When the final whistle blew, the atmosphere inside Wembley Stadium reached a fever pitch.
"It's over! The game is over!!" shouted Letkinson, standing on the trembling press balcony, his voice cracking with excitement as he gripped the microphone.
"Luton Town have done it! They're through to the FA Cup final! This is one of the greatest underdog stories in the history of the competition!"
"Even if they fall short in the final, this run has already cemented them as the ultimate dark horses!"
A team from the Championship—England's second division—reaching the FA Cup final was something out of a fairy tale.
As soon as the whistle blew, Ethan, Luton's manager, sprinted onto the pitch with arms raised in triumph.
Behind him, Luton's players—whether starters or substitutes—poured onto the field, celebrating like they'd won the trophy already.
John, one of the assistant coaches, didn't join in right away. He stood frozen, staring in disbelief at the massive scoreboard.
3–1.
The score burned bright in crimson, then seemed to blur before his eyes.
"The final… We're going to the FA Cup final..." he muttered.
Meer clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Believe it, mate," he said quietly.
Across the pitch, the scene was starkly different. Arsenal players were slumped on the grass in exhaustion and despair. Theo Walcott had given everything with his final effort—his body crumpled, face hidden in his hands. Nearby, Robin van Persie gripped his thigh in pain, yet another cramp wrecking his legs.
Luton's players sprinted and shouted in celebration, while Arsenal's players barely had the strength to lift their arms. The young guns from Luton had outrun Arsenal—who were also a youthful squad—but it was the Championship side whose stamina and spirit carried them through 120 brutal minutes.
On the bench, Arsène Wenger remained seated, staring out at the pitch as Luton celebrated wildly in front of him. Eventually, the French manager stood, adjusting his coat, and stepped onto the pitch.
He found Fabregas first—his captain, collapsed in tears.
Wenger knelt and pulled the young Spaniard into an embrace.
"We'll come back stronger, Francisco," he murmured, his voice steady despite the pain in his eyes.
He moved next to Van Persie, who struggled to stand. Wenger opened his arms.
"You gave everything, Robin. I'm proud of you."
Then, lifting his head, Wenger addressed the team as they gathered around.
"We are young, but we are not weak. The Premier League title must return to our trophy cabinet next season!"
The truth was, Arsenal had been walking a financial tightrope ever since the move to the Emirates. The debts from the new stadium forced the club to tighten spending, relying on youth and development rather than big-name signings.
While Chelsea had risen on a wave of Abramovich's millions and Manchester City were beginning to splash oil money around, Arsenal were trying to win by playing the long game—developing, not buying.
But Wenger knew deep down that without reinvestment, they risked falling behind in the relentless grind of a full season.
Still—"Who says young players can't be champions?" Wenger told himself.
He moved from player to player, offering words of encouragement.
On the other side of the pitch, Ethan's celebration began to calm. Looking around, he spotted Wenger still out on the grass and approached him.
"Mr. Arsène!" Ethan called out, extending a hand.
Wenger, ever the sportsman even in defeat, accepted the gesture.
"Congratulations on the win. We were unlucky today," he said.
He would never admit Arsenal lost due to lack of strength.
"We were lucky," Ethan said with a modest grin, not wanting to get into a philosophical debate.
Wenger offered a half-smile. "I expect I'll see you in the Premier League soon."
Given Ethan's meteoric rise this season, it was likely that several Premier League clubs—especially those mid-table or lower—were already eyeing him up as a potential new manager.
"Maybe," Ethan replied nonchalantly. His attention drifted toward the Arsenal bench, locking eyes on Jack Wilshere.
"Wilshere… talented lad."
Wenger instantly caught the subtext. His face hardened.
"No chance," he said firmly.
Jack Wilshere was a gem in Wenger's crown. Loan? Transfer? Out of the question.
Ethan smirked. He hadn't really expected anything else—just testing the waters. If Wenger had been open to a loan, it would've been a huge win. But even without it, Ethan wasn't disappointed. That was the nature of the game.
The conversation ended there. Wenger, still reeling from the loss, turned and walked back to the tunnel. Ethan was swept back into the arms of his jubilant squad.
In the media box, reporters were furiously typing away. Some hammered keys on laptops, others scribbled down headlines. For them, speed meant scoops.
And tonight's story? Historic.
A second-division team had reached the FA Cup final.
The path? Legendary.
They beat Chelsea 2–0. Then knocked out Preston by the same scoreline. In the fifth round, they stunned Manchester City with a 4–0 thrashing at home—humiliating Mark Hughes' side.
In the quarter-finals, they edged Coventry 2–1.
And then came the semi-final. Wembley. Arsenal. Extra time.
A 3–1 victory. Against all odds.
The fairytale continued. Luton Town were one match away from lifting the oldest cup in football.
If Luton Town goes on to lift the FA Cup, it'll go down as one of the greatest underdog stories in the competition's storied history — a true fairytale forged by a team from the Championship.
"We don't yet know who we'll face in the final — Liverpool or Everton — but either way, we're talking about Premier League giants," said Ethan, standing in front of the sponsor-laden backdrop, speaking into the press microphones post-match.
"We just have to stick to our identity. Play our football — and see where that gets us."
When Ethan walked back into the dressing room after the press conference, the atmosphere was electric. The players were still riding high on adrenaline from their semi-final win.
The dressing room was chaos in the best possible way. Jamie Vardy, shirtless and soaked in champagne, was dancing with Danny Drinkwater, while the rest of the squad had formed a bouncing circle, singing and chanting Luton songs at the top of their lungs.
N'Golo Kanté, ever the calm amidst the storm, hadn't joined the celebrations. He was enjoying a quiet soak in the recovery tub, headphones in and a towel draped loosely over him.
Ethan grabbed the tactics board and smacked it lightly with the palm of his hand.
"Alright, lads!! Gather up!! Now!!"
The noise died down instantly. Players turned, laughing and panting, forming a loose semicircle around their manager.
"N'Golo," Ethan pointed to the tub with mock sternness. "Put some kit on, mate. This isn't a bodybuilder contest."
Laughter erupted again. Kanté chuckled, sheepishly pulled on his shorts, and jogged over to join the group.
"Right," Ethan began, his voice firm but proud. "We've made the final. You lot — every single one of you — should be proud of what you've done. That was a warrior's performance out there."
Cheers and claps broke out.
"But listen," he continued, raising a hand to settle them. "Back in my country, there's a saying: when your journey is a hundred kilometers, reaching ninety doesn't mean you're almost there — it means you're halfway."
"We've come far. But we've not won anything yet."
The mood shifted. The players were listening now — really listening.
"You've all heard the saying, right? The runner-up is just the first loser. We're not here to be nearly-men. We're not here for the story — we're here for the silverware."
"The final hasn't even kicked off yet. This? This isn't the time to celebrate. Save that for after."
Kevin Keane, the captain, nodded and was the first to speak.
"He's right, lads. Save the champagne. We've got one more job to do."
Others quickly echoed the sentiment, their cheers now tempered with purpose.
Ethan smiled and gave a satisfied nod. His voice softened.
"That's what I like to hear. One game. One dream. Let's bring it home, lads."
Visit patreon.com/shirokendama for more chapters