God Of football

Chapter 434: Knight In The Area[Pistacho031_3]

As the clock ticked toward forty-five, Serbia earned a free kick just outside the box.

Ilić stood over it.

He struck clean—a thunderbolt that dipped viciously—but Simón was again equal, pushing it over the bar with two firm fists.

”That man is a wall tonight,” the color commentator muttered.

On the sidelines, Luis de la Fuente exhaled deeply. He didnʼt need to turn around to know what was happening behind him.

The final seconds of the half saw Spain nearly break the deadlock when Morata backheeled a pass into Pedriʼs path.

The Barcelona midfielder took it first time, his low shot grazing the outside netting.

Some fans screamed, thinking it was in.

The whistle came soon after.

Players dropped to their knees. Shirts clung to sweat-slicked skin.

Even the bench stood to applaud—not the scoreline, but the spectacle.

”This is what international football should feel like,” the commentator said over slow-motion replays of saves, flicks, and close calls.

”Relentless quality. Brilliant defending. And a goalkeeper masterclass on both ends.”

Spain walked off the pitch level, but not lacking momentum.

.............

Back in Spain, the glow of halftime lit up living rooms and bars alike as the national broadcast rolled in smoothly from the stadium feed.

The transition was effortless—a sweeping shot of Belgradeʼs electric sky fading into a sleek Madrid studio.

Inside, three familiar faces leaned in beneath soft studio lights, screens behind them flickering with first-half highlights.

”And thatʼs the whistle,” the host, Alejandro Vargas, said, leaning slightly forward. His crisp navy blazer barely moved, but his voice was already alive with opinion.

”Forty-five minutes gone in Belgrade, and despite all the fireworks, weʼre still stuck at 0–0.”

Beside him, Andrea Salazar—a former La Roja midfielder turned pundit—crossed her legs, her expression thoughtful.

”Serbia have done their homework,” she said.

”Theyʼre not just sitting back, theyʼre springing forward with real menace. That early chance they carved down Spainʼs left? That wasnʼt luck. That was a signal.”

Alejandro nodded. ”And Spain?”

Marcos Reyes, the quietest of the three, pushed his glasses up his nose.

Spain look like theyʼre waiting for something. Or someone.”

He didnʼt say it outright, but the implication hung in the air like an echo. Izan.

Andrea didnʼt hide her smirk.

”Itʼs not often we say Spain lack spark, but you watch how deep Rodri has to drop just to escape that midfield tangle. And without that link in the final third…”

”They have the pieces,” Marcos added, ”but theyʼre not clicking. Thereʼs rhythm. Thereʼs movement. But no edge.”

Alejandro turned to the camera as a new reel of highlights played in the background—Yamal darting between defenders, Morata denied by a fingertip save, Pedri threading impossible passes that almost—almost became goals.

”Plenty of buildup, not much end product,” he said.

”Letʼs not forget, though—Serbia have been brilliant. That backline has blocked everything that moved, and Rajković in goal? Heʼs been heroic.”

”And physical,” Andrea noted.

Spain havenʼt had an easy minute in that final third. Fabiánʼs shot in the 34th? He had to dance through three tackles just to get space.”

”Still,” Alejandro said, turning back to the desk, ”weʼre seeing Spain control the tempo. And once that final pass clicks…”

He left it hanging.

A subtle shift in the background sound hinted at the players re-emerging onto the pitch.

A low, building roar began pulsing through the feed.

”Right,” Alejandro said, sitting back. ”Second half incoming. Serbiaʼs crowd isnʼt letting up, and Spainʼs bench still has weapons—”

He didnʼt say the name. But again, the implication was there.

”Back to Belgrade, we go.”

The screen then faded from the studio to the stadium.

..............

”Welcome back to Belgrade,” the commentator called over the airwaves as both sides emerged once more onto the pitch beneath the bright Serbian night sky.

Spain and Serbia locked at 0–0 after a fiercely contested first half. Plenty of intensity, but no breakthrough just yet.”

The camera panned across the Stadion Rajko Mitić, capturing the buzz rolling through the stands.

Supporters swayed in patches of red and white, chanting in rhythms that echoed from the concrete.

The atmosphere hadnʼt dulled—it had only grown more anxious.

The second half began with purpose.

Spain, goalless but far from dull, emerged from the tunnel with a restless energy.

Whatever Luis de la Fuente had told them at halftime, it had sunk in. The players were sharper now, faster in their transitions.

Rodri dictated with greater urgency, Fabianʼs touches grew cleaner, and Pedri, that quiet genius in the heart of midfield, began to drift higher, weaving passes between tight seams like a thread through a needle.

Yamal collected on the right, jinking past a full-back with one shoulder feint before curling a left-footed cross into the box—Morata rose, but the Serbian keeper was quicker, punching it clear.

The ball landed at Fabianʼs feet thirty yards out. One touch, and a rocket—but it pinged off a defender and flew wide.

The referee pointed. Corner.

The pressure was relentless now.

Pedri and Nico cintiued to combine beautifully in the 53rd minute, slipping through a triangle of defenders on the left to draw gasps from the crowd, but Nicoʼs shot was parried again by the keeperʼs outstretched foot.

”Theyʼre getting closer,” muttered the co-commentator.

”But that final cut—theyʼre just missing something.”

And then, at the sixty-third minute, a stir.

Luis de la Fuente turned to his bench.

Words were exchanged, and nods were shared. A substitute board was raised.

The Number 7 flashed red.

10 glowed green.

The camera snapped to the fourth official and then to the sideline, where a figure peeled off his warmup jacket.

The away end began to ripple with recognition. Phones lifted. Flags waved.

”And here it is!” the commentator burst, excitement surging.

”Itʼs time. Izan, Spainʼs wonder, enters the match. And for the first time, he wears number ten for La Roja.”

Pedri glanced back and grinned as Morata jogged off the pitch, sweat soaking through his kit.

The veteran striker handed off a quick gesture of support, slapping Izan on the back as he passed.

”Go on, kid. Make it count.”

”Yes, Captain,” Izan said as he crossed over the line.

As he stepped over the line, the number ten glinting in white against the deep yellow of his jersey, something shifted.

”Remember,” the co-commentator said quietly, ”this kid wore 21 at the Euros. Scored the winner. Danced through giants. But number ten... thatʼs a different weight. A legacy shirt.”

The ball was live again within seconds of his entrance.

Serbia had cleared long, but Le Normand tidied it up, cycling possession through Rodri.

Spain restarted their intricate weave, patient but pulsing with danger.

Izan jogged into the flow like heʼd always been part of it.

In the 67th minute, Pedri floated a chipped ball into the path of Yamal, whose close control turned two defenders into statues.

He slipped it centrally for Nico, who flicked it behind with a blind heel.

And there was Izan, already running.

The crowd held its breath.

He slowed, stepped over with his right, then cut left—and just as the gap opened, a Serbian leg flew in.

”Still scoreless,” the commentator said. ”But Spain—so close. And look at the difference. Look at how theyʼve tilted forward since number ten stepped on.”

A minute later, another corner.

Spain took their positions. Pedri jogged over to take it.

Izan had wanted to take it, but he thought about something he had wanted to try and had stopped.

He stood still as as the other players tugged and tussled with two serbian giants, even for Izanʼs height behind him.

And then it shimmered.

The familiar overlay. The interface that only he could see.

[Active Trait: Phantom Steps – Activated.]

A flicker. His movement subtly warped.

To the outside eye, he was just drifting across the edge of the six-yard box.

But to his marker—it was like trying to read the rhythm of water. One moment there, the next a step wide.

His body faked without faking. Shoulders bent in false directions.

Feet shuffled just enough to ruin any muscle memory defenders relied on.

[Active Trait: Knight in the Area – Activated.]

Another ping in his mind. He didnʼt blink. His eyes stayed locked on Pedriʼs stance.

This trait wasnʼt about deception. It was about chance.

And the numbers didnʼt lie.

”Eighty percent conversion when inside the penalty area,” he thought as he glanced at Pedri.

”And here it comes,” breathed the commentator.

Spain loading the box… Nico at the edge. Fabian just outside the arc. Izan drifting in—there! Right between two defenders!”

The corner came in—a whip of pace and spin.

And Izan moved.

There was no grand leap. No sprint. Just timing. Just instinct.

Like he had borrowed the ballʼs path from the future.

He dipped in front of one marker, bent his run behind another, and appeared in the dead space just two feet ahead of the penalty spot.

The ball arrived.

He struck.

Left foot. Sweet and Pure.

A volley with the technique of a surgeon and the violence of a thunderclap.

It smashed into the back of the net before the keeper even dropped to the turf.

Silence—for half a second.

The sound vacuumed from the stadium.

Then—

”GOOOOOAAAAL!”

The commentator exploded, voice caught in the roar of disbelief.

”There it is! With his first real touch! Of course, itʼs him! Of course, itʼs Izan!”

The players mobbed him. Pedri, laughing like a lunatic. Nico, throwing both arms around his neck.

Yamal, with both hands on his head, yelling, ”No way!” before shoving him toward the crowd.

From the touchline, de la Fuente only nodded. Calm. But behind that, a glimmer.

The replays rolled. Again and again. Izanʼs movement.

And in the commentary box, the voice softened for just a beat.

”He wore 21 when he became a legend,” he said.

”Now he wears ten—and itʼs like he was always meant to.”

The scoreboard read:

Serbia 0 – 1 Spain.

Spainʼs knight had arrived.

A/N: Damn. Have fun reading.