Chapter 105
Chapter 105
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 105
Chapter Title: Must Grow (5)
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Black-Haired Tactical Genius
Chapter 105: Must Grow (5)
Mikel Arteta's face was now flushed red, as if it might explode.
And that wasn't all.
The Gunners in their seats at the Emirates Stadium couldn't hide their bewilderment as the players drew closer.
"Th-that...!"
"You fucking asshole!"
Some rolled their eyes in rage, spewing their fury.
All the while, Emmanuel Adebayor kept running and running.
'I scored... I fucking scored...!'
His heart pounded wildly the entire sprint.
An inexplicable surge of emotion bubbled up from his feet.
His vision slowed to a crawl, like slow motion.
"Fuck! You piece of shit!"
"I'll smash your fucking skull in, you little punk!"
"Come here, yeah, come here! I'll saw your legs off, I swear!"
There, behind the dead ball line near the fence, the Gunners in red jerseys stood en masse, jumping up and down in fury.
But they didn't stop there. As he got closer, they surged forward in excitement.
Like an angry wave crashing.
At the same time, his conversation with Jeong-woo from a few days ago flashed in his mind.
* * *
"Don't run."
"Don't run?"
It was after regular training, during his solo supplemental session.
Jeong-woo, slouched on the bench slurping cup ramen, suddenly said it.
Adebayor halted mid-stride, in the middle of building his stamina.
"No, Boss, why? You told me to fire the shot of revival."
Even without Jeong-woo's words, Adebayor planned to give everything against Arsenal.
There was no bigger stage for him.
On top of that, his relationship with Arsenal was still rotten.
His time there had been a total mess.
Wage disputes, locker room conflicts, clashes with the manager— he'd endured every negative thing imaginable before leaving.
That's when Adebayor felt it.
His value had been utterly trampled.
The club didn't respect him.
'I was in the right...!'
Sure, looking back now, many of his teammate fights were his fault.
But not the wage hikes or treatment.
'I earned those raises with my performances.'
In the 2007-2008 season, he'd bagged 30 goals in the EPL, hadn't he?
The next season, despite injuries, he'd gritted his teeth and played whenever the team asked, boosting Arsenal's standings.
But Arsenal treated him like dirt.
Adebayor needed more money to support his family and Togo's refugees. Arsenal just kept rejecting his renewals.
'Why did I run so hard for them!'
Afterward, Arsenal's top brass even played the media against him.
Painting him as a money-grubbing striker.
Fans bought it hook, line, and sinker, hurling abuse.
But it was pure propaganda.
Adebayor had donated over half his wages to his homeland all along.
That's when it started.
Adebayor's total fallout with Arsenal.
He transferred to Man City, then forced a move to their arch-rivals, Tottenham.
Their relationship hit rock bottom.
Gunners attacked hiMad Dog his family personally.
Car terror attacks—three times.
Of course, the raw hatred had faded now.
But Arsenal was still a target for revenge.
That's why he'd been extra diligent in personal training.
And now, don't run?
"Hey, Boss. I'm gonna give it my all. You know about me and Arsenal—that's why you started me, right?"
"Of course. Your beef with them is the worst. I figured you'd squeeze out every last drop of strength. Just subbing you in would motivate the others."
Then Jeong-woo narrowed his eyes slightly.
"But don't run."
"No, why?"
Adebayor scowled, utterly baffled.
But the next words left his mouth agape.
"I told you. You have to be world-class even in 15 minutes. And more than that... I want you to prove your pride is still enough to rattle Arsenal."
Suddenly, Jeong-woo grinned slyly, as if picturing something devious, and added,
"So, let's go for the one-shot kill. Neutralize Arsenal with that single blow. You know? Like an EMP frying every electronic gadget in one go."
* * *
Security swarmed the fence in an instant.
They grabbed the Gunners lunging like zombies at the sight of humans, holding them back with all their might.
"Let go! Let me fucking gooo!"
"I need to rip that bastard's throat out!"
Paying them no mind,
Shwaaaaa—
Adebayor finally slid on his knees at the dead ball line's edge, flashing a wide grin with pearly whites.
"Dumbasses, the king's back—!"
He instinctively knew this was the EMP Jeong-woo meant.
Plop, plop—
That's when the trash rained down like a downpour.
* * *
Now the commentary team gaped and shouted.
[Emmanuel Adebayooooor—!]
[Twelve years since his last running celebration!]
[Trash raining down everywhere around him!]
[Oh! Paik and David haul Adebayor up and drag him away from the fence!]
[The Gunners' rage hasn't subsided!]
[And yet! Adebayor! He's smiling! Grinning ear to ear!]
"If I were a Gunner, I'd shake off security and clock him in the back of the head."
Jeong-woo, slouched in the folding chair, chuckled.
Just moments ago, Emirates had echoed with Gunners' roars.
Not anymore.
Only boos, curses, and jeers enveloped the pitch.
Amid it all, Adebayor ate a yellow for excessive celebration.
"Not red? Lucky bastard."
His celly's impact was beyond imagination.
Even a kid about seven was sniffling, swearing through tears.
Whatever. Jeong-woo just smirked.
Meanwhile, a faint, odd feeling stirred.
"It actually worked."
Beside him, Hee-won muttered in awe.
'That's exactly it.'
Man U, now another EPL side—first goal again.
Since it worked, Jeong-woo cocked his chin smugly, like he'd known.
"Even at world-class, Adebayor's just a has-been."
That's why he'd instructed beforehand.
Minimal movement—no movement at all. Stay near the box till a clear chance.
A feint.
Ignore the likes of Adebayor.
And Jeong-woo had seen it.
From Rob Holding on down, Arsenal's defenders gradually overlooking him.
"From the start... there was a bit of looseness around Adebayor."
The gap between EPL and League One was massive.
To EPL defenders, 38-year-old Adebayor wasn't worth marking tight.
Plus, Jeong-woo used high-workrate sprinter Paik and tenacious David to pull marks wide.
"Head-on... and Adebayor's stamina would've shattered."
Better to loaf like dust, conserving for that one moment.
With stamina intact and pressure lax, Adebayor's finishing was terrifying.
"And with Owen as the surefire playmaker."
Of course, one-off play.
Jeong-woo glanced at the adjacent technical area.
Arteta, shaken earlier, now composed, huddled grimly with coaches.
Jeong-woo's lips curled wickedly.
"EMPs don't just glitch—they burn circuits, total shutdown."
"We can't leave Adebayor unmarked."
Mikel Arteta spat.
Steve Round, who'd dismissed him earlier, nodded instantly.
"Give Rob Holding man-to-man instructions."
He offered more advice.
"Sensuous Ruff and Paik aren't that threatening if funneled wide."
Coaches chimed in.
"Drop the defensive line for sprints, man-mark Adebayor... we can shut down Bolton's attacks no sweat."
"Asymmetric setup. Dropping Nunu Tavares hurts our attack too much. Keep him forward, have wingers and mids cover the gap."
Arteta adopted their consensus.
Still dazed and seething.
'One punch like that...!'
Unthinkable.
Paik and Sensuous burst wide; Owen from halfway lofted a straight pass.
Pinpoint, fast—right to Adebayor's toe in the left box.
Uncanny: the ball slowed noticeably on approach.
Like it was alive.
'Owen...!'
Arsenal had no time to react.
Clear shooting lane for Adebayor.
'Mistake...!'
All first half, Adebayor did nothing.
Bolton built around him least.
'Movement was sluggish...!'
No forward press unless ball at his feet.
Bluntly: first 20 minutes, pure negative presence.
Not anymore.
'Still sluggish...'
But the goal proved it.
That right foot—still lightning sharp.
He was sure now.
Man-to-man was poison for one-footed Adebayor.
But soon, Arteta's face twisted uncomfortably again.
31st minute, first half.
Tweet—!
Ref pointed to the fourth official.
Commentators bugged their eyes at the board.
[What the—? Bolton! Pulling a sub before halftime's even over!]
[Goal hero Emmanuel Adebayor off! Quick Floyd coming on!]