Kai had always been a practical man. "Talking won't prove anything—we need to try it on the pitch," he said.
To bring the drill as close to match conditions as possible, Kai invited Mertesacker and Koscielny to train with him. Both centre-backs agreed without hesitation.
They lined up beside Suárez. The plan was simple: the defenders would delay their run for a single heartbeat, then close him down. In that one second, Suárez needed to read the flight of the ball and stake out the best position.
Kai's task was even clearer—deliver a long pass straight onto Suárez's path.
It was close to fifty metres, but Kai trusted his range.
From a distance, he raised his arm. Everyone outside the penalty area tensed, ready.
He drove through the ball with a sharp run-up.
The pass climbed high and fast, cutting through the cool London air. Kai's leg strength gave it real zip.
The instant Kai struck it, Suárez sprang forward. Mertesacker and Koscielny paused exactly one beat, then surged after him. That brief delay was all Suárez needed to judge the drop and claim the inside line.
He couldn't quite win the header—two defenders pressing hard made sure of that—but even getting into position was impressive. In a real match, with chaos and blind spots, it would be much harder to contain.
"Good!" Kai jogged over, nodding to Suárez. "Let's work on the timing. Maybe we set up a relay—ball comes in and you hit the volley straight away."
Suárez grinned. "I like that idea. Let's keep at it."
They reset and went again.
Not every attacking routine comes from the manager's chalkboard. More often, they grow from understanding between players.
Kai already had a few such partnerships. With Walcott, it was the lightning-fast break: Walcott's pace plus Kai's pinpoint long ball, a weapon Arsenal used to punish teams in transition.
With Cazorla, it was a subtler rhythm. Kai always seemed to know exactly where Cazorla could hurt the opposition, sliding passes into dangerous spaces so the Spaniard could weave his magic.
Still, Kai knew his own attacking options were limited. He wanted more patterns, more unpredictability. The Suárez volley was a start—something that could force defences to second-guess. If opponents saw Kai winding up for a long pass, would it be Walcott darting in behind or Suárez setting for the volley? That hesitation alone could create openings.
The timing couldn't have been better. From the 18th league round onward, Arsenal faced a brutal holiday schedule—three matches in six days: West Ham on December 26, Newcastle on the 29th, and Cardiff on New Year's Day.
Arsenal won all three.
Kai patrolled midfield like a force of nature, his relentless tackling leaving opposition forwards visibly frustrated. Over those games, he racked up 21 interceptions, helping the Gunners keep three straight clean sheets.
During one broadcast, Sky Sports' Martin Taylor could hardly contain himself.
"It's incredible—he's everywhere!" he exclaimed as another attack broke down.
Alan Smith added with a laugh, "You simply can't get past him. He's turned midfield into a no-go zone."
The numbers told the story: three matches, a 100 percent success rate in one-on-one duels. Even the usually sceptical British press took notice.
Daily Mail: Twenty-one interceptions in three games—what can't he do? Kai is Arsenal's immovable anchor.
Sky Sports: Seventy-one percent of the Earth is covered by water. The rest? Covered by Kai.
London Sports: Arsenal fans are in full celebration. Soon-to-be twenty, Kai is already a phenomenon.
The Emirates faithful were beside themselves. Many joked they were watching those games on their knees in awe.
Nineteen years old, and already the heartbeat of Arsenal's midfield. A decade from now, who knew how much better he could become?
For many Arsenal supporters, it still felt unreal.
Not long ago, the club had fretted over the holding-midfield role, desperate for someone who could shield the back four. Now, almost overnight, they had a genuine top-class defensive midfielder on their hands.
Kai wasn't just a promising youngster anymore—he was the real thing.
Fans described the feeling as if someone were pouring honey straight into their mouths. They were positively giddy.
Arsenal's No. 4 shirt sold out again and again, forcing the club to divert production from other numbers just to keep up. At one point, the manufacturers were reportedly printing little else but the number four.
Even the pricey autographed jerseys disappeared from shelves within hours. Arsenal gear had always been notorious for its steep prices—supporters often grumbled about it—but lately the complaints had turned to laughter. Everyone wanted a piece of their new midfield star.
…
North London.
Bang!
The clerk behind the glass counter nearly jumped as a fan strode in, eyes wild, clutching a wad of cash.
"I need a Kai-signed shirt," the fan demanded. "Don't you lot love money? Here it is—take it. Just give me the jersey!"
The clerk could only spread her hands helplessly. They were out of stock, and no amount of waving banknotes could change that.
..
Meanwhile, at the training ground, Kai had just finished a session when Arsène Wenger beckoned him toward the main building.
"Come with me," the manager said with a faint smile.
Inside a conference room, Kai was handed a pen—cap already off and a pristine shirt.
"Sign," Wenger instructed.
Kai blinked at the mountain of jerseys piled in the corner. "All of them?"
"Every last one," Wenger replied evenly.
Kai groaned. "My wrist's going to cramp."
"You'll survive," Wenger said dryly. "Forty pounds for every signed shirt we sell."
That perked Kai up immediately. "Forty each? Hand them over!"
He set to work with fresh enthusiasm, scribbling his name in a steady rhythm.
"By the way," he asked after a while, "how much are these going for?"
"Five hundred pounds apiece," Wenger said.
Kai froze mid-stroke. "Five hundred? And I'm only getting forty?"
The manager chuckled. "The club handles the publicity; the manufacturers take their cut. Twenty pounds is generous—under normal circumstances, you'd see five at best."
Kai muttered under his breath and kept signing.
"Dark Arts," he said with a wry grin.
After a short pause, he looked up hopefully. "Any chance I get twenty for the regular shirts too?"
Wenger's smile widened. "Dream on."
Two hours later, Kai flexed his aching wrist, surveying the neatly stacked pile. "Ten thousand pounds in two hours," he said with a tired grin. "Not bad. Totally worth the cramp."