Since Kai arrived at Arsenal, the club has backed him at every step. Supporters embraced him early, and within the dressing room, he quickly became central to the project. At times, he even carried himself with more experience than some of the older members of the squad.
Once Kai secured his place in the starting eleven, Arsène Wenger placed increasing responsibility on his shoulders. There were matches when Wenger handed him full control in midfield without hesitation. Kai never took that trust lightly.
The club had invested belief in him, so when the moment demanded it, he was prepared to give something back.
At halftime, the decision was clear. From the restart, Kai would step away from attacking duties. He would hand creative control to his teammates and dedicate himself entirely to defensive work.
He had joined Arsenal as a holding midfielder, once dreaming of mastering the art of the sweeper. Now he had the talent to dominate games as the central figure, yet he chose to retreat into a quieter role.
Defense.
Every elite side is built on it. No team with a fragile back line survives the latter stages of the Champions League. If lifting that trophy required restraint, he would accept it.
Individual awards meant little to him. Between the Ballon d'Or and the Champions League, he would choose the latter without hesitation.
As the players returned to the pitch, Kai called Wilshere and Santi Cazorla over.
"I think the Professor has already spoken to you both," Kai said calmly.
Cazorla nodded. He understood.
Wilshere studied Kai for a moment. If their positions were reversed, would he give up control so easily? He knew the answer. He would not.
"The breakthroughs are yours," Kai said, placing a hand on Cazorla's shoulder. "Take risks. Try different angles. I won't hold you back. If we want this, we adjust. Play your game."
Cazorla's eyes lit up. "Got it."
Kai then turned to Wilshere.
"We've had our issues," he said plainly. "You don't like me much. I don't like you much either. But for ninety minutes, that doesn't matter. We're on the same side."
He gave Wilshere a firm pat on the back.
"You're the number ten. That shirt carries weight. Everything you've asked for is there now. Show us."
Kai walked back toward his own half.
Wilshere exhaled. There was frustration in it, but also relief.
Back in position, Kai raised his voice.
"Come on, guys. Let's show them that London is truly red."
He spread his arms, drawing energy from the group.
"We're Arsenal. Let them feel it."
The players' expressions hardened. The cameras caught it. Whatever Kai had said, it had landed.
On Sky Sports, Martin Taylor picked up the moment.
"You can see it in their faces," he said. "Kai has stirred something here."
Alan Smith nodded. "That's leadership. He can drive forward like a battering ram when needed, but he can also sit in and protect. Let's see how they respond."
The whistle went. Second half underway.
Arsenal kicked off. Kai passed to Wilshere and remained near the center circle, scanning Chelsea's shape. For the next forty five minutes, his focus would be discipline.
Wilshere carried the ball, Kai's words echoing in his head. You're the number ten.
André Schürrle crept up from behind.
"Jack, behind you!" Cazorla shouted.
Schürrle lunged, but Wilshere dragged the ball back, pivoted, and slipped it through his opponent's legs before darting around him.
"Don't treat me like I'm finished," Wilshere muttered.
He fed Cazorla, who prepared to turn, then heard the sharp double clap from behind. Arsenal's training ground signal.
Without hesitation, Cazorla flicked the ball back with his heel.
Wilshere surged onto it.
Nemanja Matić stepped forward to block. Wilshere glanced toward Ángel Di María. Matić followed the look for a split second.
That was enough.
Wilshere dropped his shoulder and burst right, slipping past the challenge and reaching the edge of the area.
Di María and Alexis Sánchez drifted wide. Luis Suárez occupied the center backs.
Instead of passing, Wilshere struck early—a low drive through Gary Cahill's legs, skidding toward the far corner.
Petr Čech reacted sharply, stretching full length to push it wide with his fingertips.
"Wilshere hits it!" Martin Taylor called. "Wilsheeerr-Uhh. Čech with a strong hand."
Alan Smith leaned forward. "Excellent combination play. Quick feet, quick decision."
Behind the move, Kai had not advanced. He remained stationed near the halfway mark, resisting the urge to join in. He had touched the ball once in the sequence.
.
On the bench, Pat Rice folded his arms. "Jack's sharp today."
Wenger gave a small nod. "He can be. The question is consistency."
Rice glanced sideways at him, trying to read the thought behind the expression, but Wenger offered nothing more.
.
Corner to Arsenal.
Per Mertesacker moved up. Kai dropped into the vacant center back slot without instruction.
Martin Taylor noticed immediately. "Interesting. Kai has slotted right into the back line."
Alan Smith replied, "That tells you everything about his mindset in this half."
The corner came in. Mertesacker lost the aerial duel. John Terry cleared decisively.
Chelsea broke at pace.
Eden Hazard drove forward with Diego Costa alongside him.
Kai sprinted back, organizing the line as they retreated into their box.
Hazard slowed, shaping to cut inside.
Kai's eyes locked with Bacary Sagna's, motioning with his head.
Sagna stepped out to engage.
Kai held his ground, poised, reading the next touch.
"Chelsea on the break!"
Martin Taylor's voice rose as the counter gathered speed. Hazard surged forward, the crowd rising with him.
Sagna stepped out to confront him.
"Sagna goes tight," Alan Smith added. "He has to delay him."
Hazard shifted left, then snapped the ball back across his body. Sagna was wrong-footed for a split second. Hazard burst into the box.
The home supporters were already on their feet.
Kai had been tracking the run from the start. The moment Sagna was beaten, he moved.
He was not the quickest over long distances, but his first steps were good enough. His studs dug into the turf as he drove forward, grass flicking up behind him.
He closed the angle fast.
Hazard shaped to shoot.
Kai lowered his center of gravity, eyes fixed on the ball, and extended his right foot. With the sole, he pressed down and hooked it away cleanly.
A heavy thud echoed as the ball spun clear.
"Kai!" Martin Taylor shouted. "What a tackle!"
Alan Smith leaned into the microphone. "That is perfectly timed. He gets the ball."
Hazard tumbled forward, arms spread, rolling once on the turf.
Around Stamford Bridge, the reaction split instantly.
"Foul!" came the roar from the Chelsea end.
"Never!" from the travelling Arsenal fans.
The referee ran in, expression firm.
"Get up," Herb Dean told Hazard.
Hazard stayed down, clutching his shin.
Kai approached, ready to explain, but stopped when he saw the referee's body language. The official had a clear view of the challenge.
"I saw it," the referee repeated. "He played the ball. Get up now."
Hazard hesitated.
Herb Dean had had enough.
The whistle shrilled sharply. A yellow card came out.
"Simulation," Martin Taylor said calmly.
The referee held the card up toward Hazard. "If you stay down, it's red."
Hazard rose slowly, still limping for effect, but the referee had already turned away.
Several Chelsea players gathered around, protesting.
"Back away," Herb warned, pointing at each of them in turn.
On the touchline, José Mourinho was livid. He stormed toward the fourth official, gesturing furiously.
"That's a foul! Open your eyes! What a disgrace!" he barked.
The fourth official stood firm, unimpressed. Mourinho's assistant tugged at his sleeve, moving him to the dugout.
"Calm down, José," the assistant muttered.
Mourinho adjusted his coat and sat down heavily, still shaking his head.
He knew it was a dive. But pressure mattered at home. Messages had to be sent.
From his seat, he looked first at Hazard, who was jogging back with a tight jaw, then at Kai.
"That was class," Mourinho murmured under his breath.
Chelsea retained a throw-in, but Arsenal pressed quickly and regained possession. The ball found Wilshere.
Kai dropped back into his holding role, scanning, directing with short gestures, saying little.
Ahead of him, Wilshere took control again.
There was something different about him. His touch was clean, his decisions immediate. He was not dwelling on the ball.
On the bench, Pat Rice smiled faintly. "There used to be hesitation. That's gone today."
Wenger nodded. "When he simplifies, he's dangerous."
Wilshere was playing with clarity. Two touches at most. Beat a man, release it. Move again. No flourishes unless they served a purpose.
In truth, he was echoing parts of Kai's approach. Direct. Efficient. Ruthless.
In the sixtieth minute, Wilshere carried the ball to the edge of the area. Cesc Fàbregas crept in from behind, hoping to nick it away.
Wilshere sensed him, shifted laterally to create space, then burst between John Terry and César Azpilicueta.
"Close him!" Terry shouted.
Azpilicueta stepped up, but Wilshere nudged the ball right and struck early toward the near post.
Čech reacted sharply, pushing it wide.
"Another good effort," Martin Taylor said. "He's testing them constantly."
Four minutes later, Wilshere was back, exchanging quick passes with Cazorla to slice through the midfield line. From a distance, he fired again. Terry rose to head it clear.
By sixty-eight minutes, Wilshere was once more driving at the heart of Chelsea's defense.
Terry bellowed instructions. "Stay with him! Don't dive in!"
Wilshere stepped into the box again.
Terry committed early, determined to block the shot.
Wilshere feinted right. Terry followed.
But the ball remained behind.
Cazorla had peeled off quietly and struck first time.
The shot smashed against the post with a metallic clang.
Wilshere and Cazorla both grabbed their heads.
"How has that not gone in?" Martin Taylor exclaimed.
Chelsea's defenders were breathing hard now, shirts clinging to their backs.
Terry glanced at Wilshere in disbelief. They were England teammates. He had never seen him this free in international colors.
From deep, Kai watched the chaos unfold, a faint smile on his face.
When Wilshere found rhythm, he was formidable. Chelsea's structure was bending under the combined movement of Wilshere and Cazorla.
It was more direct than anything Kai could offer in the final third. He would never glide past two defenders and burst into the box.
But he did not need to.
His job was balance.
While Wilshere attacked with freedom, Kai remained the anchor, steady and alert, prepared for the next counter, ready to protect the lead if it came.
He intercepted counters, tracked runners, and covered both fullbacks. Without that layer of protection, Arsenal might have conceded again during the few forays Chelsea went on.
Chelsea found themselves pinned back. For a spell, they barely strung three passes together.
On the touchline, José Mourinho stood with arms folded, expression tight. There was a moment when he appeared to consider shutting the game down entirely, dropping deeper to secure the point. Few managers would dare at home, but he had never been sentimental about style.
He held off, waiting for the closing stages before thinking about changes.
Inside Stamford Bridge, tension spread. Arsenal supporters leaned forward, willing their side to break through. Chelsea fans glanced repeatedly at the clock. They were ahead, yet it did not feel secure. Every Arsenal attack carried danger.
Time crawled.
Suárez spun and struck from the edge of the area.
Bang.
Čech parried strongly, conceding another corner.
A collective exhale rolled through the stadium, then quickly tightened again as Mertesacker jogged up.
"Mertesacker up again," Alan Smith remarked. "Even if he doesn't win it cleanly, you worry about the second ball."
From Chelsea's perspective, there was one small comfort. Kai remained in his own half. In truth, his aerial timing and leap posed an even greater threat than Mertesacker's. They preferred the tall German in the box.
Cazorla delivered.
Mertesacker rose with Terry and Cahill bracketing him. Under pressure, he could not connect properly. Terry hacked it clear.
The ball climbed high into the night sky.
Di María and Oscar both jumped, neither making contact. It dropped awkwardly behind them.
Diego Costa charged toward it.
Rio Ferdinand glanced right.
Kai had already spread his arms, signaling retreat, then stepped forward to meet the dropping ball.
He cushioned it under control and lowered his stance.
Thump.
Costa crashed into him at full speed.
The collision echoed in his chest, but Kai absorbed it, core tight, boots planted. For a second, both men swayed.
He steadied himself and slipped the ball to Ferdinand, who moved it quickly to Cazorla.
Arsenal reset.
Mertesacker shot him a concerned look while retreating.
Kai waved it off. "I'm fine."
Play surged forward again.
After recycling possession, Wilshere turned and gestured sharply toward Kai.
Come up.
Kai blinked in surprise. He had surrendered attacking authority; that meant he followed Wilshere's lead.
He pushed forward into the flank channel, scanning for danger, ready to intercept if Chelsea broke.
The move continued without interruption.
Wilshere glanced at him again, almost irritated.
"Higher, Kai!" he shouted.
Kai ran closer. Wilshere slipped the ball wide to Di María, then gave Kai a shove toward the box.
"Go. Attack it."
For a split second, Kai hesitated.
He scanned the shape. Di María and Sánchez were stretching the width. Chelsea's line had been pulled thin.
He understood.
Charging straight in would draw markers instantly, so he lingered, drifting just outside the central pack.
Chelsea's defenders noticed him, unsure why he was so advanced, but they were too occupied to adjust.
Arsenal's tempo increased. Quick exchanges. One-touch passing. Constant movement.
Wilshere peeled left.
Cazorla burst into the area.
Chelsea's back line scrambled.
That was the moment.
Kai exploded forward through the gap.
Wilshere received a return pass from Di María and, without breaking stride, whipped in a curling cross. It bent beyond Terry and skimmed past Cazorla at the near side.
Cahill was tight to Suárez, confident in the aerial duel.
Suárez took two steps, then stopped dead.
Cahill stumbled into his back.
And from behind them, a red and white shirt rose high.
Kai climbed above everyone, arms wide for balance, body suspended, eyes locked on the ball.
"Danger here," Martin Taylor warned.
Cahill shouted, "Away!"
Too late.
Kai attacked the ball with full force, his forehead redirecting it goalward like a driven shot.
Čech felt the movement before he saw it. His fingers twitched, but his feet did not move.
The net rippled.
Silence swept across Stamford Bridge.
Then Martin Taylor's voice cut through it.
"Arsenal are level. Kai with the header."
Alan Smith's tone carried admiration. "Brilliant timing. He held his run perfectly."
In the seventy-ninth minute, Arsenal had equalized.
On the touchline, Mourinho's jaw tightened.
In the stands, travelling supporters erupted.
Kai landed and did not sprint toward the corner flag. Instead, he turned and pointed at Wilshere with a steady finger.
The Arsenal players exploded in celebration.
Suárez was the first to leap onto Kai's back.
"Kai! I told you!" he laughed, almost breathless. "I knew it would come!"
Cazorla and Sánchez piled in as well, shouting over one another. More red shirts sprinted from all directions. If there was ever a moment to lose control, this was it.
High in the away section, Arsenal supporters roared. They were vastly outnumbered, yet their voices cut sharply through the London night.
After fifty relentless minutes of chasing the game, they were back in it. And it was their captain who had dragged them level.
The script felt familiar, and that made it even sweeter.
In the stands, Prince Harry and Meghan celebrated without reserve. Harry threw his arms around the supporters beside him, strangers only moments earlier, now united by one word, Arsenal. Meghan quickly straightened his crooked beard, saving him from the cameras before he even realized.
On the touchline, Arsène Wenger and his staff surged forward as soon as the net rippled.
This had been far tougher than expected. Arsenal had been exposed early and forced to respond under pressure. To recover here required resolve.
Wenger allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. A point at Stamford Bridge was valuable. He had not arrived expecting to dominate Mourinho's Chelsea on their own ground. This Arsenal side was improving, but it was still a work in progress.
Across the technical area, José Mourinho's face hardened. He replayed the seventy-minute mark in his mind, wondering if he should have acted sooner. Delay had cost him before, and it might cost him again.
Chelsea's players stood scattered in frustration. They had focused on the obvious threats, the forwards and the runners between the lines.
Who expected the holding midfielder to crash into the box like that?
It was bold. If it failed, Arsenal would have been exposed. But it worked.
Cesc Fàbregas watched Wilshere and Kai exchange a quick high five before sharing a brief embrace.
He knew Wilshere well.
Now he looked transformed.
Fàbregas exhaled slowly. He could not decide whether it was good or bad for Arsenal long-term, but in this moment, it was dangerous.
From the stands, Arsenal supporters chanted Kai's name.
Fàbregas glanced down at his own shirt. Wearing blue while hearing red voices still stirred complicated feelings. The number four no longer belonged to him in their eyes.
Back in the commentary box, Martin Taylor summarized calmly. "Arsenal have shown resilience tonight. The equalizer was superbly constructed."
Alan Smith agreed. "Wilshere has been outstanding in the second half, but that header from Kai was decisive. The timing, the disguise of the run, everything about it was spot on."
He continued, breaking down the move. "The width from Di María and Sánchez stretched Chelsea. The quick return pass caught them off guard. Wilshere delivered first time. Inside the area, Cazorla and Suárez occupied Terry and Cahill. It's excellent execution."
.
Wenger turned immediately to his bench. "Prepare the changes."
Kanté, Koscielny, and Chambers were sent to warm up with urgency.
Arsenal had clawed their way back through sheer work rate. The physical toll was obvious. Even Kai looked drained.
Chelsea responded as well, introducing fresh legs in midfield and on the flank.
Soon after, Kai, Rio Ferdinand, and Sagna were withdrawn.
As Kai reached the touchline, Kanté met him with a quick high five. "Rest now, captain. I run for you," he said in broken bursts.
Pat Rice handed Kai a towel and a bottle of water. Wenger added quietly, "Get your breath back."
Kai lowered himself to the turf before settling on the bench, taking sips of water. He had not attacked much in the second half, but defensively, he had emptied almost everything in his tank.
At least they were level. If the goal had not come, all that running would have ended in frustration.
The final minutes were fierce. Chelsea pushed for a winner, determined not to drop points at home. Arsenal's crowded midfield, cutting lanes, waiting for the right moment to counter.
From the bench, Kai watched Wilshere closely.
If Jack sustained this level, the midfield hierarchy would change. Cazorla might find himself rotating more often.
After a pause, Kai leaned toward Wenger. "Coach, we should reassess Jack's situation."
Wenger glanced at him, thoughtful. "We'll discuss it later."
Kai nodded.
The clock ticked toward ninety. Chelsea's counters grew less urgent. Arsenal slowed possession when possible. An unspoken acceptance seemed to settle over both sides.
No late drama arrived.
The whistle blew.
Chelsea 1, Arsenal 1.
Players shook hands. A point each.
For Arsenal, it felt earned. For Chelsea, at home, it felt like two dropped.
After seven rounds of the 2014-2015 Premier League season, Arsenal sat top with six wins, one draw, and nineteen points. Chelsea followed with five wins, one draw, one defeat, and sixteen points.
Only two goals had been scored, yet the intensity never dipped.
The Man of the Match award went to Wilshere.
His dribbling, quick combinations, and relentless driving runs had unsettled Chelsea all night. The assist for the equalizer sealed it.
As he collected the award, Wilshere offered a modest smile.
. . .
Please do leave a review and powerstones, which helps with the book's exposure.
Feel like joining a Patreon for free and subscribing to advanced chapters?
Visit the link:
[email protected]/GRANDMAESTA_30
Change @ to a