Thousands of miles away in London, inside Chelsea's headquarters, José Mourinho was watching the match in silence.
He shook his head slowly.
Oscar's performance hadn't satisfied him. In fact, he looked genuinely disappointed.
The assistant coach spoke up cautiously.
"Honestly, Oscar hasn't played badly today. What kind of midfielder are you really looking for?"
Mourinho pointed at the screen, the camera centered on Kai.
"Like him."
The assistant coach let out a bitter laugh.
"We can't get him."
Arsenal's refusal had been absolute. Even with an astronomical offer on the table, they hadn't hesitated.
"That fee would be enough to sign Neymar," the assistant added.
"Neymar isn't as important as Kai," Mourinho replied flatly.
The assistant shrugged.
"Right now, most people would still choose Neymar."
Mourinho smiled faintly.
"That's the difference between ordinaries and The Special One. They value reputation and highlights."
He leaned back.
"Kai doesn't produce flashy moments every game—his position doesn't allow it. And yet he still makes headlines, because his performances are consistently exceptional."
"More importantly," Mourinho continued, "his value goes beyond footballing ability. He's a natural leader. He doesn't just help a team win titles—he can become the backbone of a super team."
He paused, then added quietly,
"Do you really think Abramovich wants Kai just because I asked for him?"
"Behind Kai is one of the largest untapped football markets in the world."
The assistant fell silent for a moment, then sighed.
"…Even so, we still can't get him."
Mourinho glanced sideways at him.
Had anyone ever told him how irritating that sounded?
The broadcast cut to a corner of the Mineirão Stadium.
Arsène Wenger was seated there, alongside his longtime assistant Pat Rice.
The two men applauded repeatedly, exchanging brief comments. Their presence drew cheers from the crowd.
Among Arsenal supporters worldwide, Wenger remained deeply respected.
And tonight, they were here for one reason.
They were watching Kai—Arsenal's captain and undisputed core.
Wenger waved casually toward the stands, then fixed his gaze on the pitch.
"He's improved again," he said calmly.
It had taken him less than six months to push Kai into the starting lineup and place him at the heart of the team.
But judging by this World Cup, Kai's growth had exceeded expectations.
Wenger believed the current Chinese team couldn't fully unlock Kai's potential.
But Arsenal was different.
With stronger teammates around him, Kai would elevate everyone.
Pat Rice clapped enthusiastically, his smile impossible to hide.
"I'm already excited for next season," he said.
"Kai keeps getting better. With the reinforced squad—how far can he take Arsenal?"
Recent talks with Jorge Mendes had gone smoothly.
After prolonged negotiations, a framework for Ángel Di María's transfer was finally agreed upon.
Barring surprises, Di María would arrive at the Emirates next season.
With a front line built around Walcott, Suárez, and Di María, Arsenal's attacking power would be formidable—two explosive wings feeding a ruthless central striker.
In midfield, the pairing of Kanté and Kai was already generating enormous anticipation.
Kanté had arrived early for individual training, and reports from the ground were glowing.
With two elite ball-winners and Kai orchestrating play, Arsenal could field one of the most balanced midfield units in modern football.
Defensively, options were still limited.
Arsenal were in talks with Keylor Navas, though Real Madrid remained involved.
Negotiations continued.
If that deal went through, the final pieces could fall into place.
Wenger's eyes never left the pitch.
...
"Alright, that's enough," Kai called out.
"Back into position—the referee's about to restart."
He had noticed Howard Webb's growing impatience.
This wasn't the moment to invite trouble.
The Chinese players jogged back into their half, passing Brazilian players along the way.
Brazil looked disappointed—but far from shaken.
They still believed.
The match restarted.
Brazil kicked off.
Their approach didn't change.
Possession. Pressure. Control.
For ten straight minutes, Brazil pressed relentlessly.
China endured—and struck back when possible.
Each counterattack felt like a blade pressed against Brazil's throat.
After every Chinese break, Brazil tightened up for a few minutes.
Then pressed again.
Time kept slipping away.
By the 40th minute, Brazilian players were beginning to realize something uncomfortable.
This Chinese team wasn't fragile.
They had thrown everything at them—and still couldn't score again.
Yu Hao received a yellow card after a desperate challenge on Neymar.
"Hold on!"
"Keep running!"
"Left side—left!"
"I've got it!"
Under the blazing sun, Chinese voices echoed across the pitch.
Their kits were soaked, streaked with grass and sweat.
They looked battered.
But their eyes burned bright.
Five minutes left.
Just five more minutes to halftime.
Hold the line.
Neymar received the ball and turned.
Kai was already there.
Tight. Relentless.
Neymar struggled to shield the ball.
He tried to create space, but Kai followed step for step.
After conceding, Kai's pressing became even more aggressive.
Neymar wasn't used to this kind of pressure.
This was Premier League football.
Relentless. Physical. Unforgiving.
In La Liga, you had time.
Here, you had none.
Too much skill? You'd get tackled.
Hesitate? You'd get hit.
Dodge—and you concede ground.
Don't dodge—and you risk injury.
This was the reality.
And against Kai's physical, confrontational style, Neymar felt both irritated—
And helpless.
...
Beep! Beep—
One short blast, followed by a long one.
The referee's whistle signaled halftime.
Kai sent the ball out of play and immediately bent forward, hands on his knees, gasping for air.
"Hoo… hoo… hoo…"
His chest rose and fell like a bellows. In the oppressive heat, his throat felt scorched, every breath burning. Dehydration hit hard—his lips were cracked and dry.
He ran his tongue over them and forced himself to steady his breathing.
Around him, his teammates looked even worse.
Some dropped straight to the turf, squatting or sitting, faces twisted with exhaustion. Forty-five minutes of this tempo was nothing like Chinese league football. Against Brazil's pace and pressure, the physical toll on the Chinese players was immense.
"Inside, quickly! Everyone inside!"
Assistant coach Zhang Chen waved them in, a bucket in one hand and a ladle in the other.
As each player passed, Zhang scooped water and poured it straight over their head.
The shock made them flinch, cold streams running down their faces and jerseys—but the relief was immediate. He then pulled ice packs from a cooler and handed one to each player.
Most pressed them to their heads or the backs of their necks.
Kai didn't bother with subtlety. Without hesitation, he shoved the ice pack straight into his shorts.
Once inside the locker room, heavy breathing filled the space. No one spoke. Every second was spent trying to recover.
Kai pulled the ice pack out, peeled off his soaked jersey, then his shorts, standing barefoot in his underwear.
Several heads lifted.
He raised a hand.
"Don't talk. Just listen."
The room went quiet.
Kai wiped the sweat from his face, his eyes moving from one teammate to the next.
"We survived the first half," he said calmly. "But Brazil will raise the tempo after the break. I know some of you aren't used to European rhythm—but trust me, it's about to get faster. Much faster than you expect."
Chen Man, Wang Yi, Fernando Kairui, and the others nodded.
"They'll use that discomfort to break us," Kai continued. "So the first few minutes of the second half are crucial. Think faster. Decide faster. Be decisive."
He paused, then spoke firmly.
"Three rules. First: don't dive in recklessly—wait for the moment to press. Second: if they get past you and there's cover behind, recover immediately. Third—if there's no cover—take them down."
Everyone understood. Tactical fouls.
Chen Man frowned. "But we already have three yellow cards."
The room went still.
That was the reality. Another mistimed foul could mean red.
Kai turned his head toward the coaching staff. This decision wasn't his to make.
Head coach Liu Hongbo stepped forward.
"We'll make two changes at halftime."
No one spoke. Halftime substitutions had become routine.
"Gong Peng and Xu Cheng will come on. Yu Hao and Guan Zhe are off."
Both outgoing players had yellow cards. The changes strengthened defense and reduced risk.
No objections.
Yu Hao and Guan Zhe themselves looked relieved—their stamina was gone.
Only Zhuo Yue looked troubled.
He was empty too. Why wasn't he coming off?
Liu Hongbo caught it and added, "Zhuo Yue stays with Kai. Chen Man drops deeper."
Chen Man nodded immediately. "Understood."
Liu Hongbo raised a finger. "When I say 'drop deeper,' I mean every time. Unless you're already in their penalty area, the moment Brazil attacks, you sprint back—full speed."
Chen Man blinked.
That kind of workload would drain him completely.
"We've seen Brazil's quality," Liu Hongbo continued. "We can't match their system—but we can fight them position by position. We plug every gap we can."
Fernando Kairui gave a bitter smile. "That's robbing Peter to pay Paul."
"Yes," Liu Hongbo replied bluntly. "Got a better idea?"
No one did.
Kai clapped his hands sharply.
"Alright, lift your heads. Captain—say something for once. Don't act like a statue."
Wang Yi laughed helplessly. "Why don't you say it for me?"
Kai rolled his eyes. "I'm already doing the captain's job. Might as well give me the armband."
Without ceremony, Wang Yi pulled it off and tossed it toward him.
"Here."
Kai sidestepped smoothly. The armband hit the floor.
"Didn't touch it. Don't frame me."
Laughter broke out, easing the tension.
...
On the other side, Brazil's locker room was calm and orderly.
For them, this match wasn't the destination—it was just part of the journey. Their eyes were already on the semifinals… even the final.
Soon, both teams returned to the pitch.
The stadium roared again, heat and noise rolling together like a wave.
"Both sides are back out," the Brazilian commentator said. "After forty-five minutes, it's one-all. China has made a strong impression—absorbing pressure and striking on the counter. Brazil, meanwhile, has revealed some flaws. Better to find them now than later."
The meaning beneath his words was obvious.
Brazil wouldn't lose.
Kai pulled on a dry jersey. Within moments, sweat had already begun to seep through.
He shut out everything else.
The second half.
How to survive it. How to help the team.
As China's midfield core and organizer, Kai knew his choices would shape everything.
No matter how hard he thought, there was no perfect answer.
The gap in quality was real.
Many tactical ideas simply couldn't be executed.
In the end, only one approach remained.
Drag it out.
Drag time. Drag rhythm. Drag uncertainty.
Where it would lead—he didn't know.
But change would come eventually.
Brazil hadn't altered its lineup. Confidence radiated from them.
China kicked off.
Wang Yi tapped the ball back.
Kai received it—and sent it straight back again.
At the same time, he stretched both arms wide, signaling his teammates to spread out and use the full width.
Brazil wasn't pressing high.
That was something.
But there was a problem.
China's defenders weren't comfortable on the ball. They preferred safety—long clearances over short passes.
Kai had no choice.
He dropped deep, forming a passing triangle with Fernando Kairui and Guo Liang.
Three anchors.
Circulate the ball. Slow the game.
Even if Kai was marked out, Fernando or Guo Liang could keep it moving.
At first, it worked.
Brazil stayed patient. The ball moved calmly across China's back line.
But as minutes passed, Brazil began to understand.
China was stalling.
If time kept slipping away like this, it wouldn't benefit Brazil at all.
For China, this might be the end of the road.
For Brazil—
Their World Cup was only just beginning.
...
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