GRANDMAESTA_30
patreon
Chapter 204: Win A Trophy For Thomas
🕑 Added 2025-10-19 14:46:20 +0000 UTCIt wasn’t often that the national team head coach called personally to deliver news — and that alone spoke volumes about how much attention Kai was drawing.
His heart burned with anticipation for the World Cup, though a quiet wave of emotion came with it.
In another life, he knew that even with all his talent, getting China to the World Cup would have been almost impossible.
But this world was different.
Wang Yi, Chen Man, Fernando Kairui — the squad was stronger, sharper, more complete than ever before.
Kai knew he wouldn’t be fighting alone.
He had real teammates now.
He hadn’t met most of them yet, but from what he’d seen — in highlights, in reports — they were solid, dependable, and capable.
That thought alone filled him with a deep sense of pride.
After hanging up, he was still buzzing with excitement. Sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight.
He flopped onto his bed, scrolling through his phone.
The national team roster had already been announced — his name right there alongside Wang Yi and the others. No surprise there; they were automatic starters.
The rest of the list was a mix of overseas and domestic players, faces he barely knew.
The only familiar one was Chen Man — they’d trained together in the youth academy years ago. Kai wondered how much he’d changed since then, what kind of player he’d become.
After a while, he tossed his phone aside, stood up, and walked into the bathroom for a cold shower to calm himself down.
When he finally crawled into bed, sleep came slowly but peacefully.
...
The next morning, Kai was up before dawn.
He stood before the mirror, trimming his beard. It was still stubble — thicker than before, but nowhere near the full, rugged look of his European teammates.
Still, the slight roughness made him look older, sterner. There was an edge to it — one that might make opponents think twice before clashing with him in midfield.
He tidied up, ran a hand through his hair, and after a simple breakfast, drove off toward the training base.
The Premier League’s 33rd round was done, but the next mountain loomed large:
The second leg of the Champions League quarter-finals against Borussia Dortmund.
Arsenal would host them at the Emirates.
They’d taken a narrow win in Germany, but nobody was celebrating yet.
The Champions League was full of miracles — comebacks that defied logic, from Istanbul to Paris — and Dortmund only needed one goal to even the score.
Tension hung in the air at London Colney.
Every player knew what was at stake.
Since the group stage, Arsenal had faced nothing but giants — every round a test of nerve and stamina. Even their supporters were shaking their heads, half-joking that the club’s luck with draws was cursed.
But lately, Arsenal fans were louder than ever.
After beating Bayern Munich, hope had begun to bloom again — cautious, but real.
They wanted more. They wanted to believe.
Still, they were divided.
Some dreamed of Europe’s grandest prize, while others — the more pragmatic ones — argued that the Premier League should take priority.
The squad was stretched thin, and chasing glory on two fronts was a dangerous gamble.
If they poured everything into Europe and fell short, they might lose the league as well — and end the season empty-handed.
But giving up the Champions League? That was easier said than done.
After all, for Arsenal fans, the trophy wasn’t just silverware — it was a wound that had never quite healed.
They’d come close before. Too close.
And now, with this team playing the best football in years, hope was impossible to suppress.
“I’m not giving up on the Champions League.”
The words came clearly, firmly, from Wenger at the end of the tactical briefing.
Every player in the room looked up.
There was no shock — just quiet determination.
They knew what it meant.
Two fronts. Heavy legs. Sleepless nights.
But also — a chance at something special.
Wenger let the silence settle for a moment before continuing.
“I’ll be honest,” he said, his voice calm but resolute. “It will be difficult for us to win the Champions League. Very difficult.”
The players exchanged glances, lips pressed tight. It wasn’t pessimism; it was realism.
“But this campaign,” Wenger went on, “is a test. A test of how far we can go — of how much we can endure. I’ll be evaluating every position, every performance, and we’ll make adjustments accordingly.”
He looked around the room, his eyes meeting those of Kai, Cazorla, and Vermaelen in turn.
“We’re going to fight — and we’ll find out who’s ready to fight with us.”
The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy.
And though no one spoke, everyone felt it — the spark, the fire, the belief. They all understood what Wenger’s words meant. Strengthening the squad wasn’t just about building depth — it meant fiercer competition.
For the starters, it meant no complacency. For the substitutes, it meant survival.
A new signing in any position could easily push someone to the sidelines.
But this was Arsenal — nobody complained. Everyone knew the rule of the road: once the train picked up speed, anyone who couldn’t keep up would be left behind.
Wenger scanned the room carefully, reading their expressions. Most faces were calm, though tension simmered beneath the surface. He nodded slightly, then said in a quieter tone,
“There’s one more thing.”
The players straightened, sensing the weight in his voice.
Wenger turned to Vermaelen. “After this season, Thomas will be leaving Arsenal.”
The room erupted into murmurs. Chairs creaked. Heads turned.
Vermaelen stood slowly, taking a steady breath before walking to the front. His face was calm, but there was a touch of sadness in his eyes.
“I wanted to tell you all later,” he began, his voice even but low, “but I never found the right time. So I’ll say it now, before the season ends.”
He glanced around the room, making eye contact with a few of the players.
“I’ll be leaving Arsenal at the end of the season. It’s been a privilege to play and fight alongside all of you. Every day here has taught me something — and I’ll carry that with me always.”
A brief silence followed. Then, with a faint smile, he added, “I wasn’t the perfect captain, I know that. But I’m lucky that the one succeeding me is more than ready.”
He turned toward Kai.
“Kai — come here.”
Kai hesitated for a second, then rose from his seat and stepped forward. Vermaelen placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You’ve all seen what he’s capable of,” Vermaelen said, his tone firm but proud. “You respect him — I know that. And now, he’ll be the one to lead this team forward. Lead Arsenal into a brighter future.”
The room fell silent again. Some looked down, others at Kai, who stood there quietly, his expression unreadable.
Vermaelen sighed softly. “Hey, don’t make those faces. You’ll make me regret announcing it like this.”
Sagna frowned, his voice a mix of surprise and frustration. “But—”
Vermaelen raised a hand, cutting him off with a grin. “No speeches, no gifts. Just give me a Champions League trophy as a farewell, yeah?”
Laughter broke out immediately.
“You wish!” Sagna barked.
“Greedy Thomas!” someone shouted.
“Damn it, now I don’t feel sad anymore!”
“Oi, I want one too!”
The gloom lifted in an instant. The locker room was filled with laughter, teasing, and mock complaints — the kind only brothers-in-arms could make.
Vermaelen smiled warmly. “That’s more like it. Arsenal’s always been a team that looks forward. Keep that spirit alive. Forget the Champions League — just get me the Premier League trophy instead!”
“Now I really want to punch him,” someone joked, and the laughter grew louder.
“If he stayed injured, we’d probably win it anyway!”
“Praise be to the Great Priest!”
The atmosphere shifted from heavy to lighthearted in seconds — the way true camaraderie worked.
Kai watched quietly through it all, a faint smile on his face but a storm brewing beneath it.
He already knew about Vermaelen’s departure — he’d been told privately weeks ago. And maybe that was why he couldn’t laugh as freely as the others.
Because deep down, he knew the truth.
Vermaelen was leaving partly because of him.
Kai’s rise had made the transition inevitable.
That knowledge weighed on him — guilt, gratitude, and pressure blending into one complicated knot in his chest.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
A gentle hand landed on his shoulder.
Kai turned — it was Wenger, smiling faintly.
“It’s alright,” he said quietly.
Kai drew in a slow breath. He understood.
What’s meant to come, will come. There’s no running from it.
He straightened up, shoulders squared, eyes steady.
Soon, he would be officially named captain of Arsenal — a giant of English football.
And with that responsibility came pressure.
But to Kai, pressure wasn’t a burden. It was fuel.
It was the fire that would drive him forward.
