After Paris Saint-Germain was removed from the list, I led England to victory!

In late January 2018, the air in North London, England was damp and cold at Arsenal's Colney training ground.

In Wenger's office, a fax from Germany lay quietly on his desk.

The fax was written in a precise and concise manner; it was a message personally delivered by Yan Yuan, a representative of Hoffenheim club.

The fax conveyed a simple message: Yan Yuan's first choice for the summer transfer window would be Arsenal, thus relaying Yan Yuan's intentions.

After reading the fax, Wenger stood up and walked to the window, where his snow-white hair and weary face were reflected in the glass.

He recalled that just a few days ago, he had personally finalized the last two important signings of the winter, Aubameyang and Mkhitaryan, and the club's funds were now completely depleted.

But that name immediately came to mind: Yan Yuan.

He had been paying attention to this child for a while, and he was indeed a very talented child.

Wenger's mind flashed back to the match video, to that figure with light dribbling, excellent vision, and an aggressive attitude, and to Yan Yuan running, shooting, and passing...

When Wenger saw Yan Yuan in the video, he always felt that there was something different about the young man's eyes compared to others.

He recognized it; it was the precocious maturity and responsibility of the young Fabregas, and the pure desire for the championship that Henry had when he first entered the Premier League.

This is something called "competitiveness".

……

The following morning, Wenger initiated a high-level meeting.

There weren't many people in the meeting room, but they were all very important: Josh Kroenke, the son most trusted by the elder Kroenke, as well as several core directors of the club and key figures in managing the transfer budget were all present.

Wenger sat in the main seat today, dressed in a meticulously tailored grey suit.

"Alright, gentlemen, let me first give you a briefing on Aubameyang and Mkhitaryan..."

The professor's voice was steady and calm, clearly reporting the final details of Aubameyang and Mkhitaryan's signings.

When all the matters were settled, he paused for a moment, and the only sound in the conference room was the soft rustling of papers being turned over.

The air seemed to freeze for a moment.

Wenger raised his eyes, his gaze like a calm stream, slowly sweeping over each slightly relaxed face around the round table.

"Gentlemen, you have all received the message from Germany, Yan Yuan," he pronounced the name clearly.

"This young man, who shocked all of Europe in Germany, recently made it clear that he wanted to join Arsenal."

Wenger finished speaking calmly and waited for everyone's reaction.

Kroenke was the first to shift his body, his obese back sinking into the wide leather chair back, his fingers interlaced on his protruding belly.

He leaned back slightly, his face bearing his usual thoughtful expression.

When Wenger's eyes met Kroenke's, Kroenke's eyes flickered, like a child who had done something wrong.

His gaze lingered briefly on the white hair of the veteran manager who had served Arsenal for over twenty years.

"Wenger, of course we know, this young man... his talent is truly captivating," Kroenke's voice carried a professional composure, and he spoke slowly.

"But the winter transfer window has indeed closed the funding channels. As for the summer transfer window, it's still a long way off. The market is constantly changing, and no one can say for sure whether this child is worth 100 million or even more, or whether it will still be a reasonable valuation by then?"

We also need... time for a comprehensive assessment, including risk tolerance models, future value curves, and so on...

As you understand, a holistic view of club operations is paramount.

After saying his last sentence, Kroenke looked at the documents on the table, no longer daring to look at Wenger's expression.

Wenger's Adam's apple bobbed very slightly as his gaze was fixed on Kroenke's broad face, which displayed an almost "kind" embarrassment.

Wenger understood what he meant, perfectly.

He understood the weighty subtext behind this phrase "global perspective": it was the core principle that the Kroenke family had never changed over the past decade or so—self-reliance and profit-taking.

Arsenal's management is like a shrewd accountant, turning their championship dreams into profit and loss figures on the balance sheet.

Ultimately, the nickname "Wenger's poor signing" was branded on the forehead of club manager Arsène Wenger.

In an instant, countless similar yet chilling meeting scenes flashed before Wenger's eyes.

Kroenke would use this excuse to brush off Wenger at almost every meeting.

This time, Wenger is not the same as before.

"Kroenke, he deserves it." Wenger's voice finally rang out, hoarse.

The other people at the table exchanged glances, their eyes revealing a calmness, a barely perceptible helplessness, and an indifference toward something they knew was impossible.

Kroenke responded with a shrewd smile:

"Professor, we admire this child's talent, but right now... we really need to prioritize the integration of the newly acquired Aubameyang, that's the most pressing issue."

He paused, his voice softening further, with a hint of reassurance, "The market is constantly changing, and we need to make judgments from multiple perspectives. But please rest assured, as long as it aligns with the club's long-term, healthy financial strategy, there is nothing more in line with our family's wishes than supporting Arsenal's revival..."

"Fiscal strategy?" Wenger asked in a low voice, abruptly cutting off Kroenke's words.

Krenk froze, his smile frozen on his face.

Wenger slowly raised his head, his face completely drained of color.

He scanned the entire conference room, his gaze no longer carrying the usual gentle weariness, but rather a resentment that had been building up for years.

Wenger's body trembled violently and uncontrollably.

He suddenly reached for the glasses he'd worn for who knows how many years, and grabbed them from the bridge of his nose.

He then slammed his fist down onto the conference room table in front of him!

"Bang!"

The glasses bounced and spun on the smooth tabletop, the glass lenses detaching from the frame, the crystal lenses almost shattering on the table.

The entire conference room fell into a deathly silence because of this commotion.

The senior director in charge of youth training next to Wenger was so startled that he jumped back half an inch.

He had never seen the professor like this before.

Kroenke and the CFO opposite him froze, their composure vanishing instantly, replaced by disbelief.

Wenger's disheveled white hair trembled on his forehead, and his blue-gray eyes could no longer conceal any emotion.

"Fiscal strategy..." he murmured, chewing on the word again.

"I, Arsène Wenger, have worked for Arsenal for twenty-one seasons." Wenger said, extending his withered finger and pointing directly at Kroenke, the representative of the family that owns a wealthy empire.

"I...I sold so many captains, it was me, I personally sold off Arsenal's backbone one by one!" Wenger's hands trembled violently.

"Vieira! Henry! Fabregas! Van Persie! It's never been you sitting here," he said, gesturing to the group of executives around him, heads bowed in a daze.

"You tell me we have to sell the captain, for the sake of the books, for the sake of financial health! For the sake of your 'rationality'!"

Wenger slammed his weight onto the table, leaned forward, and stared intently at everyone on the other side of the conference table with bloodshot eyes.

The repression and humiliation of the past twenty years poured out at this moment:

"And then there's the 'temperature difference' nickname... that shameful, laughable nickname that will stay with me for the rest of my life..."

Professor Wenger was almost roaring; every word was steeped in blood and tears.

"Cristiano Ronaldo! Ibrahimovic! Yaya Toure! Drogba! When they shone elsewhere, was my judgment just too poor?" His self-deprecating tremor concealed pain as he slammed his fist on the table, saying:

"No! It's because we can't afford the wages they're asking for! It's because we can't afford that damn transfer fee! Because every penny in our pockets has been meticulously calculated!"

I felt like a fucking idiot, bound hand and foot, gagged, watching helplessly as those geniuses went to their arch-rivals' club! To build someone else's dynasty! My pain, my shame, could only be swallowed inside! I even cried…”

His voice abruptly broke, like a bowstring stretched to its limit snapping.

"I don't even dare to cry in front of others, because I'm the manager of Arsenal!"

"I don't feel any value in my own existence. I'm like... like a lousy butler..." He emphasized each word.

"You are all my colleagues, you all know that."

Over the years, I haven't been able to keep the players I wanted, and I haven't been able to buy the players I wanted!

My coaching career has been like being trapped in this endless, ridiculous cycle, a huge, constantly mocking one…”

"joke……"

The last word finally came out of Professor Wenger's mouth, carrying all the resentment, all the wasted efforts, and all the unfulfilled desire for victory from his coaching career.

Wenger breathed heavily, his weary gaze sweeping across the entire conference room, his voice noticeably weaker:

"Year after year I'm paid the budget of tenth place in the Premier League, but I have to fight for that top four, fight for that damn Champions League spot, all because of that little bit of broadcast revenue, because of that little bit of money!"

I'm like an old machine nearing the end of its life, piecing things together, patching holes, and carefully maintaining a pitiful balance day after day.

As Professor Wenger spoke, he raised his hand and roughly wiped his cheeks and eye sockets, leaving them wet.

Tears streamed uncontrollably down his deeply weathered wrinkles, mingling with twenty years of grievances and resentment, and landed on the desk.

"Every time fans call me stingy! Every time the media mocks me for being cowardly! Have I ever argued back? I've taken all the blame upon myself! Why? To avoid embarrassing you! To make the name Arsenal look, at least... decent, in the eyes of outsiders!"

Wenger took a deep breath, lifted his tear-streaked face, and, regaining his composure, said:

"Gentlemen, I am 69 years old. In terms of honors, no one in the Premier League has failed more than me, but in terms of endurance, no one in the Premier League can surpass me, right?"

I've been at Arsenal for 21 years, and I'm tired...really...very tired.

Wenger slowly raised his head again, looked around the entire conference room, and looked at every face in front of him.

The CFO didn't dare look at Wenger anymore. He looked down at the table, his face flushed red, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"I'm begging you, please?" Wenger's voice suddenly softened, almost carrying a piercing, deathly stillness.

"His name is Yan Yuan. He's only seventeen. He has the brains of Fabregas, the legs of Henry, and a striker's instincts that shouldn't be there for his age. He represents the next decade!" Professor Wenger struggled to sit up, his back straight, and looked at Kroenke with an almost pleading, but more like an ultimatum, gaze.

"Don't let me reach the end of my career and look back, only to find that I've missed him again...again. This is...the last player I want, and you...are my last choice too." His utterly exhausted gaze swept over every silent face.

"I will contact that child. I hope you... won't let me down."

Professor Wenger said no more.

He slowly moved away from the table, his steps unusually heavy. He walked past the heavy oak door and closed it behind him.

With a soft "click," the door lock clicked shut.

The sound was soft yet heavy, like a cold boulder crashing into everyone's hearts.

For the first time, Gazidis's face, which had always worn the mask of a professional diplomat, truly crumbled. His once straight spine slowly slumped down, and he finally leaned back in the high-backed chair.

Gazidis's lips trembled a few times before he managed to squeeze out a broken sentence:

"Oh my god... what... what have we been doing all these years?"

The voice was as soft as a dream, yet it exploded like thunder in the deathly silence.

"I don't think I've ever seen Mr. Wenger like this before, never..." the financial director said tremblingly.

Arsène Wenger, who has always been known as a gentlemanly leader, has finally erupted today after enduring more than 20 years of resentment for Arsenal.

Kroenke placed his palm on the open document bearing Yan Yuan's name and an astonishing transfer fee figure.

His knuckles were white from the force he exerted, and he almost crumpled the paper into pieces.

The image of his father, the club's business assessment, and the sharp pain in his heart intertwined, making the young Kroenke representative as pale as the walls of the conference room.

He abruptly raised his head, looked at Gazidis and the financial director, Hoss, and said in a tense voice:

"This can't go on... Hoss, whatever it takes! Whether it's shareholder investment, selling off marginal shares, or even just using the advance payment from the club's new sponsorship deal! The summer transfer window money has to be in place! If this signing falls through..."

He suddenly stopped talking, not daring to continue, but his meaning was already obvious.

The price of losing the club was the complete loss of its soul and the irreversible collapse of a dynasty.

Wenger's bloodshot, tearful eyes and the trembling gesture as he wiped away his tears replayed in his mind again and again, like needles piercing through the business logic he was so proud of.

Hoss, the CFO known for his calm and even ruthless demeanor, had beads of sweat on his forehead.

He took off his glasses and repeatedly wiped the lenses with an expensive silk handkerchief, but his hands trembled violently like those of a Parkinson's patient.

He was overwhelmed by an immense, unprecedented sense of shame and urgency.

"Krenk... Gazidis... Give me time..." Hoss finally spoke, his voice hoarse.

"I'll immediately start looking into financing channels. Several early-stage investments might generate returns earlier than expected. I...I'll contact potential strategic investors right away...I'll do everything I can..."

He frantically grabbed a few documents and stuffed them into his briefcase, but the zipper kept slipping out of his hand, making him look quite clumsy.

The meeting ended abruptly, without any final resolutions or Wenger's usual polite greetings.

The remaining people exchanged glances briefly before hurriedly looking away and silently packing their things.

Wenger's choked voice and the image of him wiping away tears continue to echo in the minds of every Arsenal executive.