God Of football

Chapter 541: Not Done Yet

The restart came quickly.

Sporting tried to reset themselves—attempted to plug the hole Arsenal had torn open.

But Izan had already seen the space again, and that was the problem.

Once he found the gap, he didn’t forget it.

He just waited for it to open again.

He drifted between lines like mist.

Not too deep, not too high.

Just enough to be unmarked—just enough to be dangerous.

In the 12th minute, he turned into traffic and pulled two defenders toward him like gravity.

The first went for the ball—too eager.

Izan rolled it behind his standing leg and dipped his shoulder to sell the idea of a pass.

The second defender bit too and that was enough.

He dragged both into a tighter lane, then burst through the middle of them, boots scraping turf as he approached the box.

The third Sporting player had no choice.

He stepped in trying to contain Izan but seeing as he couldn’t after Izan kept twisting and turning, he just chopped him down.

The whistle rang out as Izan hit the grass, arms wide, palms down.

”Again he baits them. Sporting have to be careful here because they are a goal down and could go a man down if not careful,” the first commentator said.

”They can’t handle him when he gets rolling.”

”He’s strong, but he’s smart,” his fellow added.

”He doesn’t just dribble to beat you. He dribbles to trap you.”

Arsenal got the free kick and nothing came of it directly, but the momentum didn’t dip.

Izan stayed active.

Kept making those short, sharp darts into dangerous areas.

In the 17th minute, he found Martinelli with a clever through ball—outside of the boot, wrapping around the last defender like a whisper.

Martinelli met it, touched once, and shot low—

Blocked.

A strong hand from the keeper denied him.

A minute later, Saka peeled wide on the right.

Izan caught the run early and slipped a ball between two defenders with perfect weight.

Saka tried to curl it but he hadn’t opened up his body enough, sending the ball wide.

The Sporting fans cheered ironically.

But the danger was real.

Constant.

The game kept pressing forward like it knew something was coming.

By the 25th minute, Arsenal were moving like they knew how this ended.

Sporting had recovered some structure, sure—but only on paper.

On the pitch, they were scrambling.

Trying to track shadows in real-time.

And Izan had stopped being one of eleven.

He was everywhere.

He dropped deep.

Drifted wide.

Danced between the lines like the pitch bent for him.

When the ball wasn’t at his feet, he pulled defenders like a puppeteer shifting the tempo behind the curtain.

He didn’t look frustrated.

He looked surgical.

And then Ødegaard saw it—half a second before anyone else.

A Sporting midfielder slipped, just outside their own half. One misstep. One break in pressure.

That was all it took and that was all it took to unravel the setup of the Portuguese-based team.

Ødegaard snapped the ball forward with a first-time pass—low, clean, threading between two green shirts like it had been coded into the turf.

Izan was already moving.

Already shaping his body before the ball even reached him.

He took a touch—clean, inside foot, then turned his back to goal, and absorbed the pressure, before pivoting off the defender’s shoulder.

The crowd didn’t roar yet.

They leaned in.

One step.

Then another.

He rolled the ball between his boots like it was made of thread.

A second defender lunged in to close the space.

Izan spun.

Not dramatically.

Not to humiliate.

Just enough to twist himself through a gap that had no right existing.

The ball stayed glued to his foot, caught in the friction of his control.

The spin ended, and he burst forward—three strides, then a sudden stop.

The keeper started to step.

The defenders kept retreating, unsure whether to lunge or wait.

Izan’s eyes flicked once—left, then forward.

And then, with the simplest shift of weight, he chipped it.

Not a panenka.

Not a lob.

A whisper of a shot.

The ball rose in a delicate arc, kissed the air, and dipped again just beneath the outstretched gloves of the keeper.

It touched down softly, brushing the underside of the crossbar before snapping into the net.

And then came the sound.

From the away end, from the press row, from the mouths of every viewer behind a screen—

A gasp.

A kind of disbelief that comes not from surprise, but from witnessing something you knew was possible... but had never quite seen done like that.

”Oh, my word!” One of the commentators practically shouted over the replay.

”He spun them inside out and chipped him like a surgeon! That is ridiculous!”

”He’s not just playing—he’s proving a point! That chip was disrespectful! He’s moving like someone who’s offended the world forgot what he is!”

Izan didn’t sprint to the corner or tear off his shirt like some would do after scoring a wonder goal.

He just jogged away, a cold look on his face, arms loose at his sides.

One hand rose toward the crowd as if to say I’m here.

But no celebration followed.

Just him turning and pointing toward Ødegaard before mouthing something to the sideline:

Next.

On the touchline, Arteta clenched his jaw.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t need to.

Sporting had just seen what happens when brilliance gets bored of waiting.

........

By the 31st minute, it wasn’t just that Arsenal were winning.

It was that they were playing like the scoreboard had insulted them.

Sporting hadn’t collapsed, not even after the second goal.

Just not yet.

But they were chasing ghosts now—phantoms in red shirts moving too fast, passing too clean, too cold.

And at the center of it all was Izan.

He no longer looked like he was in the game.

He looked like he was reading ahead of it.

In the 33rd minute, he dropped to receive from Rice and was immediately pressed.

Shoulder to shoulder, weight shifting, boots slicing grass—but he didn’t panic.

He dipped, rolled, and spun out with a drop of the shoulder that sent two men stepping the wrong way.

The fans reacted like something cracked in the air.

He didn’t even pause.

He kept moving, head up, hand waving for movement.

Merino made a decoy run down the middle.

Martinelli darted into the channel.

But it was all camouflage.

Saka peeled off to the right and Izan feathered a pass across three defenders like he was setting a table.

The crowd rose as Saka burst into the box, cutting it across hard.

And there—of all people—was Gabriel Magalhães.

He hadn’t tracked back after the last corner.

He was still hanging around, out of place but perfectly placed.

The ball skidded through the defenders’ legs and rolled to him like it was fate.

One touch.

Then a swing of the boot that sounded like a hammer-cracking stone sent the ball into the back of the net.

3–0.

The net rippled like it was shocked.

The stadium—silent, then furious.

Arsenal didn’t celebrate loud.

They walked back like they were working.

And Izan?

He didn’t even glance toward the goal.

He just tapped fists with Saka, then Gabriel, and jogged back to his half, his face unreadable.

”He’s not celebrating because this isn’t finished,”.

”He looks like a kid doing homework—only the assignment is destroying Sporting.”

”Arsenal aren’t playing to win anymore,” the commentator continued.

”They’re playing to send a message. And Izan’s handwriting that letter.”

From there, the half slowed—but only slightly.

Sporting finally managed a spell of possession.

A few hopeful runs, a cross that curled too far, a half-chance that never materialized.

And then it was Izan again, pressing near the corner flag, forcing a bad clearance that clipped off a defender and earned a late first-half corner.

The board went up.

Two minutes added.

Arteta barked orders from the sideline, but they weren’t about survival—they were about control.

Clean. No drama.

Izan jogged over to take the corner.

This time, he clipped it short to Ødegaard, who tried a clever scoop back into the box but it was headed out.

Saka retrieved it and Arsenal slowed it down just enough.

They were winding the clock, yes—but they were still circling.

Still hunting.

And just before the whistle, Sporting tried one last long ball down the left but it was overworked as Raya collected it cleanly and waited for the ref.

The whistle blew.

Halftime.

Arsenal 3, Sporting 0.

The tunnel swallowed the players, but the sound in the stadium lingered like fog.

Because this wasn’t just dominance.

This felt like something else was coming.

A/n: Hello guys, this is the last Chapter of the previous day. As I told you, I wasn’t feeling well and so also had to upload for the other novel so sorry for the late releases. I’ll try to get back in schedule tomorrow since I’m feeling a bit better now. Have fun reading and I’ll see you tomorrow and I’m sorry if this feels draggy.