T/N: No updates tomorrow. Saturdays will now be my rest days. Enjoy the chapter.
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As April continued, World Cup fever began to take hold.
Across London, cars adorned with Union Jack flags cruised proudly down the streets, and England's white St. George's Cross jerseys — once rare sights outside matchdays — were now everywhere. Advertisements for World Cup warm-ups filled every corner, and giant LCD screens along London Bridge played looping highlight reels of past World Cup goals and glory.
Driving through the city in his car, Kai glanced at the passenger seat where Chamberlain sat, slouched and unusually quiet. The normally cheerful winger looked downright miserable, lips pursed and expression full of injustice.
Kai couldn't help but smile. "What's wrong this time?"
Chamberlain turned his head dramatically. "Did you make the national team?"
Kai nodded. "Yeah."
Chamberlain let out a groan, slumping further. "I didn't. Can you believe that?"
Kai raised a brow. "Didn't you go to the Euros in 2012?"
"I did!" Chamberlain sighed. "But they don't want me now. I really wanted to go to the World Cup…"
Kai didn't know whether to laugh or sympathize. His own inclusion had been almost certain — his Premier League performances alone made him a lock for the national side. But in the powerhouse nations like England, competition was a whole different beast. Even the best could miss out.
He didn't bother consoling Chamberlain. The lad usually bounced back quickly.
Sure enough, by the time they got back to the training ground, Chamberlain was already back to his talkative self — unfortunately, at Walcott's expense.
"You didn't make it either? Really? But you've been playing great!"
Walcott's expression was souring by the second, while Chamberlain kept poking. The more he talked, the better he seemed to feel.
Look, even Theo didn't make it — that made him feel a bit better about himself.
Kai watched from across the room, then sighed, stood up, and grabbed Chamberlain by the back of his collar.
"Oi—what are you doing?!"
"Keeping you from getting smacked," Kai said dryly, dragging him back a few steps.
Chamberlain wriggled free, pouting. "You don't have to be so harsh!"
Kai rolled his eyes. "Then stop poking the bear."
The locker room that day was full of mixed emotions — excitement, disappointment, and quiet tension. Some players had made the World Cup squads; others hadn't. The joy and heartbreak were written all over their faces.
But once training began, the mood slowly shifted. The World Cup could wait — for now, Arsenal still had business to finish.
They were still top of the Premier League, just barely, and now among the final four in Europe.
The semi-final lineup was set:
Arsenal and Chelsea are representing England, Real Madrid and Atlético Madrid are flying the flag for Spain.
The draw had placed Arsenal against Real Madrid — Cristiano Ronaldo's Real Madrid.
At that moment, Ronaldo was in his absolute prime — 28 league goals already, ahead of Messi, and an astonishing 16 in the Champions League alone.
Real Madrid's lineup looked terrifying on paper: the BBC trio of Bale, Benzema, and Cristiano up front; Modrić, Di María, and Khedira controlling the middle; Carvajal, Ramos, Varane, and Coentrão at the back; and the legendary Casillas in goal — still Saint Iker, unshaken, unbroken.
Kai glanced at the draw results later that night.
Real Madrid.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
The Galácticos.
It was clear that every position in this Real Madrid side was world-class.
Facing them, Arsenal knew the challenge ahead was monumental. The only faint comfort was that Chelsea were also fighting in the other semi-final — at least England still had two teams in the last four.
From front to back, Arsenal would be tested everywhere.
Up front, Suarez, Walcott, and Rosický would have to go toe-to-toe with the fearsome BBC trio.
In midfield, Cazorla and Kai were up against Modrić — the Croatian maestro in the form of his life.
And at the back?
Well, Real Madrid's defense spoke for itself. Ramos and company were at their peak, disciplined and ruthless.
On paper, Arsenal barely stood a chance.
It was at this point that Wenger called the team into the tactics room. The players gathered, waiting for something clever — some grand plan to outfox the Galácticos.
Wenger stood before them, hands clasped behind his back.
"We'll play 4-2-3-1."
Silence filled the room.
Vermaelen raised an eyebrow, half smiling. "And… anything else, Professor?"
Wenger simply shook his head. "No. That's it."
A few puzzled looks bounced around the room until Kai finally understood.
Wenger wasn't changing anything — he was trusting what they knew best.
Arsenal's most familiar system. The 4-2-3-1 — high pressing, quick movement, relentless energy.
This wasn't about surprises or clever tweaks anymore. At this level, mind games and experiments meant little. Everyone left in the competition was too strong, too prepared.
From here on, it was about identity. About conviction.
When giants clash, you play your football — not someone else's.
Training that week reflected that philosophy. The intensity was light; the usual running drills were skipped. Recovery and rhythm were the priorities.
As the players headed out to train, Pat Rice lingered in the doorway, his expression thoughtful.
"Wenger," he said quietly, "are we really going for it? I mean… we've already done more than enough this season. We can focus on the league, you know?"
Wenger turned toward him, frowning slightly. "What do you mean by enough?"
Pat sighed. "The Champions League. This run alone has been incredible. We're still in the title race. We don't need to stretch ourselves thin."
Wenger smiled faintly — the kind of smile that held both fatigue and fire. "I used to think that way too, Pat. Always looking for the safer path. But look at them."
He gestured toward the window. Outside, the players had already begun training — no orders, no shouting, just quiet, focused determination.
"Do they look like men ready to give up?"
Pat followed his gaze. The answer was obvious. The players were full of energy — as if the challenge ahead had only ignited them further.
Wenger's voice softened. "Every time we surrender, even for practical reasons, we lose a bit of ourselves. These lads — this is their first time at this stage. Even if we lose, they must understand why. They must grow through it."
He paused, watching Kai call for the ball, dictating the rhythm even in a light session.
"No one is born a Champions League winner, Pat. They're made — forged through setbacks and pain. Every failure is a whetstone. Every defeat sharpens the blade."
"I won't pull them back now. If they want to fight, then we fight — even if it costs us the Premier League title. They need this test. They need to face what greatness looks like."
Pat Rice opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. There was no point. He didn't fully agree — in his eyes, the league was the real prize — but he knew that look in Wenger's eyes.
Wenger had made up his mind.
Yes, the Premier League mattered. But this was bigger than trophies. This was about legacy.
Arsenal's glory had never reached Europe. Wenger wanted to change that — to make history, not just preserve it.
He knew how far behind Real Madrid they still were. But none of that mattered.
Sometimes, you have to walk into the fire to learn what it takes to withstand it.
As he watched his players on the pitch, Wenger felt something stir within him — belief.
Maybe they weren't ready to win it yet. But this was where their journey to the top began.
He himself knew the pain of defeat too well.
But for these players, this time, it wouldn't be about heartbreak.
History always starts somewhere.
...
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