In Arsenal's dressing room, Wenger found Kai after going over his tactical notes for the second half.
"In the next forty-five, Bayern will try to hit us hard down Ribéry's side," Wenger said firmly.
Kai nodded, his expression serious.
Bayern were behind at half-time. If they wanted to survive this tie, they had to throw everything forward.
The duel between Kai and Robben had already reached a stalemate. Robben could still find a way through on occasion, but it was costly—too much time, too much effort.
So naturally, Bayern would look to Ribéry, who hadn't yet been fully engaged.
"Ribéry will drop deep to receive the ball and use his acceleration to drive at you," Wenger continued. "Your main task in the second half is to stay on him—don't let him build speed."
Kai nodded again.
Although Robben was dangerous, Wenger knew that once Ribéry found rhythm, Arsenal's shape could easily unravel. His constant dribbling and movement could tear open entire zones.
"I think you already know how to handle players like that," Wenger added.
"I'll keep him contained," Kai replied, "but we'll need Walcott tracking back a lot more. It's going to drain his stamina fast."
"That's fine," Wenger said, waving it off. "He's only needed for about sixty."
Kai blinked, then smiled faintly in understanding. Wenger wasn't expecting Walcott to last the full match—just to run himself into the ground disrupting Robben until the change came.
..
Martin Taylor's voice carried over the replays:
"Arsenal have been superb so far. They've completely dictated the rhythm."
Alan Smith nodded beside him.
"Absolutely. They're a proper unit. Individually, a lot of these lads aren't world-beaters, but Wenger's built something cohesive here. It's a textbook example of a side greater than the sum of its parts."
Smith rustled a sheet of paper and added. "Here's Bayern's first-half stats—eight attempts, but only three on target. That says it all. They're snatching at chances, forcing shots. They're under pressure."
Taylor nodded. "You can sense it. Bayern are getting desperate."
And who wouldn't be?
Bayern had lost the first leg 2–1. Now, trailing again in London, the aggregate stood at 3–1. The defending European champions were staring down elimination.
For Dortmund, fans might forgive.
For Bayern?
Never. Not like this. Not with their pedigree.
After the break, both teams re-emerged to a thunderous roar.
The air inside the Emirates was electric—thick with tension and anticipation. Every player's face was drawn tight with focus.
Kick-off.
Arsenal restarted through Suarez, who immediately laid it off to Kai. Kai sent it back to Cazorla and darted toward Ribéry's flank.
Right from the whistle, Arsenal went for it.
The fluid combinations between Cazorla, Suarez, Chamberlain, Walcott, and Rosický tore up the pitch in a blur. One-touch passes, sharp angles, constant movement.
Eventually, Chamberlain slipped a clever diagonal pass to Cazorla, who nudged it on for Rosický to hit first time—
Only for Neuer to dive full-stretch and palm it away
"Brilliant save from Neuer!" Martin Taylor shouted. "He's shaken off that first-half worldie and looks laser-focused now. Bayern needed that!"
Neuer wasted no time. He rolled it out quickly to Schweinsteiger, who found Kroos.
Kroos feinted past Cazorla and spotted Ribéry dropping deep.
The Frenchman took the ball, pivoted, and looked up the pitch—straight down his runway.
And there he was. Kai. Waiting.
Ribéry drew a breath, then pushed off—his strides lengthening, acceleration building.
"He's going for it!" Taylor's voice rose. "Ribéry's flying down the line!"
Under the eyes of tens of thousands, Kai positioned himself perfectly—sideways, blocking Ribéry's route inside.
His body hovered lightly, coiled like a predator waiting to strike.
Ribéry's pace quickened.
Kai eased back a half-step, adjusting.
If he were quicker, he might've gone stride for stride and nipped the ball cleanly. But Ribéry was in full flight now—his acceleration was electric.
So Kai had to rely on timing.
Ribéry was still accelerating, hoping to burst past in one explosive run. The gap between them shrank rapidly. Then, with a faint shift of his shoulder, Ribéry feinted—a fake pass, a small sidestep to open space.
Now!
Kai's leg muscles tightened, his calves snapped with power, and in an instant, he launched forward like a spring-loaded arrow.
The crowd gasped.
In a heartbeat, he was down—sliding, low and fierce.
He felt the faint, satisfying tap of his boot grazing the ball.
He'd done it.
"Brilliant! A fearless challenge!" cried Martin Taylor from the commentary box.
Alan Smith's excitement rose with the crowd. "Oh, that's brave—and absolutely spot-on! Any mistiming there and Ribéry's clean through!"
Down on the touchline, Wenger punched the air.
"Yes!" he shouted, both fists clenched.
Bayern had clearly shifted its focus—using Ribéry as the spearhead of their second-half attack. It was their best, perhaps only, route back into the match.
And Kai had just slammed that door shut.
The message was clear: We know what you're doing. And we're ready.
Wenger's confidence grew; Bayern's would inevitably start to crack.
Ribéry sat on the turf, frustration written all over his face. The challenge had been so clean, so decisive, that he couldn't even appeal for a foul.
He could only look up, watching Kai jog away coolly, already retreating to reset Arsenal's shape.
"What a nightmare of a player," Ribéry muttered bitterly under his breath.
Now he understood why Robben had warned him about the young midfielder. The kid's sense for the game, the way he read play and timed his interventions—it was uncanny.
For two seasons, Ribéry and Robben had terrorized Europe's flanks. Yet here they were, being neutralized by a 20-year-old.
It stung. Badly.
Play resumed with a Bayern long throw-in.
Alaba stepped up and launched the ball, Bayern pushing higher, committing bodies forward—they had to chase this game.
Kroos picked it up, turned, and found Ribéry again dropping deep to collect.
Was he really going to try it again?
Kroos hesitated for half a second—then sighed inwardly and sent it wide.
He didn't have many options left.
And across the pitch, Kai was already closing in again, reading the play before it even unfolded.
"Ribéry's here again!"
Kai's eyes locked on the Frenchman, his focus razor-sharp. He studied every twitch, every shift in Ribéry's balance.
Against a player like this, a split-second lapse was enough to be punished.
Ribéry feinted left, then pushed the ball wider. Kai tracked him immediately, mirroring his stride.
It was déjà vu — the same duel, the same tension.
But this time, Ribéry changed the rhythm. A sharp cut, a sudden body swerve—
"Got him!" Ribéry muttered, convinced he'd broken free.
Just as he swung his left foot to accelerate away, Kai reacted. From a sitting position, he lunged in with his left toe, nicking the ball cleanly in a tight V-motion.
The ball slipped out from under Ribéry's control, rolling neatly behind him—straight to Chamberlain, who spun on his heels and darted forward.
Ribéry froze, eyes wide in disbelief.
He had beaten him—or so he thought. How had Kai still managed to poke that ball away while off balance?
"What is he made of?" Ribéry muttered in frustration.
Even Kai exhaled sharply after the tackle. Ribéry's movement had been razor-fast and fluid; even anticipating it, Kai had almost lost his footing. Somehow, through willpower, he'd managed to stretch that leg and steal the ball.
Another battle won.
Chamberlain sprinted down the flank, testing Alaba.
He dropped his shoulder, flicked his boots through a few stepovers. Alaba stayed tight—eyes fixed, waiting for the mistake.
Unable to get past, Chamberlain played it back to Cazorla.
Cazorla took one touch, then drove into the box with an explosive step. The sudden move caught Bayern off guard. Boateng rushed across to close him down—
Cazorla shaped to shoot. Boateng bit.
Then Cazorla twisted again, shifting the ball to his right before curling it low towards the far post—
"Cazorlaaaa!" Martin Taylor's voice rose.
Thud!
The ball struck the side netting.
Alan Smith groaned, "Oh, that was inches away! You could almost hear the crowd start to celebrate."
Down on the pitch, Walcott crouched near the touchline, chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the turf. His body was screaming for rest.
Sixty-one minutes of non-stop sprints—tracking back, charging forward, harassing Robben—had drained him dry.
Wenger saw enough. He turned sharply to the bench. "Jack, get ready!"
Wilshere jumped to his feet, jogging down the sideline. Wenger watched him go, brows furrowed.
Thirty minutes left. It was going to be a long half-hour.
At the 63rd minute, the board went up: Walcott off, Wilshere on.
Pat Rice helped Walcott off the pitch. The winger could barely stand, but the crowd rose to applaud.
The sound rolled around the Emirates—Snap! Snap! Snap!—thousands of hands clapping in rhythm.
He hadn't scored, hadn't assisted, but his relentless running had helped Arsenal choke Bayern's rhythm. He had earned every bit of that ovation.
As Wilshere came on, Kai jogged over. "You know what to do, right?"
Wilshere nodded. "Carry on where Theo left off."
"Good. They'll test you early—especially on that left side. Be aggressive, but don't throw yourself in carelessly," Kai said, clapping his shoulder. "And don't get injured again."
Wilshere chuckled awkwardly, remembering the Spurs match last season.
Kai smiled faintly. "Let's go."
In the booth, Martin Taylor commented, "You have to admire Walcott's work rate tonight. He's been relentless, a real engine for Arsenal down that flank."
Alan Smith nodded, "This team's spirit is incredible. Every player's buying in. You can see how much they're fighting for one another."
And they were.
Every Arsenal player was running on fumes—but none of them cared. The pain was drowned by adrenaline and belief.
Winning against the defending European champions does that to you.
"Run!" Kai's shout echoed to his nearby teammates..
The team responded instantly, pressing together, pushing through the fatigue.
Even when their legs burned, they kept moving—because Kai was still running, still shouting, still leading.
"The Gunners are giving everything tonight," Martin Taylor said, voice rising with emotion. "Bayern are the reigning champions, but Arsenal are matching them for heart and hunger."
"Absolutely," Alan Smith replied. "They're not backing down one inch. You can feel the energy in the stadium—it's electric!"
The Emirates was shaking now.
We love you Arsenal, we do,
We love you Arsenal, we do,
We love you Arsenal, we do,
Oh, Arsenal, we love you!
The chants swelled like a wave, thousands standing shoulder to shoulder, beer cups in hands and fists pumping in rhythm.
The players felt it too—the surge of belief flooding through them.
Chamberlain demanded the ball again. "Here! Give it to me!"
Cazorla obliged with a diagonal pass that clipped past Alaba's heels.
Both men burst into a sprint, shoulder to shoulder.
Chamberlain fought for every inch, his boots digging into the grass. He knew he wasn't as experienced, but he could outwork him.
He gritted his teeth and pumped his arms faster. Alaba was slipping back—
"Damn!" Alaba growled, reaching out and grabbing a handful of Chamberlain's shirt.
Chamberlain stumbled but kept going, the fabric stretching taut behind him.
"Let go!" he shouted.
Another pull—and down he went.
Beep!
The whistle blared.
Cazorla rushed over, shoving Alaba in protest. Alaba retaliated with a push.
Cazorla went down theatrically, hands over his face.
"Hey! I didn't even touch him!" Alaba protested.
Before he could finish, a presence made itself known.
He barely saw it coming—Kai slammed into him shoulder-first, sending him sprawling.
When Alaba looked up, dazed, the towering midfielder stood above him, eyes blazing.
"You've got a problem you shouldn't have fouled," Kai said, his voice low but deadly calm.
Alaba froze due to the suddenness.
And the Emirates erupted again.
...
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