[Le Lai's image]
...
In the second half, the situation didn't improve—
It got worse.
Arsenal looked paralyzed in defense, and because of it, the players didn't dare to attack.
What on earth was going on?
Frustrated shouts erupted from the stands. Arsenal fans were furious.
They'd never seen their team look this lifeless.
Even the Uruguayan, whom they had pinned their hopes on, showed flashes of quality, but what about the rest? Dead weight.
Cesc Fabregas had said he wanted results and left.
That still stung.
Van Persie claid he needed a better partner and walked away.
That stung even more.
Then, Alexander Song followed Fabregas to Barcelona.
Fans weren't even angry about that one. They saw it as trimming the fat.
But watching this match now?
This dreadful ga?
They weren't just losing players—
They were losing the future.
Or worse: the future had betrayed them.
They couldn't accept it.
Everything they were seeing scread one harsh truth:
They were wrong.
Completely wrong.
Everyone who left? They might've been right.
If you wanted to win, you had to leave Arsenal.
There was no light here anymore.
And that realization?
It hit Arsenal fans like a punch to the chest.
It wasn't even full-ti yet.
But the cracks were plain to see.
The defense was falling apart.
It was crap. Absolute crap.
At that mont, a flurry of faces flashed in their minds—
Vieira, Pires, Lehmann, Campbell
Even Song, who had just left, was better than this.
But those players were gone.
And what was left?
Right—Ramsey.
They still had Ramsey.
Ramsey!
Ramsey!
Ramsey!
The Emirates echoed with the fans' desperate chant.
They were crying out for a savior.
They didn't know if Ramsey could save them—
But at least it was better than doing nothing.
They needed a change.
...
On the bench, Ramsey looked stunned.
He never imagined the day would co when the fans would call his na like that.
It sent a rush of adrenaline through him—he wanted to leap onto the pitch right there and beco the hero.
But he quickly composed himself.
He wasn't that guy. Not today.
He knew what ca next—
If he went on and played badly, the cheers would turn to jeers.
That kind of pressure? He couldn't handle it.
He turned his head and glanced toward the corner.
Wenger had called for him to warm up.
Kai was already on his feet, jacket off, ready for battle.
The bench watched Kai silently.
In their hearts, they knew—
This could be his mont.
So people are born for it.
Kai began his sideline routine, stretching out his shoulders, hips, arms, and wrists.
The crowd was still chanting for Ramsey, but Kai didn't seem to hear them.
He glanced up toward the field again and again, eyes locked onto the ga, reading the situation.
The ssage was clear.
His job: defend.
By the ti Kai returned to the bench, it was already the 67th minute.
Still 1–1.
Sunderland were riding high on a wave of counterattacks.
Soone had to stop them.
Then, from the sideline, Pat Rice signaled to the fourth official. A substitution.
He walked up to Kai.
"You ready?"
Kai's eyes were steely. "Always."
"Good." Pat smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Stabilize the defense. Push forward if you see the chance. Trust your instincts."
They'd learned sothing about Kai. He had a knack for reading the ga.
Kai nodded.
Pat gave him a firm slap on the back.
It stung.
But it fired Kai up.
Diaby ca off looking exhausted.
Kai gave him a high-five and jogged onto the pitch.
All eyes turned to him.
Fans rembered him from last season—
The No. 4 jersey. A glimpse of hope. A sign of promise.
But this? This was different.
Could he rise to the occasion?
"Wenger's final substitution is Kai," Ian Darke noted. "Promising young lad from the few matches he played. We'll see if this is the right call."
"Kai had great defensive numbers in a few appearances last season," added Steve McManaman. "Let's hope for Arsenal's sake he brings that sa form tonight."
Arsenal's number four.
Not just a number. A symbol.
So felt it was too much to hand it to a teenager.
Too heavy a burden.
But here he was.
And as Kai stepped onto the field, he felt the weight of over 60,000 eyes.
A single mistake—
And they'd tear into him.
But he didn't shrink.
He felt... excited.
Henry had stolen the show during his debut.
This ti, Kai had a shot at redemption.
If he played well, he'd earn the fans' trust instantly.
But if he faltered?
This night would haunt him forever.
It was a mont of truth.
Kai took his position without a word. He didn't greet anyone.
The pressure? Real. Crushing.
But it was exactly this kind of pressure that forged heroes.
...
Beijing, China.
Back in the Sina Sports studio, Zhan Jun was animated.
"Kai! Wenger's going with Kai. I didn't expect to see him in the season opener."
Zhang Lu chuckled. "He was impressive at the end of last season—great numbers in limited minutes. But is it wise to put a teenager into this situation?"
Zhan Jun nodded. "That's the question. If he handles this, he could beco a regular starter."
Zhang added, "Good luck then to the young man."
anwhile, the live chat exploded with support for their countryman.
....
[Emirates Stadium, London]
All that surrounded him were eyes—skeptical, expectant.
Better that than boos.
Kai took a deep breath and tuned into the match.
Sunderland were building again.
Kai moved forward, but the pass ca too early.
He didn't flinch. He hovered around the center circle, waiting.
Sunderland dropped the ball back to reset.
Their striker, Sessegnon, eyed Kai and thought to himself.
A teenager?
Maybe this was the weak link he could exploit.
But just as he began plotting, Kai suddenly turned and bolted toward Arsenal's box.
Then—cheers from the crowd—
A long ball was sailing over the top.
McClean was already sprinting after it at full tilt.
Gibbs tried to hold his ground, waiting for the ball to drop.
But he miscalculated.
One step too far, and he lost his positioning.
McClean barged past him, surging into the box.
If he got to the ball, it'd be a clean shot on goal.
The stadium held its breath.
Vermaelen swore, moving from his centre-back position to clean up the ball.
Suddenly, a red-and-white blur streaked across the pitch.
Kai.
He flew toward the ball, launching himself into a perfectly-tid sliding tackle.
McClean had almost reached it.
Already imagining the goal. The crowd. The celebration.
Then—
Kai's foot crushed the turf and blasted the ball clear.
Not just a clearance—
He launched it.
McClean hit the ground.
The Emirates fell silent.
Then, slowly, thousands of jaws dropped.
From the northeast corner, the view was perfect—
Kai charging in like a car, slamming into the tackle, sending the ball into orbit.
He got up, took two steps to balance himself, then raised his fists and roared.
Kai let it all out—
The tension, the pressure, the fire.
Darke finally found his voice.
"What a tackle! Beautiful."
"That was brilliant by Kai," McManaman added. "Wenger's side nearly conceded another goal. McClean was just about to bury the dagger in Arsenal's heart."
The crowd erupted.
Applause exploded across the stadium.
The Emirates roared with a new kind of hope.
Kai had arrived.
...
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