home.”

Billy laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Mate,” Meadows said, wiping down a glass, “we’re two days away from the biggest match in ten years. Arsenal versus Chelsea for the title. Who can relax right now? People just need to be around other Gunners—talk, argue, hope.”

Billy leaned in slightly. “You see that billboard across from London Bridge? The one that says, ‘Forward! Arsenal!’ Who did that?”

Meadows grinned. “Old Hawke.”

Billy nearly spat out his drink. “You’re joking! The same Hawke who swore nine years ago he’d never support Arsenal again?”

“The very one,” Meadows said, laughing boisterously.

Old Hawke was something of a legend among the Arsenal faithful. A property tycoon, loud as a megaphone, generous as they came.

Back in Arsenal’s glory years, he’d rented planes to fly banners across London—‘In Arsène We Trust!’—and even donated to the club when they were too broke to sign players.

But when Wenger sold Vieira in 2005, Hawke lost it. He’d vowed never to back Arsenal again. And true to his word, he disappeared—until now.

This week, his massive “Forward! Arsenal!” billboard had gone up in full view of London Bridge.

Billy shook his head, grinning. “Guess he never really stopped loving the club.”

“Nah,” Meadows said. “He just needed a reason to believe again. And this season gave him one. Funny thing—since August, all the old faces have come crawling back. They act tough, but when Arsenal’s winning, none of them can resist it.”

Billy questioned. “Heard he’s even been seen in Arsenal gear?”

“Yeah,” Meadows chuckled as he shined the beer glasses. “David spotted him queuing for one at the official store. Said he wanted one for luck.”

Billy laughed, swirling his drink. “So it’s Kai, huh? He brought them all back?”

Meadows shrugged with a smile. “Maybe. That lad’s got something special. You can feel it when he plays—energy, heart, that old Arsenal fire.”

Billy nodded slowly. “Yeah... that celebration of his after every goal—the one at the East Stand. Makes you feel like you’re part of it.”

Meadows pointed with his shining cloth. “Tell me about it. East Stand tickets are gold dust these days. People want to be close to that moment.”

They even set up a special interactive celebration area — a section where the folding seats could be tucked away to form a standing terrace.

It had quickly become the liveliest corner of the stadium, the heartbeat of the home support. Arsenal’s die-hard fans loved it. Everyone wanted a spot there — close enough to shout, sing, and even exchange a few words with Kai. Those tickets were almost impossible to get now.

Meadows and Billy were chatting over their pints when a sudden roar burst out from the crowd inside the bar.

They turned, startled, and saw fans raising their arms, cheering at the screen.

The television was playing a clip from ten years ago — Arsenal lifting the Premier League trophy.

The footage was grainy, the resolution poor, but the faces were unmistakable: Vieira, Henry, Pires... legends in red and white.

For a moment, the entire bar seemed to travel back in time. The crowd on-screen erupted, the old Highbury stands swaying as the Gunners celebrated another title.

The cheers from the TV filled the pub, and then gradually, the noise faded. Everyone stood quietly, eyes fixed on that piece of history.

“Arsenal are champions,” Billy murmured, his voice trembling slightly. “God, that was beautiful.”

“No one’s craved this title more than us,” Meadows added softly. “Ten years... we’ve waited too damn long.”

Feeling the nostalgic atmosphere thicken, Billy raised his pint and said loudly. “To Kai! To Arsenal! And to finally bring the title home!"

Glasses clinked across the bar as the Arsenal faithful shouted along.

"To Finally Bringing The Title Home!!!"

...

Later that evening, Arsenal manager Martin Hughes sat down for an interview with Sky Sports.

“These past ten years,” Hughes said with a weary smile, “have been agonizing for all of us. So much has gone wrong — and half the time, we couldn’t even explain why. We’ve had enough, honestly. But the blows just kept coming.”

He paused, letting out a slow sigh.

“I work for Arsenal, but I’m also an Arsenal fan. I feel exactly what the supporters feel. We’ve all been waiting for someone — something to break this cycle.”

Then, a small grin crept across his face. “And you know what? We finally got it.”

“July 9th, 2011,” he continued. “A rainy night in London. The club was in chaos after that ra–Mhmn I mean Fabregas’ betrayal, and the mood was toxic. And then this young lad from Sporting arrived — Kai. I was in a foul mood that night, but somehow, when I met him... I just felt calm. He has that kind of presence.”

(Yo, Mark, We see through your lies lol😂)

Hughes chuckled. “We had a chat — well, more like a debate. Kai’s a stubborn kid, but in the best way. He told me straight: ‘If you keep wallowing in this mess, you’ll only sink deeper.’ And you know what? He was right. He convinced me.”

The interviewer laughed. “You mentioned before that you and Kai had a heated argument in the car — something to do with Fabregas?”

Hughes blinked. “What? No, no, you’ve got it wrong! I wouldn’t pick a fight with him — and Kai’s not that kind of person. Sure, I was angry back then, but that passed quickly.” He shrugged with a faint grin. “Honestly, I couldn’t be bothered.”

“Fair enough,” the reporter smiled. “But Mustafi told us you spent an hour cursing Fabregas in that same car.”

Martin Hughes stared at him for a second, utterly speechless.

Then his jaw tightened. He muttered under his breath, “You journalists really don’t give a man a break, do you?”

Chapter 226: The Final Stretch

A week had passed since the end of the Champions League.

Arsenal had already shaken off the sting of their semi-final exit.

For the players, it wasn’t a crushing blow. They hadn’t entered the tournament expecting to win it all anyway, and reaching the semi-finals was, in itself, a solid achievement.

The experience, however, had been invaluable—something that would serve them well next season.

But right now, their focus had shifted.

The Premier League title race was entering its final stretch.

Arsenal were sitting top of the table with 28 wins, 6 losses, and 2 draws—90 points from 36 matches. Chelsea were right behind them, just one point adrift.

Coincidentally, Chelsea had also been knocked out of the Champions League semi-finals by Atlético Madrid, which meant both English clubs were now free to put everything into the domestic race.

And that changed everything.

With both sides out of Europe, the title fight was now a straight duel between Arsenal and Chelsea.

Liverpool, meanwhile, had slipped after losing 1–0 to Chelsea in the fifth round, effectively falling out of the title picture unless something dramatic happened.

Most people didn’t expect either Arsenal or Chelsea to drop points before the final day—setting up what could be one of the most thrilling title deciders in years: Arsenal vs Chelsea at the Emirates, Round 38.

Elsewhere, the relegation battle was just as fierce. Norwich, Fulham, and Cardiff City were fighting for survival, though Norwich’s situation looked hopeless. A run of defeats had led to chaos within the club—rumors of dressing room unrest were everywhere. Fulham and Cardiff still had a faint chance, but they’d need a miracle.

That was the Premier League in a nutshell—chaotic, unpredictable, and dramatic till the end.

On May 4th, Arsenal arrived in West Bromwich, a quiet town in central England, for their next league match.

West Bromwich Albion sat comfortably in 14th with 36 points—safe from relegation and, frankly, playing without much pressure.

For Arsenal, though, every game was a must-win.

From the opening whistle, they played like it. Within half an hour, they were already 2–0 up.

Walcott scored twice, both goals assisted by Cazorla and Kai, respectively.

But even with a two-goal cushion, Arsenal didn’t take their foot off the pedal. They pressed, passed, and attacked like a team possessed.

On Sky Sports, Martin Taylor couldn’t help but grin.

“Arsenal aren’t easing off one bit—they’re still piling forward! Looks like they’re taking out their Champions League frustrations here tonight.”

Beside him, Alan Smith chuckled. “You can tell they’ve come to make a statement. And I have to say—Kai’s running the show in midfield. The way he’s dictating the tempo, it’s something else.”

Taylor laughed softly. “He’s been brilliant, hasn’t he? You rarely see a holding midfielder control a game quite like this.”

On the pitch, Cazorla slid a pass into Kai’s feet.

Kai took a glance ahead—Dorrans and Mulumbu were charging in to press. Instead of passing, he turned with the ball, shielding it with his body.

“Oh, that’s lovely! What did we just see there?” Taylor exclaimed.

Alan burst out laughing. “He’s gone for the Marseille turn! Bit less flair, a bit more muscle—but it worked! You could call that a power doughnut, Martin.”

Mulumbu tried to shoulder him off the ball, but Kai was immovable—one sharp turn, a nudge of his shoulder, and Mulumbu was sent stumbling.

Kai powered through the space, then, with the outside of his boot, whipped a low, curving trivela between the center-back and full-back.

“There it is again—Kai’s trademark!” Taylor shouted. “The trivela!”

Alan grinned. “It’s become his signature move, hasn’t it? The bend, the precision—it’s gorgeous to watch.”

Walcott raced onto the ball, and as the goalkeeper rushed out, he dinked it coolly over his head.

3–0.

Game over.

The Hawthorns fell silent.

West Brom fans sat still, frustrated and disheartened. Their team had been completely outplayed from start to finish.

Even the West Brom fans, who had already given up hope, found their team’s performance unbearable.

“They’re just lying down out there—fooking wankers!” one fan shouted, as boos and jeers filled the stands.

"Grow a f**king backbone!"

Seeing the Arsenal players celebrating again only added fuel to their anger.

From the touchline, Arsène Wenger and Pat Rice stood side by side, watching the team dominate. Both of them had their eyes fixed on Kai—each sharing the same look of satisfaction.

“I told you,” Pat said, his voice trembling slightly with excitement, “he’s mastered it.”

Wenger nodded, a faint smile on his face. “I was still a bit unsure after the Bernabéu match,” he admitted. “But now it’s clear—Kai’s vision and control are right where we need them.”

He turned to Pat with a knowing look. “You’ve done brilliant work with him, my friend.”

Wenger meant every word. Kai’s rise had Pat’s fingerprints all over it.

Pat chuckled softly. “I should be the one thanking you,” he said. “If you hadn’t insisted I take him under my wing, I’d be regretting it for the rest of my life.”

He paused for a moment, then said with quiet pride, “He’s my best work, Arsène. The perfect midfielder. And maybe… my last gift to this club.”

Wenger hesitated, catching the hint of emotion behind those words. He noticed how Pat’s chest rose and fell sharply, as if the moment meant more to him than he was willing to admit. But Wenger didn’t pry. He simply turned back to the pitch, where Arsenal continued to dominate.

After the first goal, the game had tilted entirely in Arsenal’s favor.

West Brom couldn’t live with Kai. He dictated the rhythm of the game, pulling strings from deep, switching play, tackling, pressing, intercepting—it was all effortless.

Cazorla and Kai complemented each other perfectly, but they were very different kinds of players.

Cazorla’s magic came from agility and flair. Kai’s came from power, balance, and precision.

Trying to take the ball off Kai was like running into a wall—most players didn’t even try anymore.

By the 75th minute, the result was beyond doubt. Wenger made his move.

Cazorla, Kai, and Walcott were all substituted.

For Arsenal, the job was done. There was no point risking fatigue or injury with the title race on the line.

As Arteta trotted onto the pitch, he and Kai exchanged a quick high-five.

Arteta hadn’t played much since Kai’s rise to prominence. Once the heartbeat of Arsenal’s midfield, he’d gracefully accepted his new role—as Kai’s backup and mentor figure.

“That was a beauty, you know,” Arteta said with a grin.

Kai smiled, breathing heavily. “All yours now. Just make sure they don’t sneak one back.”

Arteta chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m not built for battles anymore—but I can keep things tidy.”

Kai laughed and handed him the armband before heading to the bench. He wiped the sweat from his face with a towel, took a long breath, and sank into his seat.

From there, he watched as Arsenal calmly saw out the match. West Brom had no answers, no spark left in them. The game had ended the moment they stopped believing.

Pass by pass, Arsenal ran down the clock—professional, efficient, ruthless.

When the referee finally blew for full time, the traveling Arsenal fans erupted.

Martin Taylor’s voice came alive on Sky Sports:

“That’s it! Full time at The Hawthorns—and the title race is still alive! Arsenal have done their job, a convincing 3–0 win here against West Bromwich Albion!”

Alan Smith added, “And Chelsea have just beaten Norwich 1–0. That means the top two stay neck and neck. What a finale we’ve got ahead of us next week.”

Taylor nodded. “Exactly—Arsenal first with 93 points, Chelsea right behind on 92. It’s all going to come down to that last game of the season… Arsenal versus Chelsea, at the Emirates. You couldn’t have scripted it better.”

Chapter 431: Lakers vs Knicks End

A double-double in a single quarter isn’t rare in the NBA.

But a triple-double in one quarter?

That’s something you don’t see — not since detailed stat tracking began.

Lin Yi suddenly realized he was on the verge of doing the impossible. His rebounds and assists were already in double digits, and there was still time left in the first quarter. He just needed four more points. Four points to make history — to become the first player ever to record a triple-double in a single quarter.

He remembered that Nikola Jokic — The Joker of the future — once held the record for the fastest triple-double in NBA history, at just 14 minutes and 33 seconds. Even that was considered unreal. But tonight, Lin Yi was moving at that same impossible pace.

Yu Jia’s voice on CCTV rose with excitement:

“Lin Yi might actually set the fastest triple-double record in NBA history tonight!”

Across the country, Lin Yi’s fans were already flooding forums and social media.

@LinNation88: My Lin’s the fastest in history — anyone got a problem with that? 🔥💪

@MambaWho: Bro’s too quick — blink and he’s already at the rim 😭🏀

@BasketballBrain: Okay, that sounded weird… but seriously, he is that fast 😂

@MSGFaithful: They say Lin plays steady, short, and fast — how’s that even possible?! 💨

At Madison Square Garden, Lin Yi had become the center of the universe. The crowd was on its feet, every eye following him.

He knew opportunities like this didn’t come often. A single-quarter triple-double — this wasn’t something you could plan. You had to grab it.

So when Barnes hit a tough three for the Lakers, Lin Yi waved his teammates out of the paint and called for space.

“MVP! MVP! MVP!”

The chant spread through the Garden, wave after wave, as Lin Yi glided up the court. He rose, hung in the air, and released a soft jumper—

Clang.

The crowd fell silent, as if the air had been punched out of the building.

Lin Yi exhaled. That was a good look.

On the other end, Blake slowed things down for the Lakers, eating up the clock. So much for a friendly shootout. Kobe eventually got the ball, pulled up, and knocked down a jumper. 15–44.

Lin Yi frowned as the seconds slipped away. He knew every possession mattered now.

Next play, he attacked Barnes head-on. One, two, three—his footwork sharp, smooth, deliberate. The refs didn’t blow the whistle, and the crowd gasped as he stepped through and banked it in.

Eight points.

Two to go.

On the court, though, the Lakers clearly weren’t in the mood to let Lin Yi make history at their expense. They deliberately slowed the tempo again, refusing to give him another fast-break chance.

Kobe, meanwhile, had finally found his rhythm. His next shot — a deep three — splashed in cleanly.

18–46.

The Lakers were still down big, but the Mamba had that look again — cold, unbothered, relentless.

Lin Yi brought the ball up, motioning for a screen. The Lakers trapped him immediately. Kobe’s voice rang out from behind: “Don’t let him get it!”

They sent the double-team hard, but Lin Yi didn’t flinch. Something inside him clicked — a familiar, almost cinematic rhythm.

He took one step back, rose above the outstretched hands of Barnes and Blake, and released the shot.

The Garden went silent.

The ball arced high, almost in slow motion, before dropping clean through the net.

Swish.

The crowd erupted — Madison Square Garden shook.

Zhang Heli’s voice cracked with excitement: “There it is! Lin Yi, one quarter, triple-double pace!”

Yu Jia could only laugh in disbelief. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing something unbelievable tonight!”

The noise was deafening now.

And right in the middle of it all, Lin Yi gave his gunshot celebration to the crowd — calm, smiling. A true marksman.

A triple-double in a single quarter — achieved.

“Unbelievable! Lin Yi just made history — a triple-double in one quarter! There’s no need to even check the records; this has never happened in the NBA! Congratulations to Lin Yi, who’s once again written his name into the league’s history books this season!”

Madison Square Garden, the Mecca of basketball. New York fans were witnessing Lin Yi writing history right in front of their eyes.

Sixty-one points in three quarters — that was on the road.

Sixty-plus with a triple-double — also on the road.

Eighty-six points in a single game — still on the road.

But tonight? A triple-double in just one quarter — here in New York. At Madison Square Garden.

Mike D’Antoni called a timeout immediately, wanting Lin Yi to soak in every cheer from the twenty thousand fans roaring his name.

In the stands, Knicks owner James Dolan, wearing a No. 44 jersey, punched the air in delight.

On the court, Kobe Bryant stood with his hands on his hips, eyes fixed on the scoreboard. His expression was hard to read — admiration, disbelief, maybe a little resignation. After a long pause, he could only shake his head with a wry smile.

Double figures in points, rebounds, and assists — that’s a triple-double.

But a triple-double in one quarter? That’s something else entirely.

Tonight, Lin Yi redefined Linsanity.

He wasn’t just fast — he was the fastest man in NBA history, the fastest to ever complete a triple-double.

The stunned faces of the Lakers players became his perfect backdrop. Even Phil Jackson couldn’t hide his amazement; The Zen Master just kept shaking his head, staring at Lin Yi’s back as if searching for words that wouldn’t come.

In the broadcast booth, commentators from networks around the world rose to their feet, applauding.

And echoing through Madison Square Garden —
“MVP! MVP! MVP!”

The stats might one day fade, but moments like this? They’re forever.

“Let’s congratulate Lin Yi once again — the fastest triple-double in NBA history, achieved in a single quarter, and all his tonight!”

...

On the night Lin Yi made history with a triple-double in a single quarter, his final stat line wasn’t as outrageous as people might have expected.

Lin swore on his conscience that it wasn’t because he wanted to clock out early — it was just that the recent schedule had been brutal.

Over on TNT, the Inside the NBA crew was in rare form.

Shaquille O’Neal chuckled, “Ever since Lin went public with his relationship with Elizabeth, his efficiency’s been off the charts.”

Charles Barkley nodded in agreement. “Yeah, they say home is where you recharge. Lin’s out there like a supercar running on premium fuel — full throttle, no brakes.”

Kenny Smith couldn’t resist. “Well, someone better tell him to watch the speed limit — ‘cause speeding gets you fined.”

The studio burst into laughter.

No one knew what premium fuel the Linsanity car was on when it came to breaking records — but what was certain was that tonight, he personally wrote the epitaph for the Lakers’ Second Dynasty.

Kobe Bryant fought hard, but there was no miracle left to summon. This Lakers team was already running on fumes. Against the new-generation Knicks, they simply couldn’t keep up — and truth be told, the same might be said for most of the Western Conference.

When the buzzer finally sounded, the scoreboard read 87-119.

A decisive blowout.

Lin Yi had recorded a triple-double — all in the first quarter.

Chapter 430: Lakers vs Knicks 2

The New York Champions' rampage continued…

As the clock ticked on—

Kobe went 0-for-8 in the first quarter. Eight shots, eight bricks.

This time, Chris Paul snatched Lin Yi’s rebound. It wasn’t like Paul was stealing from his own teammate—he got it because Gasol was trying to swipe the reward after Lin Yi and Big Morris had done all the dirty work, boxing out. Outrageous.

Lin Yi sprinted ahead instead. And when the 404 Connection was in sync, the rim was doomed.

Boom!

Lin Yi hammered down his sixth point of the night.

6–32.

“What a shame,” Zhang Heli said regretfully. “Lin Yi’s already announced he won’t join the Slam Dunk Contest this year. Otherwise, I’d still bet on him taking the crown.”

Yu Jia laughed. “Zhang, you’ve got to leave something for the others. If Lin Yi keeps showing up, there won’t be much left for anyone else to win.”

Truth be told, Lin Yi’s reason for skipping the dunk contest was the same as LeBron’s: If I enter, I win. So why bother?

He’d long decided to play the gracious senior. He’d already borrowed half of LaVine and Gordon’s creative dunks—time to learn from LeBron’s wisdom of self-preservation of his wrists, even though he had healing from the system.

The Lakers, though, were getting dismantled. With four minutes left in the first quarter, Phil Jackson finally waved in Barnes and Blake, benching Nash and Gasol.

Some fans questioned the Zen Master’s choices, but to be fair, Jackson had coached Kobe long enough to know—if you can’t fix it, at least let someone else take the blame.

And wouldn’t you know it—right after the substitutions, Kobe backed down his man, turned, and released that trademark fadeaway.

The shot was so smooth, so effortless—it was vintage Mamba. Madison Square Garden sighed in admiration, like a crowd hypnotized.

Never mind that Kobe was just 1-for-9; with form that pure, the previous eight misses almost seemed justified.

8–32.

The Knicks made changes, too, but Lin Yi stayed on the floor alongside Motiejunas, Whiteside, Klay, and Parsons.

Lin Yi now moved freely between small forward and point guard—though the Lakers didn’t seem too thrilled. Their lineup suddenly looked tiny.

Barnes picked up Lin Yi on defense—Blake simply couldn’t. Lin Yi didn’t force anything.

Parsons, slippery as ever, shook free of his man. Lin Yi threaded a sharp pass, and Parsons finished with a clean reverse layup.

8–34.

That was Lin Yi’s sixth assist already.

Kobe, still in attack mode, took his tenth shot—cursed from the moment it left his hands. And on his eleventh attempt, a perfectly straight three-pointer somehow rimmed out.

Lin Yi leaped, snatched the board with one hand, and landed like a butterfly in bloom—only this butterfly was seven feet..

Barnes couldn’t even foul him in time. The Knicks’ fast-break rhythm was merciless, their energy relentless.

Then Lin Yi whipped out another no-look pass. Even Klay nearly missed it, blinking in surprise before calmly rising and draining the jumper.

8–37.

Lin Yi’s seventh assist of the night.

Before the crowd’s roar could fade, Lin Yi struck again—this time, picking Blake clean at midcourt

Blake froze.

The Garden was howling. Lin Yi, ever the showman, tossed the ball off the glass for an alley-oop. Klay caught it mid-air, spun—and nearly embarrassed himself. He barely dunked it off the front rim, but hey, it still dropped.

Lin Yi couldn’t help laughing. He patted Klay on the head.

“Klay, buddy—when you’re dunking, maybe don’t overthink it.”

Klay just sighed. “Yeah, yeah…”

To be fair, his athleticism wasn’t bad—he just froze for a second. Happens to the best of shooters.

8–39. The Lakers were down thirty-plus—in the first quarter.

Kobe’s frustration was boiling. His next fadeaway looked perfect—until the clang! .

He chased down his own miss, muttering under his breath. What’s going on? Is there a lid on this rim tonight?

Lin Yi, however, wasn’t giving up a single board. He ripped down his eleventh rebound of the night, pushed the pace, and the Knicks sprinted again.

Swish!

8–41!

The message was clear: when the Knicks hit top speed, no one could keep up.

That bucket came off another Lin Yi assist. Motiejunas delivered the finishing blow, hammering home like the final strike to Kobe’s pride.

The Black Mamba grimaced, one hand instinctively clutching his Achilles. For the first time that night, he looked genuinely uncomfortable.

Lin Yi hesitated for a second, then walked over. “You alright, Kobe?”

Kobe winced but managed a smile. “Yeah… I’m fine.”

It was that same smile—stubborn, proud, and a little heartbreaking. Across the world, countless Kobe fans watching on TV felt their throats tighten.

Lin Yi knew all too well how this story could go. In his past life, Kobe’s body had broken down under the weight of endless minutes and relentless drive. And here, even in this new timeline, Lin Yi could see the same fire burning dangerously bright.

Kobe had been good to him—generous with advice, genuine with respect—and Lin Yi thought maybe he owed it to his idol to say something one of these days.

Phil Jackson didn’t pull Kobe out. He knew that benching him now would sting far worse than the pain in his leg. Kobe was too proud, too stubborn—too Kobe.

And when Madison Square Garden gave him a round of applause, he straightened up, nodded once, and went right back to work.

This time, the shot fell. His twelfth attempt—finally good.

10–41.

Lakers fans barely had time to cheer before Lin Yi racked up his tenth assist. Klay caught the pass a step behind the arc and let it fly—clean release, perfect rotation—swish.

10–44.

With 1:58 left in the first quarter, Zhang Heli suddenly spoke up. “Hey, Lin Yi’s just four points away from a triple-double in the first quarter!”

In living rooms across China, Lin Yi’s fans suddenly sat up straight, eyes wide. The idea alone sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd—this kid was really about to do it.

Chapter 429: Lakers vs Knicks

The Lakers’ defense was a lost cause.

Turns out, Kobe’s death stare wasn’t a miracle cure after all.

Honestly, Lin Yi thought it was already generous of the Lakers’ veterans not to snap back at him with a “What the hell are you looking at?” every time he gave them that look.

Artest, for instance, was only a defensive enforcer by title these days. After a summer spent spreading love and peace, he’d come back nearly ten kilos heavier. Whenever he was on the floor, the Lakers actually gave up more points. If not for the occasional threat of a flying elbow, he’d easily be one of the biggest holes in their defense.

As for Nash on defense—well, the less said the better.

Then there was Gasol, another year older. Defense was never Pau’s calling card anyway, so expecting him to anchor the paint now was basically asking the impossible.

On February 10th, as the Lakers visited Madison Square Garden, the Knicks jumped out to a 4–14 start.

Phil Jackson sat stone-faced, but the calm Zen Master was clearly irritated—especially since Kobe had already glanced toward the bench several times. The message was obvious: he wasn’t here to bow to the Knicks tonight.

When he’d entered the Garden earlier and looked up at the third championship banner hanging high, something inside Kobe flared. Behind that banner was the shadow of Shaquille O’Neal—and that was a name that still hit a nerve.

Sometimes, Kobe could be as stubborn as a kid. And tonight, he was by far the most determined defender on either team—yes, both teams.

The Lakers were relying on his defense. So were the Knicks. It was rare to see both sides depend on the same man to stop the bleeding.

When the score reached 4–16, even the Zen Master had no choice but to call a timeout. If Phil Jackson had to interrupt his meditation, you knew things were bad.

Madison Square Garden was rocking, the crowd unified in one chant:

“MVP! MVP!”

Just before the timeout, Lin Yi had broken through Artest’s half-hearted defense. The paint was wide open, and Lin Yi couldn’t resist.

He lobbed the ball off the backboard—showboating, no question.

On the Knicks’ bench, McGrady’s eyes lit up. He knew that look. Lin Yi was going for a self-alley-oop.

But before he could finish, Artest swung that trademark iron elbow, forcing Lin Yi to abort mid-air. Quick-thinking, Lin Yi adjusted, caught the ball coming off the glass, and fed it under the rim to Tyson Chandler.

Two hands with a roar.

Slam!

Gasol didn’t even bother contesting.

The Tyson-Yi combination had just pulled off a highlight-reel play, leaving the crowd on their feet.

Phil Jackson had no choice but to call another timeout. The Lakers’ defense had completely fallen apart. And deep down, he knew what came next: Kobe’s patience was running out.

The thing about Kobe’s competitiveness—it had won the Lakers countless games. But tonight, it might turn against them.

Because when Kobe got that look in his eye, he didn’t just want to win—he wanted to destroy.

Lin Yi could already feel that heat from across the court. If looks could kill, his jersey would be on fire.

After the timeout, the Lakers tried to regroup.

Kobe brought the ball up, but his fadeaway came out too forced.

“Ah, that was a rushed shot," Zhang sighed. “He should’ve passed it to Gasol—get one more swing for a better look. Kobe’s too impatient right now.”

The shot clanged off. Knicks ball.

Moments later, Lin Yi came right back down and drilled a pull-up jumper over Artest.

“See that?” Zhang said, practically glowing. “Smooth, confident, decisive—when you shoot, that’s exactly how you do it!"

4-18.

The gap widened.

Lin Yi glanced at Kobe, meeting those burning eyes. His idol’s competitive fire was back.

Kobe missed his fourth three-pointer of the night. Lin Yi, meanwhile, had already grabbed six rebounds in just five minutes.

Snatching another defensive board, Lin Yi immediately pushed the pace. Artest tried to ambush him with one of those sneaky elbows again, but Lin Yi spun behind his back to shake free—then whipped his signature no-look pass across the court. Chris Paul caught it clean and drilled the open three.

4–21!

“This one might turn into a blowout before the first quarter’s even done,” Yu Jia chuckled. “Looks like we’ll have plenty of time to chat about the All-Star Game tonight, Zhang.”

Zhang Heli smiled. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But look—Kobe again. I know the man has fire in his belly, but he should calm down a bit and control his shot selection .”

On the floor, Kobe bricked his fifth three-pointer. Even Lin Yi hadn’t expected things to be this easy. With his two big men sealing off the paint, he secured his seventh rebound and fired a long bounce pass downcourt—Danny Green sprinted ahead, rose, and slammed home a one-handed dunk.

4–23

“Oh, that’s Lin Yi’s fourth assist already tonight!”

Madison Square Garden erupted. The fans were buzzing—nothing made New Yorkers happier than dismantling the Lakers.

And if there was something better? Well, it’d be dismantling them twice.

Chapter 428: When Fate Plays Its Hand

While Lin Yi was on a tear in February, his old college roommate, Stephen Curry, wasn’t exactly having the best of times.

Under Mark Jackson’s guidance, Curry had finally begun to mature as a player during the 2011–12 season. He was on track to make his first All-Star appearance… until that damned ankle betrayed him again.

Three weeks of rest didn’t sound too bad on paper, but Lin Yi couldn’t help thinking that Curry should count himself lucky. In Lin Yi’s previous life, that same injury had cost Curry the rest of his season.

Of course, Curry didn’t know any of that.

All he could think was: All-Star? Gone. Just like that.

Still, Lin Yi knew Curry wasn’t the kind to sulk forever. After all, being around him, Stephen had toughened up mentally a lot.

And sure enough, Curry quickly reset his mindset. Maybe this was just God’s way of saying, You’re not All-Star level yet. Keep working.

But just as Curry was getting back into rehab mode, something rather awkward happened…

The Warriors’ plan that season was to tank. Not subtly, either. Even with Curry healthy, Golden State wasn’t exactly built to win. Their record before his injury? Six wins, fifteen losses. Perfect for player development—and even more perfect for the draft lottery.

That’s why people say tanking is a skill.

If Mark Jackson had gone all out, sure, the Warriors might have scraped together a few more wins. But what would be the point? Winning just enough to miss the playoffs but too much to get a good draft pick—that would’ve been the worst outcome.

Right now, it wasn’t that the Warriors didn’t want to win; they just couldn’t.

As head coach, Jackson understood the front office’s grand plan perfectly. His job was to make sure the team stayed competitive enough to keep morale up—but not too competitive to ruin their draft odds.

That’s the art of tanking.

Many coaches dislike doing it, but those who master it? They always find jobs in the NBA.

Lin Yi remembered how Rick Adelman, back in his previous life, kept the Rockets hovering around ninth place in the West even after Yao and McGrady were gone. Every Rockets fan wanted to scream: “Is finishing ninth fun for you, coach?”

If Houston hadn’t lucked into Harden, that forever-mid record might’ve buried them for years.

In contrast, the 76ers’ shameless, full-send tanking almost seemed respectable. At least they committed.

To Jackson’s credit, he was doing a good job. The Warriors still had decent morale—guys were putting up good numbers, nobody was complaining, and everyone believed the process was working.

Jackson was genuinely sorry about Curry’s injury… but at the same time, he knew this was the perfect window to tank even harder. Once Curry came back, the win-crazy kid might ruin everything by trying too hard.

So Jackson stayed the course. Until—

On February 4th, the Warriors beat the Nets. Two days later, they beat the Wizards.

Two straight wins.

Mark Jackson: “…”

Winning wasn’t the problem—it was when they chose to start winning.

While Jackson was busy worrying about the tank, and Curry was resting up, something completely unexpected happened.

Jeremy Lin—Curry’s backup—suddenly went nuclear.

...

On February 4th, facing All-Star guard Deron Williams, Lin dropped 25 points, 5 rebounds, and 7 assists, leading the Warriors past the Nets. Two days later, he torched John Wall and the Wizards with 28 points and 8 assists.

Just like that, Golden State had a mini winning streak—and Lin had his breakout moment.

Jackson couldn’t even bench him if he wanted to. The Warriors didn’t have another true point guard available.

The fans in San Francisco went crazy—especially the Chinese fans, who were over the moon seeing Jeremy Lin shine.

But then the internet started doing what it does best.

“Why can the Warriors win now that Curry’s injured?” someone asked.

And just like that, the “Curry is baggage” narrative was born.

Lin Yi wasn’t surprised. He remembered this from his past life, except back then, Jeremy Lin’s breakout had happened in New York, not Oakland.

Maybe this was destiny.

Curry, on the other hand, was fuming—not out of jealousy, but disbelief. He wasn’t that kind of player.

Still, he couldn’t help but think, Seriously? I get injured for a few weeks, and suddenly we’re winning? Am I really the problem?

For the first time, the baby-faced assassin started to doubt himself.

...

On February 8th, just after the Knicks beat the Wizards, the Warriors shocked everyone by taking down the Lakers at Staples Center.

Jeremy Lin dropped 34 points that night—against Kobe, no less.

Curry: “…”

With that win, the Warriors had suddenly strung together three straight victories, jumping from the bottom three in the West all the way up to tenth.

Later that night, Curry called Lin Yi, sounding frustrated.

“Lin, be honest with me—do you think there’s something wrong with how I play? Am I holding the ball too much?”

Lin Yi was a little stunned by the question. How was he supposed to explain this? To him, Jeremy Lin’s breakout was a mix of fate and timing—something that was bound to happen eventually, just not like this.

The inevitable part was simple: Jeremy Lin already had the tools. He was quick, decisive, and played perfectly in a fast-paced, run-and-gun system. And Mark Jackson—just like D’Antoni—loved guards who could push the tempo.

The accidental part was Curry’s injury. It opened a door that Jeremy Lin simply ran through.

Right now, Lin Yi figured the one who had the biggest headache wasn’t Curry—it was Mark Jackson.

Jeremy Lin’s explosion had completely thrown off the Warriors’ tanking plan. This wasn’t New York; Golden State had been built to lose.

But Jackson had no choice. Who else could he play at point guard?

Meanwhile, Lin’s performances had the Bay Area buzzing. Chinese fans in San Francisco started calling him Lil Linsanity.

Well, because the real Linsanity was still in New York. Out of respect for the original, the fans decided to give their guy a slightly smaller title.

Lin Yi: “…”

Either way, the Warriors’ script was completely flipped. If they kept winning like this, forget a top pick—they might not even make the lottery.

It wasn’t like the roster was weak, either. With David Lee, Cousins, and Curry healthy, this team could easily dominate half the league’s weaker defenses. And now, thanks to Jeremy Lin’s spark, Golden State was on fire—a fire that not even Logo Man or Mark Jackson could put out in time.

Then, on February 10th, as Jeremy Lin was sweeping the Bay, the original Linsanity—Lin Yi—got ready for their next opponents.

That night, the Knicks were hosting the Lakers at Madison Square Garden.

Chapter 427: The Complacency Trap

On February 5th, Lin Yi received an invitation from Eli Manning to watch the Super Bowl at Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis.

In the U.S., people call it Super Sunday — and honestly, for most Americans, it is their version of New Year’s Day.

He wasn’t going to turn down a front-row seat to America’s biggest show. Basketball might’ve been his life, but enjoying life outside the court mattered too.

When Elizabeth Olsen heard she’d get to watch the Super Bowl live, she practically bounced around the house like an overexcited rabbit. Adorable to watch.

Coincidentally, Lucas Oil Stadium was also where Lin had played his famous battle against the Tar Heels back in college — the game that put him on the map. Stepping back into that arena stirred something nostalgic in him.

He was already in his third NBA season now, and with a championship ring on his finger. For someone chasing the title of the greatest ever, the road ahead was long — but looking back, Lin couldn’t help feeling it had all been worth it.

Tonight’s matchup was between the New York Giants and the New England Patriots. The Giants’ run had been the stuff of legend. Eli Manning’s playoff streak felt supernatural, and Lin even joked to himself that Eli probably had some system buff — the tougher the opponent, the stronger he got.

After taking down Aaron Rodgers, Eli went on to topple Tom Brady — the pre-game favorite of just about everyone on earth.

The Giants claimed the Super Bowl, giving Manning his second championship. And yes, just like before, the victim was Brady again.

Brady’s stunned expression after the loss reminded everyone of Rodgers’ face from his own upset not long ago.

Lin chuckled to himself. Guess even the GOAT got his kryptonite.

He had an amazing time at the Super Bowl. The halftime show alone was worth the trip — pure spectacle from America’s biggest stars.

But Lin forgot something important: he was a star now, too.

Somewhere between the music and the energy of the crowd, Lin started dancing in the stands to Olsen's amusement. It wasn’t pretty. The cameras caught it all — his uncoordinated, completely unfiltered dance moves.

If TikTok had existed back then, someone would’ve turned it into a viral meme with the caption “I am a seaweed, swaying in the wind…”

Within hours, the video went viral on YouTube. Fans loved it — not because the dancing was good, but because Lin looked real. Unlike some athletes who always seemed too polished or rehearsed, Lin was just… himself.

Curry couldn’t resist posting on Twitter:

“Hahaha, Lin, your dancing’s definitely not MVP material.”

At first, Lin was mortified, but later, Liz explained to him that maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. Nobody’s perfect — and sometimes, trying too hard to be perfect makes you fake.

For someone like Lin, who constantly broke whatever public image people tried to box him into, maybe that was his real charm. Whatever he did, fans just rolled with it.

After the Super Bowl, Lin and Olsen flew back to New York.

...

The next morning, during practice, D’Antoni shot Lin a look that said more than words. “Lin,” he said with admonition, “Plato once said self-control is a kind of order — mastery over pleasure and desire.”

Lin just raised his hands in guilt.

...

On the evening of February 6th, Madison Square Garden hosted the final game of the Knicks’ brutal four-in-five stretch — and the Utah Jazz gave them more trouble than anyone expected.

By halftime, the Knicks were staring at an 18-point deficit.

The Jazz might not have been a marquee team, but they were disciplined and efficient. Their new leader, Gordon Hayward — who’d quietly leveled up his game this season — was playing like he’d just hit Platinum rank in real life.

Hayward often chatted with Lin Yi online. The two bonded over late-night gaming sessions and basketball talk — strategy, movement, rhythm, even court hacks, as they jokingly called them.

Truth be told, Hayward’s rise in the league had a lot to do with his brain. He wasn’t the quickest or most explosive guy on the floor, but he mastered tempo — knew when to attack, when to pause, when to pull up. That sense of timing was something no amount of raw athleticism could replace.

Back to the game. Lin Yi, who missed his first ten shots that night, finally flipped the switch in the third quarter.

From his 11th attempt to his final 21st, he went on a perfect streak, drilling 11 straight. It was a masterclass in rhythm and patience — or, as Kobe would’ve said, “Don’t flinch, just work.”

With Lin Yi’s explosion, the Knicks stormed back and pulled off a comeback win against the Jazz.

After the game, Lin Yi couldn’t help but notice something unsettling — the team was starting to show shades of those self-destructing versions of the Lakers or Warriors.

In a lockout-shortened season, records didn’t mean much to the players anymore. And Lin Yi wasn’t the type to lecture his teammates. He knew words didn’t fix complacency.

Every dominant team went through the same phase — taking opponents lightly, losing focus. Both Lin Yi and D’Antoni understood that.

D’Antoni’s approach wasn’t to yell or punish. Instead, he had a quiet way of getting his point across — by giving the young players more minutes.

The Knicks had a comfortable lead in the standings anyway, so it was the perfect time to test the rookies.

The announcement had the bench buzzing. Chandler Parsons, for one, immediately canceled his usual late-night plans.

When money’s tight, it’s not about discipline — it’s about survival. Parsons knew that too well.

Lin Yi just made sure to keep Klay away from him.

If those two hit the clubs together, he thought, half the rookie salary pool in New York would vanish overnight.

Still, Lin Yi already had plans for Parsons. Once he puts up some numbers, Lin thought, I’ll use that charm of his to trade for someone who actually fits the system.

A kind general can’t lead soldiers — and Lin Yi wasn’t about to let sentiment get in the way of team building.

Parsons was fun to be around, sure, but Lin could tell he was the kind of player who’d stop grinding once he got paid. No motivational speech could change that — his friends had probably tried already.

The truth was, not everyone in the NBA cared about rings. A fair number of players were just there to earn enough for a comfortable retirement — and maybe enjoy the good life along the way.

Cha[ter 426: Friendly Banter Between Stars

Just as the Anti-Lin Alliance was busy studying the Knicks, the ambush finally arrived on February 2nd.

At the United Center in Chicago, the Knicks fell 103–109 to the Bulls — their first loss of the new season.

The Windy City Rose hadn’t withered yet. Derrick Rose bloomed once more, putting up 28 points and 7 assists while charging through defenses like a man possessed.

But strangely enough, the Bulls’ unsung hero that night… was Lin Yi.

Because he played like a super-sized Mamba — just without the accuracy — going cold and missing 15 shots.

In truth, the Knicks were simply exhausted. The compressed schedule after the lockout had turned the season into a gauntlet. If D’Antoni hadn’t been so stubborn with his tight rotations, their winning streak might’ve ended long ago.

Unfortunately, the nightmare stretch of February was only beginning. The Knicks barely had time to breathe before flying back to New York for a back-to-back against the Celtics.

Then came the Nets on the 4th, and the Jazz on the 6th.

Four games in five days. Brutal.

Plenty of players were now regretting the lockout — not just for the lost money, but because it meant everyone had to cram twice the workload into half the time.

The only small relief for the Knicks was that three of those four games were at home.

“Lin, I just discovered something incredible!” Elizabeth Olsen called from the kitchen in Lin Yi’s New York villa. “Soybean pudding with condensed milk tastes amazing!”

Lin blinked. “...Soybean pudding with what?”

He looked at her in disbelief. “Liz, soybean pudding is supposed to be spicy! That’s how you bring out the real flavor.”

He took a spoonful anyway — and froze.

Hold on. Why was this sweet version actually good?

As a lifelong defender of the savory dish, Lin felt his beliefs collapsing. His taste buds were under siege.

Unwilling to admit defeat, he grabbed Olsen and declared, “Forget the food— let’s do something more fun~”

Her cheeks turned red.

...

On February 3rd, the Knicks will be at Madison Square Garden to face the Celtics.

As Lin remembered, Boston’s Big Three weren’t exactly on the best of terms anymore.

He couldn’t help but feel a bit amused. After two years of fierce playoff battles, watching the Celtics start to self-destruct was oddly satisfying.

Rumors about their internal rift had been flying everywhere, but regardless of the version, the result was the same — Ray Allen had been frozen out by Garnett, Pierce, and Rondo.

People always say NBA players can be childish, but Lin thought this one took the cake. He hadn’t heard a “we’re not playing with you anymore” story this big. This was turning into kindergarten all over again.

The whole mess started when GM Danny Ainge tried to use the aging Big Three as trade pieces before their value completely dropped. Ray Allen happened to be on that list.

Unfortunately, he didn’t take the news well. After hearing he might be traded, Ray reportedly confronted Rondo — just like he once did Kobe at the pre-draft workouts.

“It’s all your fault,” Allen said coldly. “Because of you, now I’m being traded too.”

Rondo just stared at him.

Was Rondo the type to eat blame quietly? Absolutely not.

The next thing anyone knew, he was venting to Garnett and Pierce.

“Guys, you’ve got to back me up. Ray’s throwing me under the bus!”

“Don’t worry,” Garnett supposedly said. “We’ll take care of it.”

And just like that, a long night of “team bonding” began — the kind where everyone left angrier than before.

From that point on, the once-united Big Three started drifting apart. The crack had appeared, and there was no patching it up.

Lin Yi knew this soap opera wasn’t ending anytime soon. A lot of people never really understood how the Celtics’ Big Three managed to fall apart like that.

Simply put, Rondo’s flare-up was just the spark. The real divide came from how much Pierce and Garnett were idolized by Celtics fans — and how much Ray Allen felt left out of that circle. That’s what truly tore them apart.

Not that Lin Yi cared to sympathize.

After all, when he had a rough shooting night in Chicago, did Derrick Rose take it easy on him? Of course not.

Besides, after that “15 missed shots" disaster, Paul had been roasting him for almost an hour after the game.

“Hey Lin, why stop at fifteen? You should’ve gone for thirty — really pay tribute to your idol,” Paul had joked, smirking.

Lin Yi rubbed his chin at the memory. Paul’s really getting sharp these days — two punches in one line.

So in return, Lin Yi decided to pull out his shooting this time after the rest — raining threes like a man possessed.

Touch really is a mysterious thing. Lin Yi played just 32 minutes, shot 12-for-19 from the field, 8-for-13 from deep, and hit all seven free throws. By the end, he had 39 points, 14 rebounds, and 7 assists — the full package.

Meanwhile, Paul found himself frozen by Rondo, who was desperate to prove his worth. Paul missed 13 shots that night.

“Chris, looks like you’re winning by following yours truly again,” Lin Yi said with a grin, whistling as he passed him after the game.

By now, the Knicks were used to the routine. If Lin Yi and Paul didn’t banter at least once a day, the locker room would feel strangely quiet.

After the game, the team was all smiles and laughter. Meanwhile, on the other side, Ray Allen silently made his way back to the Celtics’ locker room, head down.

...

On February 4th, the Knicks took care of business against the Nets at home. Deron Williams’ brief dominance over Paul didn’t change the outcome. With that Nets roster — and Brook Lopez turning into a bystander every time Lin Yi showed up — the result was inevitable.

“Chris, man, your stats are only half of Deron’s,” Lin Yi teased.

“Chris, are you sure you’re still the top point guard in the league?”

“Chris, that’s two straight games you’ve won by hitching a ride. Didn’t we agree to carry one each?”

And so, the Knicks’ locker room once again descended into friendly chaos again — their version of normal.

Chapter 225: Champions League Semifinals, Second Leg End

Whoosh!!!

The Bernabéu exploded.

Cristiano Ronaldo rose above everyone, hanging in the air before burying his header into the net.

The roar that followed shook the entire stadium.

Ronaldo wheeled away, sprinting toward the corner flag before leaping into his signature celebration — arms outstretched, chest wide, soaking in the noise of ninety thousand voices.

A last-gasp winner for Real Madrid.

In stoppage time, Ronaldo had done it again — breaking Arsenal hearts and firing Madrid into the Champions League Final.

On the other end, Kai was crouched on the turf, breathing heavily, sweat running down his face and dripping from his chin.

He’d given everything — the endless pressing, the lung-busting runs, the relentless challenges. His legs felt like lead; even jumping now felt impossible.

As Ronaldo jogged past him, he flashed a smirk. “You couldn’t get up for that one, could you?”

Kai shot him a weary glare but said nothing. He just let out a long breath and looked around.

It was over.

The whistle blew moments later.

Real Madrid 3, Arsenal 1.

Aggregate score: 4–3.

Real Madrid were through to the Champions League Final. Arsenal’s valiant run had come to an end.

Still, no one could say they’d gone out without a fight.

Even without Suarez, they’d pushed Madrid to the brink with courage, structure, and spirit.
At the Bernabéu, of all places, they’d made the Spanish giants sweat.

On Sky Sports, Martin Taylor’s voice was calm but full of admiration.

“Not every defeat is a failure. Arsenal may be out, but across these two legs, they’ve earned respect. They’ve taken Real Madrid all the way and shown a level of maturity and unity we haven’t seen from them in years.”

Alan Smith nodded beside him.

“Absolutely, Martin. This side’s different. They’re still young, still raw in places, but there’s resilience here — a sense of belief. Wenger’s built something real. You can feel it.”

“Even in defeat,” Martin added, “they’ve reminded us why people fell in love with Arsenal’s football in the first place.”

Down on the pitch, the cameras cut to Kai, still catching his breath. He looked exhausted — but not broken.

Cazorla sat nearby, staring blankly at the celebrating Madrid players — envy and frustration flickering in his eyes.

A hand landed gently on his shoulder.

“Come on,” Kai said quietly. “Let’s thank the fans.”

Cazorla took a deep breath, nodded, and pushed himself up.

Kai moved along the pitch, calling the others over. One by one, they gathered and began walking toward the away end together.

At the front, Vermaelen led the applause, clapping above his head.

The Arsenal fans — those few thousand brave souls in the top corner of the Bernabéu — responded in kind, standing, clapping, and singing even louder than before.

They had lost the match — but not their pride.

“Gunners! Well played!"

“You were brilliant out there!”

“Keep your heads up!”

“Come on, Arsenal!”

The voices echoed through the stadium, raw and sincere.

Martin Taylor’s tone softened as the camera lingered on the Arsenal players applauding the fans.

“You can see what it means to them, Alan. They’ve come a long way this season.”

“They have,” Smith replied. “And Kai — what a performance from him tonight. The lad’s growth has been outstanding. The way he’s handled Ronaldo across both legs, his composure, even his willingness to drive forward — Arsenal have found themselves a real leader.”

“And Wenger,” Martin added, “will know he’s got the foundations for something special.”

At that moment, under the bright lights of Madrid, Arsenal’s players stood together — exhausted, defeated, yet somehow triumphant in spirit.

Kai could tell that his teammates were hurting inside, yet they still turned around to applaud and comfort the traveling fans. Watching them, he couldn’t help but feel that the supporters were truly something special.

They hadn’t reached the final, but they’d earned something far more lasting — belief.

And as the fans continued to chant “We love you, Arsenal!”, Kai turned one last time toward the stands, raised his hand, and smiled faintly.

After a collective bow of gratitude to the away section, the players began to head off toward the tunnel.

Just as Kai was about to follow, a familiar voice called out behind him.

“Kai!”

He turned to see Sergio Ramos walking over. Instinctively, Kai’s shoulders tensed slightly, his eyes narrowing in caution.

Ramos quickly raised both hands and smiled. “Easy, I come in peace. Just wanted to swap shirts. That was a hell of a match.”

Realizing there was no ill intent, Kai relaxed and nodded. “Congratulations,” he said courteously.

Ramos handed over his jersey, then smirked. “Ever thought about coming to Real Madrid?”

Kai grinned as he pulled off his own shirt. “You come to Arsenal! I’ll sort everything out for you!”

Both men laughed, understanding each other without needing to say more. Neither said “no,” but the message was clear enough.

As Ramos walked away, Cristiano Ronaldo stepped forward.

“How many times a week do you do leg training?” Ronaldo asked out of the blue.

Kai blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. “Three times a week. One of those sessions is high intensity.”

Ronaldo nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. You’ve got strong balance and lower-body strength. I could feel it during our duels—you don’t get pushed off easily.”

Then, after a pause, he added, “You’ve got a personal coaching team?”

Kai shook his head. “No. But our assistant coach doubles as my personal trainer.”

Ronaldo raised an eyebrow. “An assistant coach as a personal trainer? That’s… quite something.”

Kai chuckled, and Ronaldo extended a hand. “Spectacular match.”

Kai took it firmly. “Congratulations.”

One by one, Real Madrid’s players came over—Modrić, Casillas, Di María, Benzema—all offering their hands in respect. Arsenal might have lost, but Kai’s performances over both legs had earned their admiration.

When he finally entered the dressing room, the atmosphere was quiet. The players were packing their bags in silence, lost in thought.

Kai showered quickly, then pulled out his phone and sent a short message to Fernando.

Good luck with tomorrow’s match!

Later that evening, the Arsenal squad boarded a flight back to London. Their Champions League journey was over.

But the season wasn’t.

Their focus now shifted entirely to the Premier League. Arsenal sat top of the table—two wins away from lifting the trophy.

Though there was disappointment in being knocked out of Europe, there was also relief. For this young team, the Champions League was always meant to be a learning experience—a dress rehearsal for the future.

And to have reached the semi-finals? That was already beyond expectation.

If they’d pushed harder, they might have ended up empty-handed, but giving up earlier would’ve been just as painful. So they’d fought to the end—and now, they could walk away with their heads held high.

Back in London, the mission was clear: finish the job.

Two games. Maximum effort.

For Kai, this could be his first Premier League title—and he wasn’t about to let it slip away.

Meanwhile, across Europe, headlines were already rolling in:

Kicker: “Arsenal fall narrowly to Real Madrid—a spectacular clash!”

Marca: “Madrid through to the final! The Gunners pushed us to our limit—a worthy opponent, says Modric.”

Madrid Sports News: “Cristiano Ronaldo: This was our toughest win of the Champions League season!”

London Sports News: “A storm is brewing in North London—and its name is Arsenal!”

Chapter 224: Champions League Semifinals, Second Leg 5

With 79 minutes gone and Arsenal trailing, things weren’t looking good.

The aggregate stood at 3–3. Both sides had scored the same number of away goals, which meant that unless something changed, this was heading into extra time.

Real Madrid had already made their moves — two substitutions, one attacking, one defensive.

Coentrão made way for Marcelo.

Isco replaced Khedira.

With those fresh legs, Real would ease some of their fatigue and sharpen up for the final stretch.

Wenger reshuffled what he could.

Ramsey came off for Flamini.

Rosický for Wilshere.

It was a signal — Arsenal weren’t sitting back. They were going for it.

They’d come this far; there was no point holding back now.

Kai caught sight of Wenger on the touchline — the manager nodded and gave a faint, knowing smile.

Kai exhaled slowly, shaking his head with a grin.

“Alright! Take a breather. Don’t overthink the result — just like the Professor said, enjoy the game!”

He clenched his fists.

“Real Madrid are strong, sure. But if they want to beat us, they’ll have to go over our corpses first! Let’s go!”

His words sparked something in the team — a flicker of energy, defiance.

They could feel the rhythm of the match shifting again.

Even if Real wanted to win, they’d have to pay for it.

Arsenal restarted play.

The ball was worked back to Kai, and Bale came charging in.

This time, Kai didn’t shy away from the collision. He pulled the ball, shifted his body, and pushed it left — balancing his center of gravity.

As Bale closed in, Kai tapped the ball back with his left foot, then cut with his right — gliding past Bale with a smooth pivot.

He didn’t release the pass immediately. Instead, he drove diagonally toward the left, dragging defenders with him.

Isco came pressing, but Kai stopped, feinted, then burst forward again — a sharp acceleration that left the Spaniard off balance before Kai finally released the ball.

Two clean dribbles in quick succession.

Something Arsenal fans hadn’t seen from him before.

“Ohhh, look at that! Kai’s starting to show some flair!” Martin Taylor exclaimed.

Alan Smith laughed. “We’ve not seen that from him in midfield — he’s usually all strength and structure. That’s brilliant confidence!”

For Wenger, this game had become more of an experiment. With the pressure off, he wanted to see how his players had grown.

He didn’t want the fear of losing to hold them back.

Kai’s performances had always impressed him — but there was more to unlock. Wenger wanted him to evolve beyond being just a defensive shield with offensive contributions — into a complete, all-round midfielder.

So when Kai began taking on players and showing real technical control, Wenger’s smile grew.

Wilshere picked up next — one of the few English players comfortable with close control.

But Carvajal, Madrid’s full-back, was no easy opponent.

Still, Jack wasn’t one to back down. He never cared who stood in front of him — Gattuso, Keane, or anyone else. He’d still take you on.

After testing Carvajal a few times, Wilshere looked like he was running out of options — then, just as the full-back lunged in, Jack rolled the ball with his left, poked it through the defender’s legs, and leaped over the sliding challenge.

Nutmeg. Clean as you like.

Wilshere was into the box in a flash, with Podolski, Cazorla, and Kai all surging forward. Real Madrid’s defense suddenly looked shaky.

A few sharp passes later, Podolski found space and let fly — the ball kissed the outside of the post and spun wide.

“ Wilshere with the nutmeg — Arsenal playing with real freedom now! Podolski… ohhh just wide!” Martin Taylor called out.

Alan Smith groaned. “That was inches away! Great build-up, though — they’re enjoying themselves now.”

Podolski clutched his head in disbelief, but Kai’s voice rang out above the noise.

“Forget it! Back to shape! Everyone run! You’re doing great!”

And with Kai and Wilshere showing off their dribbling, it wasn’t long before another Arsenal technician joined the fun.

“Here’s Cazorla… cheeky nutmeg past Di María… Marcelo steps up—ohhh, rainbow flick! What a touch!”

Marcelo, ever alert, quickly spun and cleared the ball before it could drop — earning a round of applause even from Arsenal fans.

Three minutes later:

“Cazorla again,” Martin Taylor said, chuckling.

Another three minutes:

“Now it’s Wilshere — he’s having a go!”

Another three:

“This time it’s Kai! He’s dribbling again — ohhh, that’s… that’s some heavyweight dribbling!” Alan Smith burst out laughing.

Kai bulldozed through two, three Real Madrid players — lower body rock-solid, somehow mixing brute strength with surprising footwork.

By the time he reached the edge of the box, only Ramos and Casillas stopped him from pulling the trigger.

Kai went down, but a grin stayed on his face.

That was football. That was joy.

For once, he wasn’t the one taking the hits — he was the one making defenders scramble.

He had never imagined he’d get a chance to play like this in his life — but tonight, this match was fulfilling all of Kai’s secret dreams.

He wasn’t a pure technician by any stretch — a lot of his dribbles relied more on raw power than finesse — but that didn’t matter. The thrill of weaving past defenders, feeling the ball at his feet, the crowd gasping — it was intoxicating.

For the first time, Kai understood what Sterling must feel every week.

From that moment on, it was as if the whole Arsenal team had decided to let loose.

And strangely, their chaos began to unsettle Real Madrid.

The Gunners weren’t just charging forward blindly — their dribbles were linked with crisp passes and clever movement.

Real Madrid didn’t fear the dribble alone. They didn’t fear the passing either.

What terrified them was Arsenal doing both at once.

Podolski, Wilshere, Kai, Cazorla — even Flamini started joining the fun.

Suddenly, Real Madrid’s backline looked confused. This wasn’t in the game plan. This wasn’t the Arsenal they had studied.

And the funny thing was — Arsenal themselves didn’t seem to know what they were doing tactically.

However, their approach soon became clear.

Dribble if you can, pass if you can’t — and if neither works, try again anyway.

Total chaos. Total fun.

Martin Taylor chuckled. “Well, Arsenal are putting on quite a show here — but is any of this actually effective? There are only a few minutes left. What are they trying to do?”

Alan Smith laughed. “At this point, Martin, I think they’re just playing for the love of it. You can’t even be mad — it’s entertaining!”

The Arsenal fans certainly thought so.

For them, this performance was already more than they’d dared to hope for.

The Champions League semi-final was already a dream.

So, in these final minutes, as Arsenal threw tactics out the window and played with pure joy, the away supporters were completely on board.

They cheered every dribble, every feint, every bit of flair.

“Go on, Gunners! Get past him!”

“Take him on, Jack!”

“That’s it, Kai! Do it again!”

“Haha! Walcott’s having a go now — look at those step-overs! Not great, but we love the effort!”

“Doesn’t matter if you win or lose — you’ve done us proud!”

“Come on, lads!”

At the Bernabéu, the traveling Arsenal fans — vastly outnumbered — were the loudest voices in the stadium.

Even as their team trailed, they sang, laughed, and shouted encouragement.

Their energy infected the pitch.

The game’s atmosphere turned electric — a mix of tension, excitement, and admiration for Arsenal’s defiance.

Real Madrid, meanwhile, were under real pressure. Arsenal’s fearless dribbles were forcing them deeper and deeper.

But Madrid still had their eyes on the prize — one goal, one chance to end it before extra time.

And both sides, for completely different reasons, refused to back down.

Chapter 223: Champions League Semifinals, Second Leg 4

For the next five minutes, both sides went all out.

Real Madrid refused to lose at home. They wouldn’t allow it.

Arsenal, on the other hand, had no intention of backing down. They were ready to trade blows and turn the match into a full-scale attacking duel.

Every player on the pitch was giving everything.

This Real Madrid side had been ruthless all season, crushing nearly every opponent on their way to the semi-finals, but now, they had run into a team that wouldn’t break.

Arsenal were fighters.

Just when you thought you’d put them away, they’d come right back and shake you to your core.

Despite the flurry of chances, neither side managed to score in that spell.

Real Madrid had the better chances, firing more shots on target, but Szczęsny was superb—diving, blocking, and keeping Arsenal’s goal safe under relentless pressure.

Tactically, not much had changed, but the small adjustments mattered.

Wenger focused on Kai and Walcott, urging them to make more diagonal runs and swap positions to unsettle Madrid’s backline.

Walcott’s influence in positional play had been limited so far, but his bursts on the counter were still lethal.

Cazorla, though, was the standout in the first half—scoring the equalizer and repeatedly tormenting defenders down the left with his dribbling.

He’d become the key to unlocking Real Madrid’s defense, though his success rate had dropped since the goal. Madrid had clearly taken note and tightened their marking.

Wenger wanted to tweak things further, but his options were thin. At the moment, Arsenal’s most threatening attackers were Suarez and Cazorla— one was absent, and the latter wasn’t even a natural forward. This was the squad they had, and they had to make it work.

By contrast, Real Madrid had more variety up front. Their first-half buildup play was sharp, but the finishing wasn’t quite there.

So, during the interval, Carlo Ancelotti decided to push harder.

“Ángel,” he called out, looking at Di María, “make more forward runs in the second half.”

Di María glanced up, momentarily surprised. It wasn’t the instruction that surprised him—it was that the coach had called him by his first name. In European football, that was a sign of warmth, of trust. And for someone negotiating a contract renewal, that meant a lot.

“I understand, sir,” Di María said, visibly lifted.

Ancelotti nodded, then turned to Cristiano Ronaldo. “You handle the finishing.”

Cristiano nodded confidently. He’d been tightly marked by Kai in the previous leg and again in the first half, but he believed if he could just shake free once, he’d score.

When the whistle blew to start the second half, both teams came out unchanged.

Arsenal kicked off and immediately launched a surprise attack—but Real Madrid were ready this time, cutting it out quickly.

Modrić picked up the ball and fired a long pass toward Benzema.
Benzema controlled it, swung it wide, and crossed.

Cristiano Ronaldo leaped for the header—
—but Kai was there too.

Thump!

Cristiano made contact first, but Kai’s head brushed the ball, deflecting it just enough to send it over the bar and out for a goal kick.

Real Madrid earned a free kick soon after. Modrić stepped up again, aiming straight for Cristiano.

Kai and Mertesacker doubled up on him, anticipating the danger, and that decision proved spot on—Cristiano couldn’t get a clean header off, the ball cleared by the two defenders working in tandem.

But the clearance only fell to another Madrid player, and the pressure continued.

For the next ten minutes, fans and commentators alike watched in disbelief as Cristiano Ronaldo and Kai went at it again and again— jumping, colliding, battling for every aerial ball like two relentless machines.

Sometimes Kai got there first, heading it clear or forcing a goal kick. Other times, Cristiano connected—but never cleanly enough, as Szczęsny swept up the scraps.

In just over ten minutes, the two had already contested more than ten headers.

Both were drenched in sweat, gasping for breath—yet neither would yield.

Cristiano gritted his teeth, thinking, How on earth does he jump like that?

Kai, equally drained, thought the same: How can this guy’s hang time be real?

The duel between them was fierce—intense enough to lift the entire atmosphere inside the Bernabéu.

Martin Taylor’s voice rose over the roar of the crowd:

“Ronaldo won’t believe it—his trademark leap is being nullified by Kai every single time!”

Alan Smith chuckled lightly. “I wouldn’t say nullified, Martin, but it’s definitely an even contest! You’ve got two freak athletes here—twenty minutes into the half, both have burned through twice the energy of anyone else on the pitch. Yet look at them—they’re still flying!”

Moments later, Modrić sent another ball wide to Benzema, who whipped in yet another cross.

Mertesacker, panting heavily, watched the ball’s arc with weary eyes. He wanted to jump—but his legs just wouldn’t respond.

He shouted hoarsely, “Cover the back!”

Koscielny started to move—but before he could, Kai had already charged in.

Thump!

Leaping above everyone, including Ronaldo, Kai met the ball cleanly, heading it out for a throw-in.

The crowd gasped collectively—and both players landed, hands on their knees, their lungs burning.

The battle was far from over.

Kai was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, mouth wide open as he tried to drag air into his lungs.

Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. He wiped at them quickly, trying to clear his vision before the next set piece.

Across the box, Cristiano Ronaldo looked slightly fresher. It made sense — defending was always more draining than attacking. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of respect. Kai was still holding on, still leaping for every duel, still fighting like a man possessed. The guy clearly lived for this kind of grind.

Another corner for Real Madrid. Their tenth of the match.

So far, Kai had won five headers, Cristiano four, and Mertesacker one. But now, both Arsenal defenders were running on fumes.

Kai walked up beside Mertesacker, clapped him on the shoulder, and said between gasps, “One more jump.”

Mertesacker nodded, breathing hard.

Together, they took their positions in front of Cristiano again.

Kai’s eyes flicked toward the edge of the box — and then he saw him. Ramos. Creeping in quietly, looking for a late run.

Kai’s expression darkened.

“Watch Ramos!” he barked.

Immediately, Arsenal players closed in on the Spaniard, cutting off his run.

Ramos shot him a grin, but Kai glared back. He wasn’t letting him pull that same trick again — not tonight.

Cristiano started swaying, feinting one way and then the other, trying to shake free. Kai tracked him closely, irritated. If he could, he’d have tied the man’s boots together.

Modrić stepped up to take the corner. But instead of the usual in-swinging cross, he played it short to Di María.

Sagna reacted fast, sprinting out to close down the angle. Di María quickly knocked it back to Modrić, who now stood at the edge of the box.

The Croatian steadied himself — clearly shaping for a cross or a long-range effort.

Kai turned his head, scanning for Cristiano — but suddenly, he was gone.

“Damn it!” Kai cursed, whipping his head around.

Cristiano had already darted into the center. Kai pushed off and sprinted after him — but it was too late.

Modrić whipped the ball in.

Cristiano soared into the air — effortless, unchallenged — and met the cross cleanly with a flick of his head.

The ball arced downward, bouncing sharply toward the near post.

Szczęsny lunged, trying to claw it away, but the dip and bounce made it impossible to read.

Kai was already tearing back, launching himself full-length in a desperate attempt to clear.

He stretched his leg out, toes pointed, and just barely grazed the ball — but not enough.

Swish!

Thump!

The ball hit the net — and Kai crashed into it right after, tangled and breathless.

The Bernabéu erupted.

In the 79th minute, Real Madrid retook the lead, 2–1.

Martin Taylor’s voice rose above the roar:

“Cristiano Ronaldo! You simply cannot give him that much space! What a leap, what a finish — Real Madrid are back in front!”

Alan Smith added, “And you have to feel for Kai — he’s been brilliant all night, contesting everything. But even he couldn’t stop that one. That’s just world-class from Ronaldo.”

The camera caught Kai lying in the net for a moment, fists clenched, jaw tight — before he slowly got up, ready to fight again.

Chapter 222: Champions League Semifinals, Second Leg 3

“The great Ronaldo! He’s scored the opener for Real Madrid — and we’re only in the ninth minute!”

Martin Taylor’s voice rose above the roar of the Bernabéu as thousands of Madridistas celebrated like it were a festival.

Kai stood near the halfway line, watching Ronaldo and the Real Madrid players celebrating in the corner. He let out a quiet sigh.

Arsenal’s weakness had been found — and exploited perfectly.

Once Kai pushed higher up the pitch, the cracks in their defensive shape began to show.

There was nothing they could’ve done about that goal.

“Come on! Shake it off — we’ll get it back!” Vermaelen shouted, clapping his hands, his voice echoing across the pitch.

Kai joined in, urging his teammates on. The goal was done; no point sulking. What mattered now was how they responded.

He jogged over to Podolski. “Don’t just stick to their defensive line,” he said. “Drop off and make yourself available.”

Podolski blinked, then nodded as the idea clicked.

If he dropped deeper, one of the Madrid defenders would have to follow — which could free up space for Cazorla. And if they didn’t follow, he’d still provide a link option in midfield.

It wasn’t quite a false nine role, but it carried the same idea — movement to create chaos.

Podolski placed the ball at the center circle. The referee’s whistle blew, and Arsenal kicked off again.

Kai immediately dropped deep, passing the ball back to Koscielny before lifting his head to scan the pitch.

After a brief pause, he drifted toward the right flank.

Seeing that, Ramsey adjusted, crossing into the left side to balance the shape.

Vermaelen sent a firm pass toward Kai. Bale was already charging in.

Kai stepped forward to meet the ball, cushioning it before flicking it past Bale with the outside of his boot — sending it down one side while he spun around the other.

Bale hesitated to chase — at this stage, he wasn’t one to counter-press aggressively — and that gave Kai space to surge forward.

He carried the ball into the center circle unchallenged. When Modrić finally closed in, Kai slipped the ball right to Walcott and immediately moved behind him for the return.

Walcott wanted to find Cazorla, but Coentrão had already locked him down. No opening. He recycled it back to Kai.

Kai switched play to Rosický on the right — still no way through — and received it again.

This time, he slowed things down, holding the ball and studying Madrid’s shape.

“Arsenal are using the full width of the pitch here,” said Martin Taylor. “They’re trying to stretch Real Madrid, and Kai’s the pivot for everything — every switch, every transition goes through him.”

Alan Smith added, “Yeah, he’s seeing a lot more of the ball tonight. Normally, he’s the one linking plays, but now he’s running the whole show. With Cazorla pushed higher up, Kai’s basically the spark of this side.”

Martin nodded. “And it’s not just creativity — he’s distributing everything as well. Arsenal have only got two real central midfielders out there: Ramsey doing the dirty work and Kai controlling the tempo.”

Alan continued, “Wenger’s using him as the central core. It’s bold — Kai’s never carried this much responsibility before.”

Their tones matched the tension in the air.

Even Arsenal fans watching from home were on edge. They knew Kai was good — brilliant, even — but this was different. This was Real Madrid, at the Bernabéu.

Still, Kai looked composed. Calm.

While supporters fidgeted in their seats, he remained focused. Opportunities didn’t come from panic — they came from patience.

Pat Rice used to tell him: There’s no game without mistakes.

You just had to wait for them. Or better yet, create them.

And Cazorla was Arsenal’s best weapon for that.

Kai kept orchestrating, eyes darting across the pitch.

Then he saw it — Podolski peeling away from the defensive line, signaling for the ball.

Kai’s eyes lit up. He whipped the pass forward, then sprinted left, swapping positions with Walcott.

Now he was hovering just behind Cazorla.

Podolski wrestled with Ramos for a second before poking the ball sideways — right into Kai’s path.

Kai anticipated it perfectly, threading a sharp through ball between Ramos and Coentrão.

The pass wasn’t fast or powerful — just perfectly weighted.

Cazorla slipped around Coentrão and latched onto it.

“A lovely through ball! Cazorla’s in here!” Martin Taylor shouted.

Cazorla met the ball and dragged it across with his left, using his body to shield Coentrão.

The defender’s balance faltered — a small misstep, but enough.

Ramos had been drawn out by Podolski and couldn’t recover in time. Cazorla suddenly had space.

Casillas rushed across the goal, trying to narrow the angle.

Cazorla didn’t hesitate. He stabbed at the ball with the tip of his boot — a sharp, instinctive finish.

The shot flew low and fast — almost invisible — and zipped right between Casillas’ legs.

The net rippled.

For a moment, the entire Bernabéu fell silent.

Then the Arsenal away section erupted.

“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAL!!!”

Martin Taylor’s voice cut through the noise: “Arsenal hit straight back! Santi Cazorla — composed, clinical, and Arsenal are level at the Bernabéu!”

The red-and-white corner of the stadium was in absolute delirium, their chants echoing back at the stunned Madrid fans.

Arsenal had fallen early — but they’d just punched back.

" What a strike! Absolutely brilliant! That’s a fantastic bit of passing and movement from Arsenal!”

Martin Taylor’s voice rose over the roar of the crowd.

“From Podolski’s hold-up play, you could see it coming,” Alan Smith added with a grin. “That Arsenal goal was written all over it!”

The equalizer sent Arsenal fans into raptures.

After Real Madrid had drawn first blood, Arsenal hit back with a goal built on pure teamwork and precision.

From the moment the move began, every pass, every run, every bit of movement off the ball clicked perfectly into place. There wasn’t a single misstep—each player did exactly what was needed.

This is what defines this Arsenal side now.

They aren’t just relying on one star player; their strength lies in their unity, their understanding, their collective rhythm.

In contrast, Real Madrid’s players looked unsettled. They’d believed they had Arsenal under control—but the fight and resilience coming from the Gunners were far greater than they had expected.

As the camera panned across the pitch, the scoreboard showed 3–2 on aggregate—Arsenal still ahead.

And as the clock ticked toward the 40th minute of the first half, the Bernabéu felt the tension rising once again.

Chapter 221: Champions League Semifinals, Second Leg 2

“Kai! Brilliant reading of the flight!” Martin Taylor exclaimed. “He’s been dominant in the air throughout these two matches, especially when dealing with Cristiano Ronaldo. You’ve got to say, for a holding midfielder, Kai’s aerial defense is right up there with some of the best!”

Real Madrid’s throw-in. Coentrão stepped up and tossed the ball toward Di María.

The moment Di María received it, he felt a body on his back — heavy pressure followed instantly.

He tried to turn, but Kai was right there, forcing him into trouble.

Di María wanted to release the ball, but Cazorla had dropped back in time to double up.

Cazorla immediately looked up after recovering possession.

“Here!”

Kai’s shout came from beside him.

Cazorla sent the pass sideways without hesitation.

Kai carried the ball left, using his arms to create space and guide the rhythm forward.

After opening enough distance, he stopped the ball, then passed to Ramsey.

Ramsey to Rosický — the Czech tried a few feints but couldn’t shake Modrić.

He quickly gave it back to Cazorla, who passed again to Kai.

Kai took control and called out, “Santi, push wide! Let Theo tuck in!”

Cazorla blinked for a moment, then ran toward the wing. Walcott understood and dropped deeper to fill the central pocket.

From behind, Bale came charging, looking to pounce.

But Kai had already anticipated it — he pulled the ball back under his boot, shielding it strongly. He swung his right leg over the ball, leaning his whole body toward his own half. Bale instinctively followed.

Then, in one smooth motion, Kai spun back, tapping the ball lightly with his left foot, shaking off Bale with ease, and driving forward across the halfway line.

He sent the ball to Walcott.

Walcott to Cazorla.

Everyone ahead started to surge into the box.

Cazorla took on Coentrão down the flank.

The Portuguese defender stayed tight, wary of the Spaniard’s quick feet.

Cazorla dribbled, keeping just enough distance with each touch — not too close, not too far — making Coentrão hesitate.

Then, suddenly, Cazorla feinted left, pushing the ball that way.

Coentrão stepped to follow — but in that same instant, Cazorla rolled it back through his legs with his right foot.

Nutmeg!

He was through!

Breaking past Coentrão, Cazorla raised his head to shoot — but Ramos was already there.

Ramos lunged in with perfect timing, stabbing the ball clear.

Cazorla’s move came to nothing.

The ball spun out toward the edge of the box, where Modrić arrived to collect — but before he could settle it, Kai barreled in and bumped him off balance.

Kai took control, shifted sideways to open space, and slipped it back to Cazorla.

“Go on! Keep driving!” he shouted.

At this point, Cazorla was Arsenal’s most dangerous threat. Kai knew that — he wanted him to keep pressing the left channel, to force Madrid to react.

Walcott was better for transitions; Cazorla thrived in these tight positional battles.

Cazorla steadied himself again and went for another run.

Martin Taylor: “Cazorla’s trying again down the left! That’s his second breakthrough attempt this match — Arsenal clearly want to use his skill to break Madrid’s shape out wide.”

Alan Smith: “They’ve been impressive so far, Martin. Many thought losing Suárez would cripple their attack, but they’ve found new patterns — more structure, more control. Though, yes, it all hinges a bit on Cazorla’s brilliance on that wing.”

Under heavy pressure, Cazorla knew he had to make something happen. Kai’s message was clear — keep hammering away at that flank.

Coentrão wasn’t easy to beat, but twice now, Cazorla had gotten past him — even if the final pass hadn’t connected.

Ramos kept sweeping up, preventing the final ball from finding a target.

But this time, Real Madrid switched tactics.

Instead of clearing long, Ramos flicked the ball with the tip of his boot, sending a perfect lofted pass toward Bale.

Bale brought it down smoothly and turned on the jets.

At the same moment, Kai was already tracking back — his Foresight read the danger as soon as Ramos played the pass.

Bale sprinted down the wing, with Ramsey sliding across to block.

“Don’t press! Hold your line!” Kai shouted.

Hearing Kai’s shout, Ramsey resisted the instinct to press, choosing instead to delay and force Bale to slow down.

But Bale saw it too — that hesitation. He pushed the ball past Ramsey with a powerful touch and exploded off his toes, bursting forward with frightening acceleration.

It was the simplest kind of move — pure pace, no tricks.

Ramsey stretched out a leg, then an arm, trying to block him, but Bale brushed past with ease.

“Damn it!” Ramsey muttered, his fingertips grazing Bale’s sleeve as the Welshman sped away.

The Bernabéu erupted.

“Wow!” Martin Taylor exclaimed over the roar. “That’s the Bale we know — raw, electric, unstoppable when he hits full stride!”

Alan Smith added, “Ramsey tried to stand him up, but once Bale’s got that step on you, there’s no catching him. Arsenal will have to be careful leaving that much space behind.”

After gliding past Ramsey, Bale slowed just enough to compose himself before whipping in a cross.

Benzema and Mertesacker both leaped for it — but Benzema leaned back mid-air, nudging Mertesacker just enough to throw off his jump.

Neither made contact.

The ball dropped perfectly to the far post, where Cristiano Ronaldo came charging in like a bullet train.

He met it first time — bang!

The net rippled violently.

1–0 to Real Madrid!

Cristiano Ronaldo had opened the scoring in the 9th minute!

He raced to the corner flag, leaped into the air, twisted mid-spin, and landed with his arms crossed.

“SIUUUUUU!!!”

The entire Bernabéu thundered in unison, the sound echoing like a tidal wave.

Kai stopped running and exhaled, his eyes following the ball that had just hit the net. He shook his head — helpless.

This was exactly what he feared.

The moment he drifted too far from the backline, Arsenal’s defense lost its shape.

If he’d been in Ramsey’s spot, maybe he could’ve intercepted or at least forced Bale wide. But now, as the team’s main orchestrator, he couldn’t commit as deeply to defensive duties.

Martin Taylor: “Cristiano Ronaldo again! His hot streak continues — and under Carlo Ancelotti, he’s been absolutely relentless!”

Alan Smith: “And that’s the risk for Arsenal. Without Kai sitting deeper, there’s a gap in front of the defense. Ramsey was left isolated, and Madrid punished them instantly.”

On the touchline, Arsène Wenger remained calm, arms folded, eyes fixed on the pitch. His expression didn’t waver, not even after conceding.

He’d expected this.

When he decided to push Kai further up, he knew the trade-off. Arsenal’s defensive solidity had always depended on Kai’s positioning. Without him screening the backline, vulnerabilities would show.

But Wenger wasn’t here to play it safe. Not this time.

This wasn’t about testing Arsenal’s defense — it was about seeing how far their attack could go.

Under Kai’s direction, could they play with enough tempo and imagination to threaten Real Madrid?

Simply put, Wenger had sacrificed defense for ambition.

After all, it was the Champions League semi-final.

Even if Arsenal reached the final by sitting deep and grinding it out, their chances of lifting the trophy would be minimal.

So instead of playing with fear, Wenger wanted his side to go for it — to fight, to express themselves, and leave everything on the pitch.

Kai’s earlier tactical call — giving Cazorla the task of driving play down the left — had been spot on.

Now, it was up to Cazorla to make it count.

If he could open up that flank, Arsenal might just turn this game around.