God Of football

Chapter 313: Field General

De la Fuente nodded to himself, pleased with the way the message was landing.

”These next few days, I don’t want you to think about the pressure. I don’t want you to think about the expectations. I just want you to remember one thing.”

He looked around the room, making sure every single player met his gaze.

”We deserve to be here.”

A beat passed.

”Now let’s make it count.”

No cheers erupted. No dramatic responses. Just a deep, collective understanding.

This was their moment.

And they weren’t going to waste it.

...

As the meeting ended and the players rose from their seats, Izan remained still, his hands resting on his knees.

A strange weight settled in his chest—not nerves, not pressure, but something deeper. A presence.

Then, it happened.

A pulse, like a silent tremor through his body, neither painful nor overwhelming, but undeniable.

The edges of his vision flickered, and for a brief moment, the world felt sharper—clearer.

[System Notice: Title Unlocked]

Precedent: First of many

Title: ”General on the Field”

Description: Your presence commands the pitch.

Your teammates move with greater confidence, their awareness heightened, their execution sharper.

While the game is in session, they unconsciously look to you—not just as a player, but as a leader. You elevate them.

Izan’s breath came slow and measured, though his heart pounded.

This was different.

He clenched his fists, testing his own presence, but nothing outwardly changed. No grand revelation.

No sudden burst of power. Just an underlying certainty, like a foundation being laid beneath his feet.

”Oi, what are you doing?”

The sudden voice made him blink.

Lamine was staring at him, head tilted, arms crossed. Behind him, Nico stood with an eyebrow raised.

”You alright?” Nico asked, glancing at him curiously.

Izan shook his head slightly, pushing the system notification aside. ”Yeah. Just thinking.”

Lamine squinted. ”Thinking? That’s weird.”

Nico nodded sagely. ”Yeah, don’t do that. It’s bad for your health.”

Izan rolled his eyes. ”Says the guy who almost got us killed this morning.”

Nico grinned. ”And yet, I walked away unscathed. Think about that.”

Lamine smirked. ”Yeah, while we were dying under the sun, you were lounging in the shade.”

”You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Nico said, slinging an arm around Lamine. ”Now come on, if we don’t move, Morata’s gonna eat half the kitchen.”

Izan exhaled, standing up and stretching his arms. The system could wait. Whatever this new title meant, he’d test it properly in training.

...…..

The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting soft lines across the ceiling. Izan lay awake, staring up at them, his mind already moving.

His body felt normal. No lingering effects from yesterday’s notification. No residual tremors.

But something had changed.

He could feel it—not in a way that he could explain, but in the same way a player just knows when to make a run, when to shift their body, when to anticipate a pass before it happens.

A presence.

His.

Izan exhaled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before pushing himself up.

He wasn’t about to overthink it. Not yet. There was still training ahead. That was where he’d truly know if something had shifted.

The scent of food filled the air as he stepped into the dining area, where the squad was already gathered, spread across several tables.

The usual buzz of conversation and the occasional scrape of cutlery echoed through the room.

Lamine and Nico were stationed near the middle, plates stacked dangerously high.

Izan grabbed his own plate and approached just as he caught the tail end of their exchange.

”I’m just saying,” Lamine argued, fork in hand, ”you can’t call yourself the fastest in the squad when I dusted you twice yesterday.”

Nico snorted, slicing into his toast. ”Please. The first time, I slipped. The second time, I let you win so you wouldn’t cry.”

Lamine blinked at him. ”I don’t cry.”

”That’s not what your highlight reel says,” Nico muttered, barely audible.

”What?”

”Nothing.”

Izan sat down across from them, fighting the smirk threatening his lips. ”You two never get tired of this?”

”No,” they said at the same time.

Izan shook his head, grabbing a piece of fruit from his plate. ”You should focus on winning instead of arguing about who’s faster.”

Lamine leaned forward. ”Oh? And who do you think is faster?”

Izan chewed thoughtfully, then tilted his head. ”Mmm… I’d say Morata.”

Nico choked on his water. Lamine stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

”…I hate you,” Lamine muttered, stabbing his eggs.

Izan grinned. ”Eat up, General. You’ve got a long day ahead.”

.....

After dinner, the players moved about, getting their boots and tapes ready for the session before joining Luis de la Fuente outside.

The pitch stretched before them, the grass dewed from the morning. Players jogged in groups, warming up, and chatting.

Izan stepped onto the grass—

—and felt it activate.

It was presence.

Like stepping into a role that had always existed but was only now being acknowledged.

[ Title Activated: General on the Field ]

His senses sharpened. Not just his own positioning, but everyone’s. His teammates’ movements. Their spacing. Their body language.

He turned his head instinctively—Lamine, bouncing on his feet, already itching to run. Nico, hands on his hips, stretching, loose but ready. Pedri, adjusting his socks, relaxed, composed.

[ Scanning Selected Players… ]

Lamine Yamal

OVR: 84

Traits: Rapid Acceleration, Close Control, Unpredictability

Nico Williams

OVR: 84

Traits: Explosive Pace, 1v1 Specialist, Off-Ball Movement

Pedri

OVR: 87

Traits: Visionary Playmaker, Press Resistance, Tempo Dictator

Then, it shifted.

Like an invisible tether connecting them, like an instinct honed through countless battles. Izan knew where they were before they even moved.

[ Title Effect Applied: +1 Overall to Teammates During Play ]

Lamine Yamal

OVR: 85 (+1)

Traits: Rapid Acceleration, Close Control, Minimalist dribbling

Nico Williams

OVR: 85 (+1)

Traits: Explosive Pacer, 1v1 Specialist, Off-Ball Movement

Pedri

OVR: 88 (+1)

Traits: Visionary, Press Resistor, Tempo Dictator

Izan blinked. The numbers hovered in his mind, as natural as seeing a scoreboard. Not overwhelming, not intrusive—just there.

Lamine nudged him. ”What’s with that look?” Continue your saga on

Izan glanced at him. ”What look?”

”That look, like you just figured something out.”

Izan exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

”I guess we’ll see.”

The ball rolled onto the pitch. Training had begun.

...…..

The rhythm of training was different today.

From the moment the first rondo started, Spain wasn’t just good—they were flowing.

The ball zipped between feet with precision, every touch clean, every movement purposeful.

Players instinctively filled spaces, offering options without hesitation. It wasn’t forced, it wasn’t rehearsed—it was natural.

Izan felt it all.

Where the next pass should go? How the play would develop two, or three moves ahead. And more than anything, he felt how his teammates responded.

They were sharper. More confident.

And they knew it too.

Lamine’s touch was flawless, his turns tighter, defenders struggling to close him down.

Nico’s off-ball movement was ridiculous—finding gaps in an instant, darting into space even before the pass came.

Pedri, already a mastermind, played like he had a second pair of eyes, his connection with Izan near telepathic.

Luis de la Fuente stood by the sideline, arms crossed, observing carefully.

The coaching staff noticed it too.

He turned to his assistant. ”Record the drills. I want every sequence analyzed.”

The assistant nodded, gesturing to the analysts. Cameras focused in.

Meanwhile, on the pitch, a passing drill turned into something more.

One-touch passes, fluid rotations—every combination felt automatic. No wasted movement. No delay, almost like a moving artwork.

After a particularly crisp sequence ending with Lamine threading Nico through on goal, Nico smashed a shot into the top corner before turning, grinning.

”Alright, I’m not crazy, right? This is different.”

Lamine nodded, barely winded. ”Yeah. We’re clicking too fast.”

Izan exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. He knew exactly why.

And it didn’t stop.

When the scrimmage began, Spain played like a machine.

One team dominated possession, suffocating the other with sharp, relentless pressing. Even when the second team got the ball, they couldn’t breathe—passing lanes shut down instantly, and pressure was applied before they could react.

De la Fuente narrowed his eyes. This isn’t just cohesion. It’s something else.

Izan pulled the strings effortlessly. When to slow the tempo, when to accelerate it. When to drop deep, when to attack the space.

The others responded without hesitation, feeding off his rhythm.

He intercepted a loose pass, turned sharply, and immediately sent Nico sprinting down the wing.

Perfect weight. Perfect angle.

The ball arrived at Nico’s feet like it was meant to be there all along.

No hesitation—cut inside, square pass—Lamine arrived. First-time shot.

Net.

Nico spread his arms, grinning. ”Yeah, this is definitely different.”

Lamine shook his head, staring at Izan. ”What the hell did you eat this morning?”

Izan smirked. ”Same as you.”

”Liar.”

The scrimmage continued, but the pattern never changed. Spain controlled everything.

De la Fuente turned to his staff, voice low.

”Make sure we get every second of this on tape.”

Something was happening here.

And he wanted to understand exactly what it was.