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(A/N: I just found out one of my earliest readers and supporters by the name DeathGun24 made his own novel based on Dragon Age: Inquisition! The name of the novel was DAI: Become The Inquisitor! Just wanted to give him a shout out and also support since I know he needs all the support in making a novel, based on my own experience, of course lol!)
And now, with fresh legs around him—Wilshere fizzing passes, Walcott darting down the wing, Ox cutting inside—Francesco was in his element.
Then, in the 76th minute—because the party still wasn't over—Arsenal added another chapter to the masterpiece.
It came out of nowhere, and yet you could feel it building. The tempo hadn't dipped. The red shirts were still buzzing around like it was the first ten minutes, not the last quarter of the match. Fresh legs, fresh fire, and Theo Walcott had just joined the chaos.
Arsenal were moving the ball with that dangerous arrogance again. Pass, move, pass again. Wilshere took a touch in midfield, sent it out to Bellerín, who played it up the line to Chamberlain. And that's where the spark came.
Ox had only been on the pitch a few minutes, but he looked like a man trying to make up for lost time. He drove at the defense, skipping past one challenge, cutting inside another, and then glanced up.
Walcott was already on his bike.
Theo made that classic diagonal run—shoulder of the last defender, timed to perfection. And Chamberlain saw it instantly. With one sweep of his foot, he threaded a low ball between the centre-back and fullback—perfect weight, perfect angle.
Theo didn't break stride. He latched onto it, took one touch to steady himself, and then unleashed.
Bang.
The ball rifled into the roof of the net from the edge of the box, an unstoppable drive that left Shay Given frozen to the spot.
5–0.
Now it was pure theatre.
Walcott peeled away, sprinting toward the fans with both arms wide like wings, grinning ear to ear. The red end of Wembley exploded once more, caught somewhere between disbelief and euphoria. People were jumping on seats. Grown men with tears in their eyes. Kids screaming themselves hoarse.
Francesco was the first to reach Theo, wrapping him up in a hug and nearly lifting him off the ground. Chamberlain joined seconds later, jumping on their backs, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Walcott, breathless, looked at them and said, "This is insane."
And it was.
Insane football. Beautiful football. The kind of football you dreamed about as a kid in the backyard. Arsenal weren't just lifting a trophy—they were putting on a clinic. A show. A statement to everyone watching across England, across Europe.
Wenger didn't celebrate wildly. He just clapped. A calm, approving clap, like a proud father watching his kids ace the final exam. He turned and said something quietly to Steve Bould, and they both nodded.
Up in the VIP box, Sarah Lee had completely lost track of how many goals there had been. She was in tears again—laughing this time—her arm hooked around Mike's. Jorge Mendes just shook his head. "This is… not a final. This is art," he said, barely audible over the roar.
And Leah?
Leah was pounding on the glass, face lit up, screaming Francesco's name even though he wasn't the one who scored.
Because it didn't matter. It was his team. His performance. His final.
He hadn't scored again—yet—but he was everywhere. Linking the play. Driving the tempo. Whispering things to Jack Wilshere between plays. Gesturing to Walcott when to time his run. Giving Chamberlain the thumbs-up for the assist.
And the game kept going—because Arsenal weren't done. Not even close.
Into the 80th minute, and there wasn't a single drop of complacency in sight. No coasting. No strolling. Just red shirts swarming forward like it was the opening stages all over again. Aston Villa looked shattered—mentally and physically. Their shoulders slumped, their touches heavy. But Arsenal? Arsenal looked like they were chasing something greater than a trophy.
Legacy.
Francesco was still everywhere—ghosting into space, pulling defenders with him, pointing where he wanted it, always on the move. Jack Wilshere had found his rhythm now too, dancing between lines with that low center of gravity and that look in his eye—the one that said he knew something was coming before the rest of the world did.
And in the 83rd minute, it did.
It started with one of those classic Wilshere bursts through midfield. He collected a pass from Coquelin, turned on a dime between two players, and accelerated into the final third like a man who knew exactly how it would end. He looked up—and Francesco was already peeling off the shoulder of the last man, again.
The pass was weighted like a lullaby—soft, measured, and devastating. It curved into the space between centre-back and fullback like it had been summoned there by Francesco's stride.
He didn't need to slow down. Not even a little. One touch with the right to bring it forward. Another with the left to open up his body. And then—bang.
Low and hard across the keeper, into the far corner. Ruthless. Unstoppable.
6–0.
The Emirates faithful who had packed the red half of Wembley completely lost it. They were hugging strangers. Chanting his name. Waving flags like they were born with them in their hands. This was no longer a final—it was a celebration of everything they loved about the game.
Francesco sprinted toward the corner flag, arms stretched, heart bursting, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. He dropped to his knees and punched the turf. Wilshere caught up and dragged him back to his feet, and the two of them just laughed, heads pressed together.
"Mate, you're flying," Jack said, breathless.
"You keep serving them like that, and I'll score ten," Francesco shot back, half-joking, half-serious.
And the camera couldn't stop finding Wenger. He was on his feet now, applauding with real force this time. His face was calm, but his eyes… they told a different story. They gleamed. This wasn't just vindication. It was joy. Pure joy at the poetry being written by the team he built, nurtured, and never stopped believing in.
By now, Tim Sherwood looked like a man begging for the final whistle. The Villa bench was silent. The fans behind their dugout were already starting to file out, but the Arsenal end? They were staying until the very end. They weren't going anywhere. Not while this was still unfolding.
Because the football was too beautiful to leave behind.
And then came the 89th minute.
By this point, every Villa player was in survival mode, just trying not to be part of another replayed highlight. But that didn't matter. Because Francesco had one last page to write.
It began with a turnover in midfield—Coquelin again, aggressive and intelligent, snapping at the heels and winning the ball back. He found Wilshere, who quickly spread it wide to Oxlade-Chamberlain. Ox looked up. Francesco was already calling for it—hand raised, eyes locked.
But this time, the pass was lofted.
A high, teasing cross that spun slightly, drifting toward the penalty spot.
Francesco backpedaled, watching it come down from the lights like a falling star. The defenders were caught flat. And then—he did it.
He leapt.
Not a jump.
A leap—pure, instinctive, explosive. His back to goal. His legs scissoring through the air. And then—contact.
The bicycle kick connected flush.
The stadium froze for a second—just a second—as the ball thundered off his foot, looping in a perfect arc past a helpless Shay Given and into the top corner of the net.
And then…
Chaos.
Sheer, deafening, soul-shaking chaos.
Francesco landed on his back, arms wide like he couldn't believe what just happened. The players screamed. The bench emptied. Wenger put both hands on his head, mouth agape, eyes wide. Even Steve Bould broke character and grinned like a schoolboy.
Leah in the VIP box screamed so loud the glass vibrated. Sarah and Mike were frozen, eyes wide, hands over their mouths. Jorge Mendes jumped up and hugged a nearby steward.
Because that wasn't just a goal.
It was the goal.
A hat-trick. In the FA Cup Final. At Wembley. The third? A bicycle kick. Not even in a storybook do they write it like that.
The teammates mobbed him. Bellerín was shouting in Spanish. Walcott was hugging him from behind. Chamberlain lifted him halfway off the ground. And Francesco?
He just looked up at the sky.
Mouth open. Breathing hard. Eyes blinking in disbelief.
Because he knew—right then and there—that this was his day. His game. His final.
They chanted his name in waves—"Fran-ces-co! Fran-ces-co!"—until the whistle finally blew just a few minutes later.
Then, as the referee raised the whistle to his lips and blew full time, the sound echoed like a gunshot across Wembley—a signal, a punctuation mark at the end of something unforgettable. Arsenal 7, Aston Villa 0.
A moment of pure release.
From the red half of the stadium came an explosion of joy. Arsenal fans erupted in full voice, fists in the air, scarves whirling, flags waving with uncontainable pride. It was bedlam. A roar that felt like it could tear the sky open.
Down on the pitch, the Arsenal bench emptied in an instant. Coaches, substitutes, staff—all of them sprinted onto the field, their faces lit with disbelief and unfiltered happiness. It wasn't just the win. It wasn't just the scoreline. It was the way they did it. The beauty. The dominance. The statement.
This was football played like art, and everyone in red knew it.
Francesco was still on his knees near the corner flag, catching his breath, his chest heaving. His teammates were pouring toward him—Bellerín, Walcott, Cazorla, Gibbs. They surrounded him in a whirlwind of hugs, back slaps, and shouted words he could barely hear over the crowd. Jack Wilshere grabbed him again, just like before, pulling him up and shouting something only he could hear. Francesco nodded, a smile breaking across his face so wide it hurt.
Then he looked around.
The Villa players—shell-shocked, heads down, trudging off the pitch like survivors of something catastrophic. Some stared blankly at the turf. Others simply disappeared down the tunnel, too broken to face what they had just lived through. Their fans had been thinning out since the sixth goal, but now? Whole sections were emptying, seats left cold and silent. Wembley's shadows swallowed them up one by one. It was a nightmare they couldn't escape fast enough.
And then the camera cut to Arsène Wenger.
At first, he stood still, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on the pitch. But then, something in him gave way. The emotions he'd held in—the decades of pressure, scrutiny, criticism—washed over him all at once. His face crumpled. The tears came.
Not loud or dramatic, but quiet, gentle, unfiltered. The kind of tears that only come from the deepest kind of pride.
He didn't even try to hide them.
Because he knew.
He knew that this wasn't just a cup win. This wasn't just a double. This was proof. Proof that his philosophy still had a place in the modern game. Proof that football could still be beautiful and ruthless. Proof that patience, belief, and nurturing talent still mattered.
And, more practically—he knew that Arsenal were about to change.
With both the Premier League and FA Cup in their hands, the club's financial power was about to take a serious step forward. Prize money, sponsorship deals, increased TV rights, global buzz. They'd finally have the resources to shop at the top table. To compete with the likes of Bayern, Real Madrid, and Barcelona in both transfer markets and on the pitch.
Champions League wasn't just a place to visit anymore.
It was a battlefield they could win on.
Wenger wiped his face, turned toward the Arsenal bench, and smiled through tears. Steve Bould clapped a hand on his back, the stoic assistant finally breaking into a grin. Other staff members gathered around, hugging, laughing, crying themselves.
On the pitch, Francesco was now walking slowly, absorbing it all. He looked toward the Arsenal fans, who chanted his name like it was part of the hymnbook. He made his way to the centre circle, where a handful of photographers were already circling like hawks. The hat-trick hero. The golden boy.
He was handed the match ball. It felt heavier than usual.
Santi Cazorla joined him, draping an arm around his shoulder. "You realize what you just did?" he asked with a chuckle.
Francesco nodded, eyes still wide. "Not really."
Cazorla grinned. "You just made history, mate. Wembley history."
Players began forming the tunnel for the traditional walk up the stairs. The medals. The trophy. But this one felt different. Not just ceremonial. It felt earned, like the final note in a symphony that had been written all season long.
As they climbed those stairs, the fans below kept singing. Francesco's name. Wenger's name. The club's name.
And then—he saw it.
The gleaming silver of the FA Cup, sitting atop the podium like a crown on a throne. The red and white ribbons already fluttering in the breeze.
Mike and Sarah Lee were in the front row of the VIP box. Leah Williamson beside them, still in her Francesco #35 shirt, her voice hoarse from shouting. Jorge Mendes had tears in his eyes. When Francesco turned and waved at them, their faces lit up like lanterns.
Theo Walcott handed Francesco the armband and gestured to the trophy. "You're the man today. You lift it."
Francesco paused. "Shouldn't it be Mertesacker?"
But Per, towering and smiling behind him, clapped him on the back. "This one's yours, kid."
And so, as the photographers jostled for the best angle, and Arsenal legends past and present looked on, Francesco Lee stepped forward, placed both hands on the FA Cup—and lifted it to the sky.
The explosion of noise that followed was thunderous.
Confetti cannons roared. Red and white streamers flew across the podium. The squad huddled around him, bouncing, laughing, shouting. Champagne sprayed. The moment stretched out into eternity.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League and 2014/2015 FA Cup
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8