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Chapter 116: Five Missiles, No Target
🕑 Added 2025-08-07 16:00:34 +0000 UTCIn the early hours of the morning, the skies over London were tinged with a soft, grey hue.
As drizzles tapped gently against the pavement, forming shallow puddles along the roadside, a thin mist hovered above the ground, wrapping the sleeping city in a damp, quiet stillness.
On an otherwise deserted street, the rhythm of footsteps broke the silence.
Steady. Calm. Measured.
A silhouette gradually emerged from the haze—Kai, his figure cutting through the fog as he maintained a steady pace. As his trainers slapped against the puddles, tiny splashes scattered in every direction, disturbing the morning’s peace.
“Huuhhhhhh—”
Reaching halfway up the hill, Kai came to a stop by the roadside. Breathing heavily, he stood still and looked out over the mist-covered slopes below. A deep exhale left his lungs, easing the tension from his chest.
Propping one foot up onto the guardrail, he leaned forward into a stretch, holding the pose before switching legs. Once he’d completed his full-body stretch, Kai turned and jogged back the way he came.
By the time he reached home, sweat clung to his shirt. He showered quickly, then grabbed a suitcase and began packing his gear.
There was an away fixture the day after tomorrow. That meant the team had to travel out of town the night before. Better to pack now than scramble later.
Once everything was in order, Kai zipped up the suitcase and wheeled it to the front door—only to find Chamberlain already waiting outside with his luggage in tow.
“Took you long enough,” Chamberlain quipped, arms folded, one eyebrow arched.
Kai chuckled. “And yet here you are—still a terrible driver waiting on me.”
“Keep talking, gramps,” Chamberlain shot back with a grin as he tossed his suitcase into the boot and jumped into the passenger seat. “Let’s go already! I’m starving!”
Kai shook his head with a laugh, threw his bag into the trunk, and slid into the driver’s seat. But instead of heading directly to the training ground, they took a slight detour.
They were bound for Mrs. Winter’s café.
Most restaurants in England didn’t open until 9 or 10 a.m., and breakfast culture wasn’t exactly thriving. Some players made do with food at home, others braved the bland offerings at the club canteen. But for those who valued taste over calorie-counting, Mrs. Barrymore's little corner shop was a morning haven.
It was a tiny storefront, nestled not far from the training complex. But what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in warmth—and flavour. Kai and several Arsenal players had become loyal regulars.
“Two hard-boiled eggs, two whole-meat sausages, and two breakfast tacos, please!” Kai called out as he stepped inside.
Behind the counter stood an elderly woman in a floral skirt and apron, her white hair tied back, reading glasses perched on her nose. She turned at the familiar voice, her lined face breaking into a smile.
“Special salad with that?” she asked, knowingly.
“Of course,” Kai grinned, flashing her a thumbs-up. “Wouldn’t be breakfast without it!”
Moments later, she handed over two neatly packed breakfasts and added, “I threw in two extra eggs for you boys.”
Then, raising a fist with a playful grin, she added, “Go show those Black Cats who's boss!”
“You got it. Watch us work." Kai chuckled as he took the bags. "Do take care of yourself, Ma'am.”
Back in the car, the two tore into the food like men on a mission. Once they were finished, they wiped their mouths, tossed the wrappers into a bin, and made their way to the training base.
As usual, they were the first to arrive.
Kai fished out a locker room key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Originally, Johnson was in charge of the keys, but after a full season of early mornings, he’d eventually handed the responsibility over to Kai.
“Might as well let the guy who opens the place have it,” Johnson had said with a yawn.
Inside, they quickly changed into training gear and made their way out onto the pitch for a light jog and warm-up. The rain hadn’t stopped; instead, it continued as a steady drizzle.
“Bloody rain,” Chamberlain muttered, wiping droplets off his brow. “If it’s going to rain, just pour already. I hate this in-between nonsense—you never know when it’ll let up.”
Kai nodded as he kept tapping the ball underfoot. “Make sure you bring an extra pair of studs. If it pours later, you’ll be slipping all over the place.”
Chamberlain shrugged. “Not like I’m playing anyway.”
He wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t featured in the first match, and Cazorla’s top-notch performance had cemented his spot in the starting eleven—for now.
Kai couldn’t help much in that regard. Everyone had to earn their place.
Within the hour, more teammates began to trickle in. Soon, the training pitch was buzzing. Even the substitutes, seeing the main squad already hard at work, hustled to change and hit the turf—some even ran a couple of extra laps to prove a point.
Kai watched them with quiet satisfaction.
Competition was alive and well.
When Wenger and the coaching staff arrived, both the starters and benchwarmers had already wrapped up their warm-ups and were well into ball drills.
Wenger, looking pleased with the enthusiasm, clapped his hands to get their attention.
“All right, that’s good for now. Everyone hit the showers and meet in the tactics room. We leave after lunch.”
...
Later that week at the Stadium of Light, the match against Sunderland was underway.
“Adam Johnson’s been a ghost today. That’s a huge blow for Sunderland,” noted Martin Taylor in the Sky Sports commentary box.
“He’s been pocketed by Kai all afternoon,” added Alan Smith. “Can’t seem to make a single move past him.”
By the 67th minute, the scoreboard read 1–2 in Arsenal’s favour.
After an early Sunderland goal, Arsenal had tightened the screws. Johnson had been marked out of the match—literally—by Kai, who stuck to him like glue. Every time the Sunderland winger crossed into Arsenal’s half, he found Kai waiting.
It wasn’t long before Johnson stopped trying altogether.
He looked frustrated. Helpless. Why was this Asian midfielder always one step ahead?
Even when Johnson tried to engage physically, hoping to use his body to create separation, he found Kai unyielding—stronger than expected, faster on the turn.
With Johnson neutralized, Sunderland’s attack stalled. Meanwhile, Arsenal’s midfield trio of Arteta, Cazorla, and Kai took full control.
The forwards ran riot.
Every attacking sequence flowed naturally. Arsenal’s creative players were thriving, and it all started with the defensive platform provided by Kai.
Seeing the team push higher up the pitch, Kai himself edged forward.
Nearing Sunderland’s penalty box, he suddenly raised a hand.
Walcott spotted him and delivered a quick layoff.
Kai, just outside the area, didn’t hesitate—he struck the ball on the bounce with power.
BOOM!
The shot thundered off his boot, slicing through the rain—but soared high over the bar, drawing a chorus of groans.
“That’s his third long-range attempt today,” Martin Taylor noted, amused. “I think Wenger’s been encouraging him to work on those. He’s got the power, no doubt about it.”
“He just needs to find that accuracy,” Alan Smith replied. “Right now, he’s launching rockets without a target.”
Kai planted his hands on his hips and exhaled, glancing down at his boots. He hadn’t been under pressure when he took the shot, but it still flew wide.
Long-range shooting wasn’t like passing. The former demanded raw power and precision in a single moment—whereas passing was all about finesse and control.
He gave a small wave of apology to his teammates, who only grinned and waved it off.
If anything, they were secretly glad to see him mess up for once.
Despite missing all five of his long-range efforts that match—one clipped the post, the rest went into orbit—Kai’s presence remained vital.
Arsenal closed out the match with discipline and flair, securing a 2–1 win away from home in the second round of the 2013/14 Premier League season.
Two wins from two. Not bad at all.
And Arsenal weren’t the only ones off to a flying start—Liverpool and Tottenham had also picked up back-to-back victories.
Elsewhere, the weekend’s headline fixture—Chelsea versus Manchester United—fizzled out in a 0–0 draw. No goals, few chances, and not much for the fans to remember.
But the shock of the round?
Manchester City losing 2–3 to newly-promoted Cardiff City.
That result sent shockwaves through the league.
The champions-elect, humbled by a team most had tipped for relegation.
But then again—this is the Premier League.
Unforgiving. Unpredictable. And utterly intoxicating.
The neutrals were loving every second of it.
