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Chapter 94: The New Soldier
🕑 Added 2025-07-15 11:07:39 +0000 UTCFollowing 31 rounds of the Premier League, just seven games remained — and England was gripped in a frenzy.
The reason was simple: Manchester United had slipped.
After being eliminated from the FA Cup by Chelsea, United stumbled again in the league, losing the Manchester derby at Old Trafford to City, 1–2. Suddenly, their lead was cut to just four point over second-place Arsenal.
The media erupted.
From an 9-point deficit back in round 22, Arsenal had clawed back 5 points from the deficit in 9 matches. Now, the Gunners could stage one of the most dramatic late-season comebacks in Premier League history.
Daily Mail
Wenger’s Gunners ready to dethrone United at the wire!
The Guardian
North London’s charge targets Carrington!
Manchester Evening News
“Wenger’s gift to Sir Alex in his final season: a nightmare title race!”
London Sports
The Gunman returns — and he’s loaded!
At United’s Carrington training ground, Sir Alex Ferguson sat in his office, frowning over the morning papers. One headline read: Arsenal’s Counterattack: Can United Hold?
He snorted in irritation.
They were Manchester United — how could they possibly lose?
And yet… he felt tired.
In what was meant to be his final, triumphant season, Ferguson hadn’t expected Wenger to resurface as a serious threat. He’d thought about City and Chelsea, but Arsenal? They hadn’t worried him in years.
But now, fueled by something — or someone, they were relentless.
That number 4…
Ferguson remembered clearly how Kai had played against them in the first half of the season — a ferocious, selfless display. That unforgettable moment when the young midfielder threw himself head-first to block Rooney’s shot still stuck in his mind.
Few players had that kind of spirit. Kai did.
And he’d scored the winner, too.
Ferguson had once famously said Arsenal were one leader away from being champions. Now it seemed Wenger had found that leader.
He’d even quietly tried to sound out Arsenal about Kai. Ferguson would’ve gladly spent United’s one remaining special talent slot on him — who wouldn’t want a midfielder like that?
But Wenger wouldn’t even entertain the idea. Ferguson could already imagine the roar if he called with an offer.
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. He was getting old. He felt it in his bones.
Still, one thing hadn’t changed: United would not go quietly.
Across town, in his Manchester villa, Robin van Persie sat silently on his sofa, staring at the paper in his hands.
“The Gunman Returns — and he is loaded”, the headline blared, above the image of Kai’s back.
Van Persie knew that figure all too well.
That unassuming kid from last year… who’d grown into a player even he and United now feared.
He had left Arsenal for one reason: to win trophies. He believed Ferguson and United would deliver what Wenger couldn’t.
But a season on, nothing had materialized. Knocked out by Real Madrid in the Champions League, dumped by Chelsea in the FA Cup, and now under threat in the league from the club he’d abandoned.
And this Arsenal wasn’t the Arsenal he thought he knew. This was a different team — ruthless, unrelenting, dangerous.
They’d loaded the chamber, cocked the hammer, and were taking aim.
Van Persie could only watch as the Gunman he thought he’d left behind prepared to pull the trigger.
This wasn't the Arsenal he remembered.
At least not the one that usually stumbled at the end of the season.
But now? Now, they were coming straight for them—fearless, surging forward with intent.
It was as if the Gunners had taken the safety off and were ready to shoot with live rounds.
This... this wasn’t the Arsenal he knew.
This was a version of Arsenal he’d never seen before.
Knock knock.
The door opened, and a middle-aged man stepped in. He glanced at Van Persie, slouched on the sofa, then let out a weary sigh.
“Robin, you really shouldn’t keep reading this stuff,” he said.
It was Kees Vos, Van Persie’s agent.
Robin turned his head slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. “Kees, tell me I’m right.”
He buried his head in his hands, clearly frustrated. “I left Arsenal to win things. And now look at them... If I’d stayed just one more year... if…”
Kees raised an eyebrow. “What, you thinking about going back? I can call the Professor if you want.”
Robin quickly shook his head. “No. It’s not possible. He doesn’t take kindly to betrayal. He’d never accept me.”
After all, if Van Persie had gone abroad, maybe there’d be a path back.
But he’d joined Manchester United.
That was unforgivable—to Arsène Wenger, at least.
Kees exhaled heavily. “Well... Ferguson’s retiring now. So what do you want to do?”
Robin didn’t answer right away.
He had gone to United for Sir Alex. But who could have guessed Ferguson would step down after just one season?
He stared blankly at the screen, voice quiet.
“Let’s wait and see... maybe United finds another Ferguson?”
Even he didn’t sound convinced.
...
Barcelona, Catalonia.
In a quiet booth of a dimly lit bar, Cesc Fabregas and Alexander Song sat nursing their drinks.
It was against club rules to drink during the season, but right now? Neither of them cared.
They needed the alcohol. Even without it, they couldn't play.
Song looked relaxed—if a little indifferent. His life in Barcelona was simple: more money, fewer expectations.
He didn’t even need to play regularly to keep earning, and over time, he’d grown to enjoy that laid-back lifestyle.
Fabregas, however, looked anything but at ease.
Since returning to Barcelona in 2011, he’d had chances—made decent contributions—but he could never quite displace Xavi or Iniesta.
He worked hard, played efficiently, but it never seemed enough.
The club he once idolized as a boy... the dream of the Camp Nou... had shut him out.
He stared into his glass. “Arsenal’s in the title race.”
Song nodded. “Yeah... I figured.”
Cesc looked up, surprised. “And you still left?”
Song gave a bitter chuckle. “What choice did I have? Be a permanent benchwarmer? That new kid—Kai—plays my role. The Professor pushed Vieira out to make room for you back then. No way I have the same place in his heart. If anything, I got sold.”
Fabregas frowned. “Kai? Is he really that good?”
Song hesitated, then sighed. “I hate to admit it... but yeah. The kid’s got fire. Tough, focused, never backs down. He reminds me of Vieira. I’m sure you know the feeling.”
Cesc nodded slowly. He did.
He’d learned so much playing next to Vieira.
Song continued, “And Arsenal’s flush with cash now. That second Russian investor settled in, and once the stadium loan’s paid off, they’ll be dangerous. It’s starting to feel like the 2005–06 squad again.”
Fabregas swirled his drink, thoughtful. “Cazorla’s been a bit off. If I were in that role, I think I could click with Kai. I can read his game.”
Song looked up. “Wait... are you thinking of going back?”
Cesc exhaled deeply. “I want to win. Maybe... maybe I’ll go see the Professor. Apologize. He believed in me once, believed. Maybe he still does.”
Song opened his mouth but said nothing.
Yeah, the Professor had once adored Fabregas—there was no doubt about that.
But things had changed.
The Professor wasn’t the same anymore.
Now? All his faith was in his...new soldier.
