The Greatest of all Time

Chapter 753 Chess at Wembley

The game resumed swiftly after the goal celebrations died down. There was no time to dwell. No chance to savor the moment. Manchester City, rattled but not broken, reacted the way elite teams always do. They tightened their shape, upped their tempo, and returned to the fundamentals that had brought them trophies.

From the restart, the shift in energy was immediate. The ball began gliding across the pitch with City's trademark fluidity, moving from foot to foot like it was magnetized to their boots. Their players rotated in sync, always providing options, always stretching the pitch. Pep Guardiola's blueprint was unfolding in real time. Every pass had a purpose. Every movement created another inch of space.

Oleksandr Zinchenko and Kyle Walker, initially conservative in their positioning, now surged forward at every opportunity. They overlapped, tucked inside, and offered new passing lanes for the midfield trio to exploit. Walker hugged the touchline and Zinchenko drifted into central channels, both operating almost like midfielders rather than defenders.

Rodri dropped deeper, positioning himself as the pivot around which City's possession revolved. Calm under pressure, he absorbed the press and sprayed passes left and right, dictating tempo and flow. Ahead of him, David Silva and Kevin De Bruyne began to impose their rhythm. Silva floated between lines, drifting into pockets of space with his usual elegance, while De Bruyne operated like a general, always organizing, pointing, adjusting, and calculating the next wave of attack.

Zachary recognized the shift immediately. He could feel it. Liverpool's earlier dominance had disrupted City's flow, but now the blue machine was revving into gear. The passes were quicker. The spacing was sharper. The pressure was starting to build.

City moved with precision, forming compact triangles to retain possession, then rapidly expanding the shape to pull Liverpool's midfield apart. They were not rushing. They were calculating. Measured. Their build-up was patient, but it carried menace.

Zachary, Henderson, and Fabinho worked hard to close gaps and cut off channels, but it was like plugging holes in a dam. Every time they blocked one pass, another opened. City were finding rhythm, moving with a confidence that spelled danger.

By the 11th minute, all the signs of pressure turned into a real threat. City had finally carved out their first clear opening, and it started from the back, with a sequence that was as intricate as it was clinical.

Zinchenko, drifting inward from the left-back position, slipped unnoticed into a shallow pocket just inside his own half. One touch forward, then a clean give-and-go with Rodri. Another one-two with David Silva followed. It was tight, clever, and fast. Then came the split-second moment. Zinchenko spotted Leroy Sane peeling off down the left flank and threaded a beautiful through pass into his path.

Sane, already at full stride, met the ball just after stepping over the halfway line. His first touch killed the pace, his second kept it close. Without hesitation, he faced Trent Alexander-Arnold, Liverpool's right-back.

Sane didn't wait. He accelerated.

Trent tried to match him stride for stride, but Sane was gliding, his top-end speed taking hold. In seconds, he'd blown past him and left Trent chasing shadows. The Etihad's speed demon now had the edge of the pitch to himself.

He cut inside sharply, heading toward the top of the penalty area. Fortunately for Liverpool, Jordan Henderson had seen it developing and was already closing down the angle.

Reading the situation, Sane didn't force it. As he approached the top of the box, he quickly scanned the scene in front of him. The middle was congested with red shirts. Henderson was, of course, already stepping in to cut the angle while Fabinho was closing off the square ball. So, instead of pushing into traffic, Sane lifted his head and spotted a narrow passing lane just opening between Liverpool's lines.

With his left foot, he slid the ball across the turf into the heart of the pitch, where Kevin De Bruyne had timed his movement perfectly. The Belgian international had ghosted into an unmarked pocket between Henderson and Fabinho, just beyond the edge of the final third.

De Bruyne took the pass on the half-turn, cushioning it with his right foot, then immediately pushed forward with sharp, purposeful strides. His body language screamed intent. Eyes scanning. Head up. He drove toward the edge of the Liverpool box, looking for the final incision.

But Fabinho had tracked him the entire way. Moving with quiet aggression, the Brazilian closed the space step by step. He leaned into De Bruyne, applying pressure without fouling, forcing the midfielder to protect the ball. The challenge was firm but clean. The ball jostled under De Bruyne's feet, threatening to slip free.

But the Belgian never lost composure.

With impeccable balance, he used his body to shield the ball from Fabinho's reach, then twisted slightly and released a perfectly weighted pass through the middle of Liverpool's defensive line. It was not a hopeful ball. It was a calculated thread into space.

Raheem Sterling was already on the move.

He curved his run diagonally from the right, bursting through the gap between Joe Gomez and Andy Robertson. The pass reached him just outside the penalty area, rolling gently into his path. The timing was exquisite. One stride brought him into perfect shooting position.

Sterling shaped to strike with his right foot. Gomez bit on the movement and lunged across to block. At the last moment, Sterling chopped the ball inside with a sharp touch, letting Gomez slide past in vain. He now had a clear line to goal.

The stadium held its breath. The ball sat up. Sterling steadied himself and struck.

His shot seemed low, clean, and driven toward the far post.

But before it could threaten towards its target, Virgil van Dijk arrived.

The Dutch defender had anticipated it from the moment Sterling received the ball. Like a man possessed, he sprinted across from the left channel, read the angle, and committed to the challenge. In one smooth motion, he launched into a slide, extending his right leg just enough to meet the strike.

The timing was perfect. His shin met the ball with solid contact. It cannoned off his leg and redirected with pace, veering away from goal and skidding toward the left edge of the penalty box.

Bernardo Silva, who had been ghosting in quietly from wing, darted toward the ball as it rolled into space. His first instinct was to pounce. But Andrew Robertson was already there. The Liverpool fullback had read the situation quicker and arrived half a step earlier. Without a second thought, he swung his left foot and smashed the ball high into the sky, clearing the immediate threat.

The ball soared almost unnaturally upward, disappearing briefly into the Wembley lights. The spin caught the air, and all twenty outfield players tracked its flight like hawks. For a few seconds, everything on the pitch slowed. Heads tilted. Eyes narrowed. Even the crowd seemed to pause with the ball suspended above.

As gravity finally pulled it back down, two players had already claimed the drop zone. One in sky blue. The other in deep red.

David Silva was the first in line for City, sharp-eyed and crafty as always, calculating where the ball would fall. But alongside him was Zachary Bemba, standing tall, body tense, frame coiled like a spring. At six feet three inches, he towered over Silva, who barely came up to his shoulder.

Zachary didn't just have the height advantage. He had position. As the ball plummeted from the sky, he planted his boots firmly into the turf, knees slightly bent, center of gravity lowered. He widened his stance just enough to absorb any bump from behind and used the curve of his hips to block David Silva from reaching around him.

When the ball reached him, he let it strike the upper part of his chest, ensuring it was not too high and not too low. He then leaned back ever so slightly and softened the impact. The touch absorbed the momentum with surgical precision. The ball dropped neatly to the ground in front of him, close enough to control, far enough to work with.

Silva lunged in, hoping to disrupt him before he could make his next move, but Zachary was already transitioning.

With his left foot, he stepped on the ball and froze it for half a second. At the same time, he pivoted his torso toward his right side, disguising his intent. His right foot then slid behind his left, sweeping across the ball in a circular motion. As the ball rolled with him, Zachary used the inside of his right boot to drag it backward and around his body.

His entire frame turned with the motion. His right shoulder dropped slightly, his left arm came out for balance, and his hips twisted fluidly as he completed the spin.

It was a Marseille turn done with grace, not flash. No wasted movement. No unnecessary flair. Just clean, tight control and perfect timing.

By the time Silva reached in, he found only air. Zachary had already peeled away, ball at his feet, shoulders squared, and a few yards of green space in front of him.