Arsenal's return flight from Berlin cut through the early morning sky, carrying more than just a squad and a trophy. It carried a city's worth of emotion packed into one cabin.
Inside Usmanov's private jet, the atmosphere was split in two.
One side of the cabin belonged to celebration.
Players were spread across their seats, leaning into aisles, replaying moments from the final, laughing at missed chances, and arguing over who had the best assist that night.
Wilshere had already started humming the Champions League anthem under his breath, and it kept getting picked up and dropped by different voices like a loop that refused to end.
On the other side, the coaching staff looked like they had survived something they did not fully understand.
Wenger sat quietly, shoulders slightly lowered, eyes half-focused on nothing in particular. The expression on his face was not sadness, only exhaustion that came after emotional overload.
Nearby, Lehmann had completely lost his color. He leaned back in his seat like a man trying to forget a memory that refused to leave.
Patrice glanced at him and shook his head.
"Kai's physical condition is what it is," he said quietly. "You don't challenge that kind of stamina in anything, not even that."
Lehmann gave a weak laugh without looking up.
"I thought he couldn't drink," he muttered. "That was my mistake."
The night before had not been a contest.
It had been something closer to punishment disguised as celebration.
Lehmann had tried to test Kai's alcohol tolerance, convinced his experience from playing days would give him the upper hand. The first bottle of vodka had already changed that assumption. The second had removed it completely.
Kai had not stopped there.
The memory still sat in Lehmann's head like a warning sign that refused to fade.
Hiding in the bathroom had not helped.
The knocking had come anyway.
Not loud at first, then steady, then patient in a way that felt worse than force.
When Lehmann opened the door, he had been convinced for a brief second that he was not facing a teammate anymore.
Just someone who would not accept an unfinished challenge.
By the end of the night, Lehmann had lost both the contest and his sense of dignity, and his stomach was still paying the price.
Pat Rice leaned back and exhaled.
"Kai's physical attributes are frightening enough on the pitch. With his physique, how could you possibly keep up? And the way he drinks… it's as if he's from another planet. He told me the real stuff from his hometown is equally as strong as vodka, if not more so."
A few staff members laughed softly.
Wenger did not react. He just continued staring forward, as if saving energy for what came next.
Across the aisle, Kai sat alone for a moment with his eyes closed.
His posture was steady, but his hand occasionally pressed against his temple.
He was not as unaffected as people assumed.
He just made sure nobody could tell.
Drinking had never been about enjoyment for him. It had been about control. If people discovered his limits, they would keep trying to reach them.
That was something he could not allow.
So he had pushed through the night, step by step, until Lehmann had stopped insisting.
Now, on the plane, the aftermath finally started to settle in.
A dull pressure behind his eyes. A slow heaviness in his head.
He breathed out quietly.
Next time, he thought, there would be no invitations.
The aircraft speakers crackled.
"Good morning, everyone," the captain's voice came through. "This is Captain Romani speaking. We will be landing in five minutes. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened."
A short pause followed.
Then the voice returned, sharper, almost excited.
"Congratulations, champions of Europe."
Silence hit the cabin for half a second.
Then the entire plane erupted.
"WE ARE CHAMPIONS!"
Laughter broke through every row. Players clapped, shouted, and leaned across seats, the fatigue from the night before collapsing instantly under the weight of celebration.
Kai opened his eyes briefly, a faint smile appearing before he leaned back again.
. . .
London Airport was already awake long before the plane touched down.
From the air, the surrounding roads were visible first. Lines of red stretching outward in every direction. Cars were parked where they should not have been parked. Buses stopped at odd angles. Entire groups of fans standing in clusters along barriers and sidewalks.
Closer to the terminal, the scale became clearer.
Thousands upon thousands of supporters filled the airport perimeter.
Flags moved constantly in the wind. Red smoke drifted in thin layers across the crowd. Songs rose and fell in waves, never fully stopping.
Arsenal had not just returned home.
They were arriving at a public festival that had already started without them.
Inside the terminal, media crews were already positioned along the arrival corridor. Cameras pointed toward the exit doors. Microphones held ready.
Every journalist knew what they were waiting for.
THE MOMENT.
After a delay that stretched longer than expected, the team finally appeared at the exit.
Wenger walked first.
His face was still pale, but he stood straight. His eyes carried quiet satisfaction that cut through exhaustion.
Behind him came the players.
The moment they stepped into view, the sound from outside became audible even through the glass walls.
Chants rose instantly.
"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE. OLE! OLE!!"
"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE. OLE! OLE!!"
"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE. OLE! OLE!!"
The repetition hit like a drumbeat.
Some fans were already crying. Others were laughing without stopping. A few simply stood frozen, phones shaking in their hands as they tried to record everything at once.
When the Champions League trophy appeared in Kai's hands, the volume increased again.
Chamberlain turned his head slightly, eyes widening.
"There are too many people," he said under his breath.
Even the players who had just lifted the trophy in Berlin looked momentarily stunned.
Wenger turned slightly toward Le Kai.
"Kai," he said simply. "Go."
Le Kai exhaled once.
Then he stepped forward.
The second-floor viewing area had been prepared for the interaction. As he walked out, the entire lower level tilted upward, thousands of faces lifting in unison.
The trophy was heavy in his hands, but familiar now.
He raised it.
For a second, nothing else existed.
Then the airport exploded.
The sound was immediate, violent, and endless.
"OOOOOOHHHHHHH!"
"ARSENAL!"
"CHAMPIONS!"
"WE ARE CHAMPIONS!"
Flags shook harder. Arms reached upward. Some fans jumped in place, others collapsed into each other in pure disbelief.
Le Kai stood still at the railing, holding the trophy above his head.
The reaction filled everything.
From the back of the crowd, people kept arriving, still running from trains, buses, and taxis. Some were out of breath, stopping only when they saw the scene in front of them.
A man in a suit loosened his tie completely and raised both hands.
A teenager stood on a barrier, phone recording while shaking uncontrollably.
A group of supporters who had just arrived from central London joined the chant mid-line without even hearing the start.
Above them all, the chant never broke.
"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE. OLE! OLE!!"
"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE. OLE! OLE!!"
"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE. OLE! OLE!!"
Le Kai lowered the trophy slightly, then raised it again.
The roar responded instantly.
Wenger watched from behind, expression softening just enough to reveal what he was holding back.
A shift in history that had finally found a face.
Le Kai's brief moment at the airport did not last long.
After the initial wave of celebration, security and staff guided the squad downward toward the underground exit. The bus was already waiting, engine running, ready to take them into North London.
The real stage, however, was still ahead.
Emirates Stadium.
By the time the team arrived, the entire area had transformed into something far beyond a normal matchday setting.
The stadium was already full.
Not sixty thousand.
Closer to a packed one hundred thousand when counting overflow sections, standing areas, and every available space filled to capacity. Every aisle, every stairwell, every corner where a body could stand had been claimed hours earlier.
Flags covered the stands in a continuous red and white pattern. Smoke drifted across the upper tiers in slow waves. The sound never stopped, even when chants shifted.
This was a crowd waiting for history to be confirmed inside their home.
Outside the stadium, movement began.
The noise changed first. A rising wave that started as scattered chants and quickly merged in one direction.
"They are here."
The phrase passed through the stands like electricity.
Inside, every head turned toward the tunnel.
Every phone camera lifted at once.
The stadium lights felt sharper than usual, reflecting off banners and faces packed tightly into every row.
Then it happened.
The first figure appeared.
Le Kai walked out alone.
The Champions League trophy resting on his shoulder.
The reaction was immediate.
A single explosive roar filled every layer of the arena.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
Le Kai did not stop.
He walked forward slowly, eyes scanning the stadium, taking in the scale of what was in front of him.
Behind him, the rest of the squad and coaching staff followed, forming a line that stretched from the tunnel mouth into the pitch.
Wenger stepped out last among the staff, pausing briefly before continuing forward. His expression stayed controlled, but his eyes moved across the crowd in quiet recognition.
This was the place that mattered most.
Le Kai lifted the trophy higher, turning slightly so each stand could see it clearly.
The sound responded again, louder than before.
"CHAMPIONS!"
"CHAMPIONS!"
"CHAMPIONS!"
He carried it to the center of the pitch, where a platform had been prepared.
Carefully, he placed the trophy on the stand.
For a brief second, his hands stayed on it.
Then he let go.
To his right stood Arsenal's mascot, a large green figure known to fans as Gunnersaurus Rex.
The costume had been part of the club for years. On matchdays, it was playful, unpredictable, and sometimes chaotic. Fans had seen it push players, jump into celebrations, and behave in ways that never made sense on paper but always worked in the moment.
The man inside, Jerry Quy, had been in the role for over two decades.
Tonight, even he seemed different.
Rex walked forward.
The usual bouncing and playfulness were gone.
Just steady a pace.
He stopped in front of Le Kai.
The stadium noise dropped slightly, as if people sensed something unusual was about to happen.
Rex lowered himself onto one knee.
Then bowed his head.
Just a quiet, deliberate show of respect.
For a moment, Le Kai did not react.
Neither did the players behind him.
Even the stands seemed unsure how to respond.
This was not part of any planned celebration sequence.
The silence lasted only a few seconds, but it felt longer.
Then the stadium erupted again.
Acceptance.
"KAI!"
"KAI!"
"KAI!"
The chant hit instantly and spread across every tier of Emirates Stadium until it became one continuous sound.
Le Kai finally stepped forward and placed a hand briefly on Rex's shoulder, then gestured for him to stand.
A small moment.
But the meaning had already settled.
Wenger watched from a few steps back, expression unchanged, but the way he looked at Kai carried something steady and final.
A captain had been acknowledged in a way that required no explanation.
The trophy remained on its stand, reflecting the movement around it.
Le Kai stepped back toward his teammates.
The chanting did not stop.
It only grew heavier.
The stadium had seen great players before.
It had seen legends.
But on this night, it had chosen a new reference point for everything that came after.
The Standard.
. . .
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