Home / God Of football / Chapter 385: Egyptian Magic

Read free on Ficlyn

God Of football

Chapter 385: Egyptian Magic · Oct 10, 2026

Prev Chapter Novel Info Next Chapter

Chapter List (1057)

Page number / 22

351 Chapter 351: Tour 2026-10-10
352 Chapter 352: First Day At Work[Golden Ticket] 2026-10-10
353 Chapter 353: First Session 2026-10-10
354 Chapter 354: First Session, Completed 2026-10-10
355 Chapter 355: Finding The Right Piece [Nameyelus Gifts too much] 2026-10-10
356 Chapter 356: Izan’s Tactics 2026-10-10
357 Chapter 357: Prelude to Pre-Season 2026-10-10
358 Chapter 358: Just 2 Days 2026-10-10
359 Chapter 359: Watching From Afar [Golden Gachapon: Pistacho031_3 ] 2026-10-10
360 Chapter 360 - 2 in 26 [Golden Gachapon: Pistacho031_3 ] 2026-10-10
361 Chapter 361: Ball And Banter [Golden Gachapon: Pistacho031_3 ] 2026-10-10
362 Chapter 362: Saved By PR [Pistacho031_3]] 2026-10-10
363 Chapter 363: Arsenal’s Newest Man [Pistacho031_3]] 2026-10-10
364 Chapter 364: Pending Start[Gachapon Bonus] 2026-10-10
365 Chapter 365: US Tour [Golden Gacha - ] 2026-10-10
366 Chapter 366: Pre-Season Fever [Normal Release] 2026-10-10
367 Chapter 367: It Is Time [Golden Gacha, Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
368 Chapter 368: A Real Red Devil [Golden Gacha Pistacho_031_3] 2026-10-10
369 Chapter 369: A New Menace [Normal Release] 2026-10-10
370 Chapter 370: Football At Its Finest[Golden Gacha - ] 2026-10-10
371 Chapter 371: The NBA [Golden Gacha - ] 2026-10-10
372 Chapter 372: The American Game. 2026-10-10
373 Chapter 373: Night In LA [Normal Release] 2026-10-10
374 Chapter 374: Early Lead [Golden Gacha] 2026-10-10
375 Chapter 375: Foot On The PitChapter [Golden Gacha. Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
376 Chapter 376: Goal In LA [Normal Release] 2026-10-10
377 Chapter 377: Relentless Leverkusen [Final Gacha - ] 2026-10-10
378 Chapter 378: First Start 2026-10-10
379 Chapter 379: Something Greater 2026-10-10
380 Chapter 380: Late Night Escapades 2026-10-10
381 Chapter 381: Clash Of Two Titans 2026-10-10
382 Chapter 382: Clash Of Two Titans: [2] 2026-10-10
383 Chapter 383: War In A Coliseum 2026-10-10
384 Chapter 384: Brilliance Under The Lights 2026-10-10
385 Chapter 385: Egyptian Magic 2026-10-10
386 Chapter 386: Little Conductor 2026-10-10
387 Chapter 387: Halfway There 2026-10-10
388 Chapter 388: Halftime Antics 2026-10-10
389 Chapter 389: Troll 2026-10-10
390 Chapter 390: Against the Best [Golden Ticket] 2026-10-10
391 Chapter 391: Something Special 2026-10-10
392 Chapter 392: Pre-Season Conference 2026-10-10
393 Chapter 393: Unexpected(Golden Ticket) 2026-10-10
394 Chapter 394: Unspoken Words. 2026-10-10
395 Chapter 395: A World Of Their Own 2026-10-10
396 Chapter 396: League Preparations 2026-10-10
397 Chapter 397: Life At Colney 2026-10-10
398 Chapter 398: Whispers Of Fame 2026-10-10
399 Chapter 399: Moments Between Whistles 2026-10-10
400 Chapter 400: The Premier League 2026-10-10

Chapter 385: Egyptian Magic

The ball rolled toward Szoboszlai, but Izan, quick as ever, stuck a foot in, poking it away before Liverpool could build something.

Peter Drury: ”And Izan tracks back! Heʼs not just a creator; heʼs a fighter too!”

Lee Dixon: ”Heʼs showing the complete package tonight—end product, work rate, intelligence. This is why Arsenal were desperate to get him.”

The game remained clean, but the intensity never wavered. Every touch between Izan and Mac Allister carried meaning.

Every challenge was a test of will. The referee let them play, allowing the duels to unfold naturally.

And as the minutes ticked by, the tension only grew.

....

Izan received the ball next, near the halfway line, his first touch sharp as he let it roll across his body, eyes flicking up to scan the field.

Again, Mac Allister was already stepping in, shoulders squared, looking to muscle him off balance.

But Izan was a step ahead. A quick feint to the right—Mac Allister bit—and then a sudden burst of acceleration to the left.

The Argentine lunged to recover, but Izan was gone, slipping past him like smoke.

Peter Drury: ”Oh, that is just dazzling! Izan, teasing, toying—Mac Allister canʼt get near him!”

The Crowd roared, a sound swelling from deep in the stands, as if the entire stadium could feel the tide turning.

Arne Slot stomped forward in the technical area, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

He turned to Szoboszlai, barking something in English, pointing toward Izan. Instructions were coming.

Liverpool were shifting.

Izan could feel it—their full-backs werenʼt pushing up as aggressively anymore, Robertson wasnʼt overlapping as much, and Alexander-Arnold was hesitating before leaving his position.

Even Van Dijkʼs stance was different, his shoulders a little lower, his gaze locked onto Izan, as if acknowledging the growing storm.

And yet, Mac Allister wouldnʼt back down.

Liverpool finally found space to breathe. After a relentless ten minutes of Arsenalʼs pressing, the visitors broke forward with menace.

Szoboszlai surged through midfield, his powerful strides eating up the ground as he carried the ball into the final third.

White moved to meet him, but the Hungarian shifted his weight and slipped a pass to Salah, who had drifted in from the right.

The Arena held its breath, looking on with keen attention.

Salah, quick as ever, let the ball roll across his body, inviting Zinchenko to step forward before prodding it past him.

Now inside the box, he scanned for options.

Arsenalʼs defenders scrambled, White retreating toward the goal, Gabriel tracking Núñez—but there was danger creeping in from the blind side.

Mac Allister.

Ghosting into the box from midfield, unmarked, unnoticed.

Salah spotted him at the last moment, his left foot brushing the ball ever so slightly to angle it into the Argentineʼs path.

The chance was there.

Mac Allister stretched his leg forward—

And then came Izan.

A flash of red and white, streaking across the grass like a bolt of lightning.

The moment barely lasted a second, but the impact was felt across the stadium.

Izan flew in from the side, timing his slide to absolute perfection.

His boot met the ball, not the man, hooking it cleanly away while his momentum carried him through.

Mac Allister, mid-swing, was sent tumbling over his legs, crashing onto the turf with a thud.

The So-Fi Arena erupted.

Lee Dixon: ”What a tackle! What a tackle! Izan, out of nowhere, just wipes it clean off Mac Allisterʼs feet!”

Peter Drury: ”Oh, he had to get that right, and by God, did he get it right! That is defensive commitment of the highest order!”

Mac Allister hit the ground, skidding for a moment before springing back up, his eyes flashing.

He turned immediately—toward Izan, toward the referee, toward anything that could justify what had just happened. But there was nothing.

The ball had rolled safely toward the sideline, bouncing just within reach of Saka, who collected it and sprinted away.

Izan, still on the ground, pushed himself up in one fluid motion, his expression unshaken.

Mac Allister was in his face before he could fully stand. ”Are you kidding me?” he barked, arms outstretched.

Izan, brushing dirt off his sleeve, barely looked at him. ”Won the ball.”

Mac Allister scoffed. ”Youʼre reckless.”

Izan finally met his gaze, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. ”Youʼre slow.”

The words hung there for a beat. Mac Allister clenched his jaw, but before anything more could be said, Van Dijk was already pulling him away.

Gabriel did the same with Izan, though there was no real force needed.

Izan had already turned, jogging back into position as if nothing had happened.

Lee Dixon: ”This kid is just fearless. Heʼs already scored a stunner, and now heʼs making tackles like that inside his own box?”

Peter Drury: ”Itʼs a statement, Lee. Mac Allister tried to bring the fight to him… but Izan just sent his answer sliding right through the heart of Liverpoolʼs attack.”

The camera panned to Slot, who stood on the touchline, hands on his hips, shaking his head.

His team was in this game—but they were up against something, someone, that refused to back down.

....

[Salahʼs POV]

He wiped his palms on his shorts.

It wasnʼt nerves—he was far too seasoned for that—but there was something else gnawing at him.

Liverpool werenʼt playing badly. They had wrestled control in moments, passed the ball well, moved in dangerous spaces.

But they werenʼt dictating. They werenʼt bending Arsenal to their will like they should.

And a big reason for that was him.

Izan.

Salah stole a glance across the pitch as he adjusted his socks.

The kid was moving back into position, his face unreadable, as if that game-saving tackle on Mac Allister had been nothing but a routine clearance.

He was sending a message.

From the moment Izan had bent that free-kick into the net, Salah had sensed something different about him.

Young players were often fearless, but there was a difference between arrogance and certainty.

Izan played like he belonged—no hesitation, no overcomplication, just pure conviction in every touch.

And he had already left his mark on the game.

Salah couldnʼt let him define it.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. No more hesitations. No more careful passing. If weʼre going to shift this match, it has to be me.

He looked up. Alisson had the ball, rolling it to Van Dijk, who carried it forward with authority.

The Dutchman spread it wide to Alexander-Arnold, who immediately looked down the line. Salah didnʼt need to call for it—he knew it was coming.

The ball zipped toward him, spinning in the air.

One touch to control. One breath to measure. And then, he was off.

He drove forward, feeling the heat of Zinchenko at his back. The Ukrainian lunged, but Salah had already shifted the ball past him, accelerating toward the box.

Space opened up.

Gabriel came into view, stepping forward—but he was cautious. Good.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Núñez making a run inside, dragging White with him.

A brief thought of a pass flickered in his mind, but he ignored it.

This moment was his.

He dropped his shoulder. Feinted left.

Gabriel bit, just a little. That was all Salah needed.

He cut inside sharply, opening the angle. His left foot was ready.

Then—

A blur.

A streak of red and white.

Izan.

”Again” Salah muttered, before it was too late.

Izan lunged across his path, body low, boots skimming the grass. Not a reckless hack. Not a desperate lunge. Just precise.

The ball was gone before Salahʼs foot could meet it.

His momentum carried him forward, a half-step too late, and by the time he looked up, Izan was already flicking the ball into space, spinning away from him as if he had done it a thousand times before.

The Gunners crowd roared in approval

Salah clenched his jaw. He didnʼt stop moving—he couldnʼt afford to—but frustration bubbled under his skin.

Lee Dixon: ”Oh my word, Izan again! He just plucked the ball right out of Salahʼs reach!”

Peter Drury: ”Salah had the goal in his sights, he had the moment in his hands—but Izan snatched it away from him!”

Salah kept running. His mind raced.

This wasnʼt normal.

Most attacking midfielders didnʼt defend like this. They tracked back, sure, but they didnʼt defend.

Not like this. Not with this kind of intelligence, this kind of grit.

He didnʼt like it.

He wouldnʼt accept it.

Salah sucked in a breath, his eyes locking onto Izan as the teenager drove forward with the ball.

Alright, kid. You want to play hero?

Letʼs see how long you can keep up.

...…..

Zinchenko had been ambitious. Too ambitious.

Arsenal had settled into their rhythm, their passes sharp, their movement fluid. Confidence swelled in their game.

Zinchenko, emboldened by the control they had begun to exert, carried the ball forward with intent.

One step. Two.

Then disaster.

A touch too heavy. A half-second too slow.

Salah pounced.

Like a shadow lurking at the edge of the moment, he struck without warning, snapping into the challenge and stripping the ball clean off Zinchenkoʼs foot.

The crowd gasped.

Zinchenkoʼs eyes widened—his body twisted as he scrambled to recover—but it was too late.

Salah was already gone.

Peter Drury: ”And Salah steals it! This is trouble! Big, big trouble for Arsenal!”

Salah exploded forward, his body tilting into the sprint, his feet a blur as he tore into open space.

White lunged from the side. Too slow.

Gabriel stepped in. Not quick enough.

Salah danced past him with a touch of silk and venom, the ball never leaving his orbit.

The box was his now.

The goal was his now.

A second of silence. A heartbeat of inevitability.

And then—the finish.

A stroke of his left foot. Pure. Measured. Deadly.

The ball curled, arcing through the air, bending away from Rayaʼs desperate lunge.

Lee Dixon: ”Oh, that is Salah! That is Salah at his ruthless best!”

The net rippled.

Redshirts rushed toward him. The Arsenal players stood frozen.

Salah turned, face calm, body alight with triumph. His arms spread wide as he soaked in the stunned silence of the opposing crowd.

Peter Drury: ”You stop him once, you stop him twice… but you cannot stop him forever! The Egyptian King has spoken!”

A/n: Okay guys. We would have had a mass release but someones goodness causes me to lose my stockpile of 10 chapters. Anyhow, Iʼm trying to make up so have this one for tonight okay. See you tomorrow

Prev Chapter Novel Info Next Chapter