48: No single move

The match has begun.

Arsenal's football, from the very first touch, displayed an artistic flair.

The ball, as if enchanted, moved with magical precision at their feet, flowing seamlessly through Hartlepool United's defense.

Fabregas, the midfield maestro, was the conductor of this magnificent symphony.

Every turn he made had an elegant arc.

Every move to shake off a defender was understated yet perfectly executed.

He constantly tore at Hartlepool United's defensive line with his precise passes, each delivery carrying a deadly threat.

Henry's elusive runs on the left, Van Persie's nimble poaching in the box, and Eboue and Clichy's tireless attacking on both wings, together wove a vast and splendid offensive web, firmly enveloping Hartlepool United.

The Hartlepool United players, however, chose not to engage in a head-on confrontation, but strictly adhered to Lin Feng's almost fanatical 'guerrilla tactics'.

They retreated en masse.

Their three lines were compressed to the extreme.

The distance between players was so close that they could clearly hear each other's heavy breathing, forming a blue and white steel wall in front of the goal.

Gary Liddle, the experienced veteran, had transformed into Fabregas's inseparable shadow.

Wherever the Spanish genius ran, he followed like a shadow.

With tireless running and close-marking harassment, he relentlessly disrupted the source of Arsenal's attacks.

Fabregas felt such intense restraint; every time he received the ball, he had to face Liddle's fierce yet precise pressing, preventing him from making a composed pass.

On the other side, Danny Simpson and Ben Clark were like two tough iron chains, firmly locking down the king on the field—Thierry Henry.

Simpson was responsible for frontal marking, using his body to wear down Henry's patience, making every touch of the ball incredibly difficult for the Frenchman.

Ben Clark was always ready to provide cover and support from the side, giving Henry no space to turn comfortably.

But the pressure continued to pound Hartlepool United's goal in waves.

In the tenth minute.

Van Persie received a cross from Eboue in the box and unleashed a powerful shot; the ball, whistling through the air, flew straight towards the bottom right corner.

Kasper Schmeichel dived out.

He made an incredibly agile save.

With his fingertips stretched to their limit, he just managed to tip the ball out for a corner, denying a shot that almost pierced the goal.

Just five minutes later.

Henry, with a characteristic cut-in, created an angle and curled a shot; the ball, with strong spin, arced in a strange trajectory towards the far corner of the goal.

Schmeichel once again flew through the air.

He stretched his body mid-air, and with an incredible one-handed save, powerfully pushed the ball over the crossbar.

In the stands of Emirates Stadium, the cheers of Arsenal fans turned into sighs of regret, tinged with disbelief.

In the Sky Sports commentary booth, Alan Hansen's voice was full of awe and praise.

"Schmeichel's performance is outstanding! If it weren't for him, Hartlepool United might have conceded several goals already!"

His tone carried a hint of worry, a touch of uncertainty.

"But Arsenal's attack is too fierce; how long they can hold out is the question."

The question was answered in the twenty-eighth minute.

Fabregas in midfield finally broke free from Liddle's brief entanglement and delivered a precise through ball.

The ball pierced Hartlepool United's defense and rolled directly into the deep end of the penalty area.

Thierry Henry accelerated.

He instantly burst with astonishing speed, every step filled with explosive power.

With his signature move of pushing the ball past and then running around the defender, he deftly bypassed Ben Clark, who was defending him head-on.

The ball rolled past Clark's left, while Henry, like a phantom, rounded him from his right, moving so fast that only a blur remained, dazzling the eyes.

Before Danny Simpson could desperately get into position to cover, Henry had already caught up with the ball.

Facing the onrushing Schmeichel, he didn't even adjust; his right foot calmly pushed the ball.

The ball skimmed the grass, rolling towards the far corner of the goal, carrying the scent of death.

Schmeichel's fingertips, this time, failed to touch the ball, and he could only watch helplessly as the ball slipped past his fingers and into the net, making a muffled sound.

One-nil.

Emirates Stadium instantly erupted in thunderous cheers, the sound deafening.

Wenger, on the sidelines, saw the goal and a approving smile appeared on his face.

He nodded slightly; everything seemed to be under his control.

The Hartlepool United players, after conceding, were filled with unwillingness, but there was no hint of panic in their eyes.

They continued to stubbornly execute Lin Feng's tactics, waiting for a counter-attack opportunity that might never come.

The opportunity arrived quietly in the thirty-fifth minute.

Gylfi Sigurðsson made a successful tackle in his own half; without hesitation, he launched a long pass of over fifty meters.

The ball arced high in the air, flying towards Arsenal's half, its target clear.

Jamie Vardy accelerated.

He unleashed all his energy, using his top speed to forcefully overtake world-class center-back Kolo Touré.

Touré could even feel the wind Vardy created as he surged past, a wild energy that was startling.

Vardy caught up with the ball, and the cheers of tens of thousands of fans at Emirates Stadium experienced an eerie pause at that moment; everyone's hearts were in their throats, holding their breath.

He was through on goal.

Facing German goalkeeper Jens Lehmann, Vardy didn't hesitate, taking a powerful shot directly; the ball, with the force of thunder, flew straight towards the goal.

Lehmann's reaction was incredibly quick; he didn't choose to dive but, with an almost instinctive movement, extended his right leg, using his calf to block the seemingly certain goal.

The ball bounced high, landing outside the box, allowing Arsenal fans to breathe a sigh of relief.

This counter-attack, like a flash of lightning, cut through Arsenal's seemingly perfect night sky, bringing a brief moment of light.

The Gunners' defense broke out in a cold sweat.

They no longer dared to push up as recklessly as before, and their eyes showed a hint of caution, a touch of vigilance.

The whistle for halftime sounded.

Arsenal led Hartlepool United one-nil thanks to Henry's goal.

Although Hartlepool United's players were trailing, their tenacious defense and that deadly counter-attack earned them the respect of all neutral fans, and also showed them hope for victory.

In the player's tunnel, the Arsenal players discussed the first half, looking relaxed and walking with light steps, as if victory was already in their grasp.

The Hartlepool United players, however, walked silently to the changing room; their faces were etched with fatigue, but in their eyes, an unyielding flame still burned—that was unwillingness, fighting spirit, and a longing for the second half.

In the VIP box, Lin Feng's expression remained calm, without the slightest ripple.

He picked up his phone and sent a text message to Old John.

"John, Clichy's desire to assist is strong; the space behind him is our opportunity."

"After sixty minutes in the second half, have Snodgrass cut inside decisively to draw him out."

"Then, prepare to bring on Kevin Kyle and hit them with high balls."

In the away team's changing room, Old John looked at the text on his phone, and his heart, which had been somewhat flustered by being behind, instantly settled down.

The light in his eyes rekindled.