"Don't give them any room to breathe!"
Kai's voice rang out across midfield.
"Keep pushing. Higher!"
If Crystal Palace were still thinking about counter-attacking, it meant the pressure wasn't sharp enough.
Kai's answer was simple—turn the screw.
Arsenal's tempo suddenly lifted. The passing quickened, the movement became sharper, and the spacing tighter.
Faster. Cleaner. More decisive.
From high in the stands, it looked like a red-and-white current flowing through the final third. Arsenal players threaded between Palace shirts, while the defenders appeared rooted, reacting half a second too late to everything.
The ball never stopped moving.
Crystal Palace could only watch.
Physically, they were struggling. Mentally, they were already a step behind.
"This is exceptional football from Arsenal," Martin Taylor said, admiration clear in his voice. "The speed of the passing, the constant movement—it's relentless."
Alan Smith nodded in agreement. "It's all one-touch, two-touch at most. They're finding angles you don't even think are there. Palace simply can't live with this."
The passing sequences were hypnotic. Short, sharp combinations, threaded through the narrowest of spaces.
Kai hovered just outside the box, drifting laterally, always available. If one watched closely, it became obvious—almost every Arsenal move passed through him.
Sometimes he dictated. Sometimes he participated. Often, he did both.
The tempo was fast, but never frantic.
On the touchline, Arsène Wenger stood rigid, fists clenched. Beside him, Pat Rice leaned forward, eyes fixed on the pitch.
It was happening.
They had seen flashes of this in training—quick combinations, fluid rotations—but training matches were one thing.
This was real. This was the Premier League.
And it was working.
"Go on, lads!" Pat Rice bellowed, unable to hold himself back.
Then, suddenly, Kai slid the ball into Cazorla and accelerated forward himself, bursting into the penalty area.
That movement broke the pattern.
Crystal Palace had been defending with strict man-marking; every player locked onto an assignment.
Kai's late surge shattered the balance.
"Who's got him?!" Hangeland shouted, panic creeping into his voice.
Suarez was nearby, which made stepping out risky. But everyone else was tied up.
For a split second, no one went.
Cazorla dragged the ball back, glanced up, and with a delicate flick, threaded it straight through Dann's legs.
Perfectly weighted. Perfectly timed.
Right into Kai's path.
Hangeland reacted instantly, abandoning Suarez and throwing himself forward.
Man-marking no longer mattered. Danger did.
Speroni crouched low, eyes locked, bracing for the strike.
Kai drew back his right foot.
Then—he pulled away.
The ball slid between his legs.
A dummy.
Hangeland froze. Speroni shifted his weight the wrong way.
And suddenly—
A red-and-white shirt arrived at speed.
"Sanchez is there!" Martin Taylor shouted. "Kai lets it run—Sanchez hits it—"
Goal!
The Emirates erupted.
Alan Smith almost laughed in disbelief. "That is outrageous football. Absolutely outrageous."
Sanchez wheeled away as the net rippled, arms spread wide.
"That dummy from Kai," Martin Taylor continued, "the awareness, the composure—it opens everything up."
The Emirates erupted.
It was loud, full, the kind of noise that came with disbelief and joy mixed. Faces were flushed, fists were pumping, and for a moment, it felt like Arsenal had just sealed a title rather than opened a league match.
As fans, moments like this demanded applause.
And because the goal belonged to Arsenal, the reaction was thunderous.
Last season, despite winning the Premier League, Arsenal hadn't always been easy on the eye. Results often came through grit—midfield tackles, interceptions, quick counters. Effective, yes, but not exactly the football Arsenal had built their identity on.
The fans understood. Winning came first.
But this?
This was something else.
Now Arsenal weren't just winning—they were playing beautifully while doing it.
How could the crowd not be swept away?
For a split second, it felt like being pulled back to the 2005–06 era—fluid football, confidence, flair. The kind of Arsenal that played with imagination and swagger.
So who said Arsenal couldn't play attractive football anymore?
Who said they'd turned into nothing but a physical side?
Look at this.
The cheers rolled through the stadium like a wave, crashing again and again against the stands.
Sanchez ran toward the corner, eyes wide, grinning like a kid. It was his first goal of the season—and on his debut, no less.
You couldn't script a better start.
"Fantastic!" he shouted, even as teammates dragged him into a pile.
Laughter followed. Arms around shoulders. Smiles everywhere.
When the celebration finally loosened its grip, Sanchez made a point of finding Kai.
"Captain—nice fake," he said, giving him a thumbs-up.
Kai smiled back. "Your movement was spot on. That's the first. I've got a feeling you're not done yet."
Sanchez's eyes lit up instantly.
A brace on debut? No one ever said no to that.
A few yards away, Di Maria watched the exchange, a flicker of envy crossing his face. Scoring on debut—every player dreamed of it.
Still, he wasn't frustrated. He felt sharp, involved. He just needed the right moment.
He jogged over to Kai.
"Captain," Di Maria said casually, "I can take their right-back one-on-one."
Kai glanced at him, mildly surprised, then amused. The message was clear—he wanted the ball, but didn't want to say it outright.
Kai nodded. "If the space opens up, I'll look your way more."
That was all Di Maria needed.
He walked off satisfied. Help or not, if the ball came, he'd take it. Anyone would.
Truth was, he'd already developed a taste for Kai's passing—the daring through balls, the low, curling deliveries that arrived right where you wanted them.
If possible, he'd happily play the role of the runner—head down, full speed, trusting the ball to find him.
That kind of football was a joy.
For Crystal Palace, though, Arsenal's opener was grim news.
They hadn't come expecting to win—but they'd hoped to survive. A draw would've been the result.
Now, even that looked unlikely.
They told themselves to regroup, to recover some pride.
But the restart shattered those thoughts almost immediately.
Arsenal went straight back on the attack.
Relentless. Precise. Suffocating.
Crystal Palace stopped thinking about counter-attacks altogether. Every thought was about blocking lanes, closing space, surviving the next wave.
By the time halftime approached, their legs felt heavy, their minds even heavier.
. . .
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