Chapter 70: The Quotation Thrown into the Trash Can

"Wilshere cuts the ball back with a low cross! Limo—oh, oh! What a ferocious collision! Coloccini and Limo both go down, but the referee signals nothing is wrong! Goalkeeper Krul gathers the ball safely in his arms."

"Limo is facing a remarkably nimble Newcastle backline with rapid recovery pace. His specialty of clever movement doesn't offer much of an advantage against Coloccini and Perch. To contain Limo, Newcastle has even pulled defensive midfielder Tioté back to help!"

"Arsenal probably needs to change the rhythm of their attack. Newcastle is massing a massive amount of personnel specifically to target Limo!"

"Apart from Limo, Podolski, Cazorla, Wilshere, and even Giroud all possess decent goal-scoring capabilities!"

In the commentary box.

The commentators felt that Arsenal's players were being far too stubborn.

Newcastle had made it crystal yet clear that they were going to use a numerical advantage to deal with Limo.

Yet they stubbornly kept passing it straight to Limo's feet.

In truth...

If they could alter their passing routes just slightly, Arsenal could find plenty of long-range shooting opportunities on the periphery—after all, wasn't Limo single-handedly drawing the attention of nearly half of the opposing defense?

"Dammit!"

On the substitutes' bench, Ramsey looked rather restless.

Around him, Walcott, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Gibbs, and the others stretched their necks anxiously, staring intently at the pitch.

They looked ready to charge out themselves just to drag the defenders away and allow Limo to complete a shot and score.

Yet all they could do for now was fret in anxiety.

Sometimes the football pitch is just that strange: the more anxious you are, the more counterproductive the result.

"In the air?"

Cazorla, Wilshere, Podolski, and the others exchanged glances.

"Yes, they've been very tight with their ground marking this match. However... their defenders lack height," Limo said.

Cazorla nodded. "That's also a viable method. Let's try more crosses from now on!"

"Pay attention to picking up the second balls on the edge of the box!" Limo reminded them.

"Understood!"

Soon enough, Arsenal quickly altered the rhythm of their attack.

In the twentieth minute of the match.

Full-back Sagna pushed up in support, collected a direct pass from Wilshere, chased down the ball, and curled it directly into the penalty area!

The football soared into the air, spinning violently and tracing a distinct arc.

At the same time.

Limo launched his sprint from outside the box, reaching the vicinity of the penalty spot before leaping—soaring high into the air!!

In the sky.

Under a multi-dimensional assault.

Newcastle's vulnerability in height across their defensive line was exposed.

Although both Coloccini and Perch jumped, sandwiching Limo almost dead center, Limo—jumping higher and possessing the greater stature—still claimed the ball.

He flicked his head sharply.

The football flew toward the near post.

Amidst the gasps echoing around St James' Park.

Dutch goalkeeper Krul leaped high, throwing out a single palm to parry the ball over the crossbar.

"Oh, oh, oh, oh! Splendid! A magnificent header! A marvelous save!!"

"Limo won the aerial duel amidst a double-team! If not for Krul's heroic intervention, he would have already scored!"

"It seems he has found a way to crack Newcastle's defense!"

The commentators exclaimed one after another.

Arsenal fans also buried their heads in regret.

On the bench, the substitutes who had stood up ready to celebrate all clutched their heads.

"Ah, damn that Dutchman!"

"How on earth did he save that?!"

"We've unlocked them! We've unlocked them! Keep playing like this! Keep playing like this and we're bound to score!"

Arsenal's substitutes were extremely pumped up.

Limo landed back on the turf, looking with lingering regret at the football as it rebounded off the advertising boards.

Yet he quickly perged himself up.

Standing inside the six-yard box, he turned his head to look at Wilshere, who was walking over to take the corner kick.

"Cross it! Keep floating it onto my head!"

He raised his right hand high, signaling to Wilshere.

Coloccini and Perch glanced at each other, both seeing the grave expression in the other's eyes.

In truth, even prior to this.

Limo had already exerted immense pressure on them.

The opponent seemed capable of finding defensive weaknesses at any moment, ready to burst forward the second their concentration dipped even slightly.

They had to maintain absolute focus, keeping their nerves stretched to the limit while remaining perpetually prepared to race against Limo—the pressure was simply immense.

Although they had successfully "frozen" Limo for nearly twenty minutes.

The pair currently felt as though they had played through almost an entire match...

Their physical exertion was on an entirely different level compared to normal.

And now.

Limo not only possessed a fatal killer instinct on the ground.

In the air.

His headers, his height, and even his physicality caused Coloccini and the others immense apprehension.

More crucially, the fellow's acceleration and explosive pace were terrifyingly fast.

This time, despite both defenders engaging him in a duel, he had still managed to direct his header on target.

If he ever managed to shake off his marker and execute an uncontested header...

Both defenders couldn't help but shiver involuntarily.

"We cannot let him out of our sight!" the Argentine "Little Lion" Coloccini growled fiercely.

"Best not let him jump at all," Perch spat onto the turf, lowering his voice.

How on earth could they prevent Limo from jumping?

The answer naturally involved resorting to a few "dirty little tricks" on the ground.

Tugging, wrestling, and physical combat.

Indeed, there were a few occasions when Limo failed to get off the ground entirely.

Yet he didn't feel discouraged.

It was impossible for a striker to succeed with every single attacking phase—if that were the case, the football pitch would have long since turned into a basketball court.

Failure was simply the scenario strikers faced most frequently.

Yet an exceptional striker could ignore failure.

Toil tirelessly.

Until success was achieved.

And Limo's popularity within the Arsenal squad was genuinely quite high—after all, who wouldn't adore a player who was both hardworking and immensely talented?

Despite a few failed crosses earlier, both Podolski and Wilshere kept diligently delivering crosses toward Limo.

They had practically abandoned the option of central penetration.

It was all about winning the ball on the flanks, sliding it through to the full-backs, or taking it upon themselves to deliver a cross!

The match ticked into the twenty-fifth minute.

The scoreline remained nil-nil.

Right at that moment.

Newcastle finally mounted a counter-attack.

The football reached Newcastle's young central striker, Demba Ba, via a long ball.

Demba Ba stretched out his long legs, hooked the ball into his control, bypassed Mertesacker with his raw pace, and unleashed a low shot from the edge of the penalty area.

The football skimmed the turf as it hurtled toward the goal, only to be parried by Szczęsny.

The ball fell to the feet of central defender Vermaelen.

Facing the incoming Demba Ba who rushed forward to press, Vermaelen hoofed a long clearance upfield. It was meant to be a simple clearance, but the effect was unexpectedly stellar.

Newcastle had been pressed back for so long that their defensive line had prepared to push higher up, keeping the danger zone as far from their own box as possible.

Limo was caught in an offside trap.

Thus, facing the incoming ball, he made no attempt to contest it, instead watching it sail over his head and fly toward the left flank.

"Podolski!!!"

The commentators exclaimed in unison.

Limo was offside.

However, Podolski had surged forward from deep.

Newcastle's defensive line had focused all their attention on the offside Limo, thereby neglecting the flank.

Leaving a massive expanse of open space on the wing!!

"Track back!!"

Alan Pardew, who had been standing on the touchline the entire time, completely lost his composure.

Newcastle's players no longer cared about anything else at that moment; they spun around and sprinted back with everything they had.

Yet in the process.

Maintaining positional shape was out of the question.

If you could hustle back to defend, that was already a blessing.

At least they still knew who the primary target was.

Coloccini and Perch weren't far from Limo, and they rapidly gave chase, pursuing him.

The two defenders actually held a certain advantage—Limo was faster than Podolski, and if he blindly sprinted forward, even if Podolski passed the ball, he would most likely be called offside.

Therefore.

Limo didn't charge forward at full speed; instead, he kept his eyes on Podolski's position, slowed his pace slightly, and ran right on the shoulder of the last defender.

To avoid giving the linesman a headache, he deliberately lagged behind by at least half a body length.

This granted Coloccini and Perch the chance to close the distance.

Yet the moment they caught up.

Limo suddenly burst forward—because Podolski had delivered the pass!

The football soared through the air, hurtling toward them.

Coloccini and Perch gave chase with clenched teeth. It was already too late to grab Limo; they could only gamble on where the ball would land!

Coloccini was ahead and leaped first, while Perch charged straight at Limo, intending to find an opportunity to deliver another physical challenge.

Yet, despite Coloccini stretching his neck as far as humanly possible, the football still sailed just over the top of his head.

He twisted his neck in mid-air to look back.

What he saw... was Limo's body still ascending.

Limo locked his eyes on the incoming ball.

Both his timing of the jump and his choice of the landing spot were impeccably judged.

As the football arrived, Limo was completely prepared.

His core muscles tightened, teeth clenched, eyes fixed on the sphere, and at the absolute optimum moment...

He snapped his head!

Thud!

Accompanied by a spray of flying sweat.

The football abruptly changed trajectory, plunging diagonally downward from the air straight toward the turf.

"Limo... header!!"

The commentators cried out.

Simultaneously.

Dutch goalkeeper Krul had already launched himself through the air toward one side.

His reaction was swift enough.

Yet...

The header Limo produced possessed both velocity and placement, and crucially, it bounced off the turf right in front of the goal!

The football bounced upward off the ground, struck the inside of the far post, and caromed into the net, swirling the netting into a frenzy.

By the time the football detached from the net and dropped back onto the grass, Krul's body was only just descending from the air.

He was too late—by more than just a fraction of a beat.

"It's in! It's in! It's in!! One-nil!! Arsenal takes the lead away from home!! The goal scorer is once again Limo! Miraculous Li! Crazy Li!!"

"His 14th league goal of the season!"

"Limo continues his triumphant march up the scoring charts! Is he truly going to claim the Premier League Golden Boot this season? A seventeen-year-old Premier League Golden Boot—just thinking about it is astonishing!"

In the commentary box.

The commentators shouted at the top of their lungs.

On the substitutes' bench.

Arsenal's substitutes raised their arms in unison, all leaping up from their seats to celebrate the goal.

In the media tribune.

Richard Hurst's complexion instantly turned ashen. He had been hopping about like a clown over the past two days, trying every trick to disrupt Arsenal's preparations, especially Limo's mindset.

And yet...

The man had gone and scored anyway.

Did that mean his actions over the last two days were pure clownery?

Limo had very little energy to spare for such clowns.

After burying the ball into the back of the net.

His mind was consumed by a single thought: That's the first one! The first one!!

Before he could even react.

Podolski leapt onto his back in a single bound.

"The first one! The first one! Two more to go!!"

Podolski roared right into Limo's ear, making his eardrums ring.

Before Limo could process that.

The rest of the Arsenal players swarmed over as well.

"Two more! Two more!!"

They chanted enthusiastically.

Limo's goal had thoroughly ignited the fighting spirit of the Arsenal players.

They launched a ferocious wave of attacks during the remaining moments.

Newcastle, however, reacted with a hint of over-caution—having attempted a counter-attack earlier only to be caught out by Arsenal, they now kept virtually all their players behind the half-way line.

They played for a desperate defense!

This strategy successfully carried them through the remainder of the first half.

As the halftime whistle blew.

The players from both sides walked off the pitch.

Yet their expressions appeared rather grim.

It was understandable for Newcastle's players to look solemn.

Playing at home, trailing by a goal, and forced to defend constantly without managing any meaningful attacks, they couldn't see any hope of equalizing.

Yet why did Arsenal's players look so glum as well?

You guys are in the lead! Isn't that enough?

The Newcastle fans lining both sides of the player tunnel were provoked by the expressions of the Arsenal players.

What do you mean by walking off with those gloomy faces even though you're winning?

Do you think we, Newcastle, are that weak?

Consequently.

Even though the match was over, the jeers echoing from the stands flanking the player tunnel grew even sharper.

During the interval.

Wenger praised the team's performance.

Although the team's single-minded insistence on feeding Limo had looked just a tiny, tiny bit unintelligent.

Regardless.

The result was what mattered.

In competitive sports, results were all that counted.

No matter the process.

As long as the scoreline showed them in the lead, it was fine.

"Although I know the reason, I still must say I am delighted to witness your unity!"

Wenger spoke before departing the dressing room, leaving the space entirely to the players.

The atmosphere in the dressing room quickly heated up.

Someone put on music, others swayed their bodies to the rhythm, and some stripped off their jerseys to change into fresh, dry clothes after sweating through their kit in the first half.

Naturally.

No one forgot to congratulate and encourage Limo.

"Keep it up! Two more!"

"Let's put two more past them in the second half!"

"A hat-trick! A hat-trick! A hat-trick!"

The dressing room chanted in unison.

"Arsène, Real Madrid has made an official bid."

Wenger arrived at the stadium's private box.

Club CEO Ivan Gazidis wore a rather heavy expression.

"The opening bid is fifty million."

"Throw that offer into the trash can," Wenger said, shaking his head. "We have a chance to fight for the Premier League title this season, do you understand what I mean?"

Gazidis nodded.

"Offering top wages... is actually not entirely impossible," Gazidis said, shaking his head. "The problem lies in the length of his contract extension."

"I can quite understand," Wenger replied. "Arsenal's level of investment makes it genuinely difficult for ambitious players to see the club's grand vision."

Wenger stood up.

"If we want to persuade our core players to sign long-term contracts..."

He pulled open the door of the private box, paused on the threshold, and looked back at Arsenal's CEO.

"The key... lies in the team's achievements!"