God Of football

Chapter 643: The Crown And The Catalyst.

Saka didn’t hesitate.

He spun and lashed the ball clear downfield with the outside of his left boot — a desperate hoof, maybe, but instinctive.

Only it wasn’t just a clearance.

It was a trigger.

As the ball rose and arced through the air toward midfield, a burst of cheers rippled through the stands — because suddenly, out of nowhere, Izan was sprinting.

Eyes up with his body leaning forward.

He was already past the halfway line before anyone else reacted.

And ahead of him, Guus Til had seen it too, and now the chase was on

Guus Til had the head start.

By the time the ball landed between the two of them, he was already several strides ahead, leaning into his run, knowing full well this was his to win.

But Til hesitated.

Just for a second.

And behind him, Izan moved.

Izan’s eyes narrowed, and the system responded accordingly.

[Speedster trait LV 3 activated.]

”Uh-oh...” the commentator groaned low, as if sensing something.

In a blink, his body shifted — every muscle tighter, every stride longer, his acceleration now unnatural.

Two strides.

That was all Izan needed.

He burst from midfield like he’d been shot out of a cannon—cleats carving up grass, arms pumping sharp.

The crowd roared in layers as people realised—he was actually closing him.

The commentators barely registered it at first, caught mid-sentence.

”There’s no way Izan can— hold on—”

Guus glanced over his shoulder, and what he saw made him panic.

Izan wasn’t just catching up — he was flying, like some prototype jet had been let loose behind enemy lines.

Til clenched his teeth and pushed harder, arm swinging wide, trying to hold him off.

But Izan didn’t stop.

As the PSV midfielder flared his elbow out to shield the ball, Izan sidestepped at full speed and dipped his shoulder left and swept his right leg through the ball in one clean swipe.

The PSV midfielder lost his footing and fell with a thud, and suddenly the ball was Izan’s, Arsenal’s, everyone’s.

Silence clung to the air as most of the fans in the stadium knew it was done.

But Izan, who had won the ball, slowed the speed at which he had won the ball, and then he looked up.

Saw Walter Benítez stranded ten yards off his line—then dropped his gaze to the ball, shifted his weight, and—

”Wait. Wait, he’s—”

His right foot carved through it with a knuckleball strike so pure it made a different sound—a heavy, muted thud that turned heads before the ball even lifted.

It flew like a hallucination.

Rising, turning, wobbling.

Then it dipped—

—and kept dipping.

Benítez backpedalled furiously.

But the ball curved devilishly in the air, over his fingers, under the bar, brushing the side netting.

Bang, as the net rippled, then snapped.

”OH MY WORD! THAT IS OUTRAGEOUS”

”IZAN FROM A UNIVERSE AWAY!—ARE YOU SEEING THIS?!”

”IZANNNNNNNNN—OH MY—HE’S JUST—WHAT HAS HE DONE?!”

The away end exploded as the red shirts surged toward the rails, limbs flailing.

And Izan, he charged towards the away end and dropped to his knees near the byline, fists clenched, jaw tight, screaming into the thunder of disbelief rolling around the Philips Stadion.

From somewhere in the crowd, something gold fluttered through the air.

A folded cardboard crown.

He caught it mid-slide, placed it gently on his head like a king among his subjects.

What did they think he came here for?

”...And like the king he is, he is graceful towards his subject. There was a lot of talk before the game about his fitness among others because of the pictures, but for those that weren’t convinced, there is your answer.”

Saka arrived first, nearly tackling him with Ødegaard right behind, both hands grabbing Izan’s head like something otherworldly.

And in the PSV dugout—silence.

Players sat, leaned forward, some shaking their heads in resignation.

The coach, Peter Bosz, pressed his fingers to his lips.

It wasn’t just that Izan had scored from behind the halfway line.

It was how it had been done.

Despite having a world of green space in front and an unrestricted path to goal, he chose to go for goal from where he stood.

And more than that—it was the look on his face.

The look of sureness and inevitability in his smile.

.....

The scoreboard still read PSV 0–1 Arsenal, and yet the number almost felt secondary to the scene unfolding on the pitch.

The air inside the Philips Stadion hadn’t settled — and maybe wouldn’t for a while.

”I still can’t believe what I just saw,” one of the commentators muttered, voice still breathless.

”A goal of the season contender, out of nowhere, from a player who’s rewriting what’s possible.”

Izan was already back near the centre circle, expression unreadable, tugging at his left glove as they reset.

The crown he’d worn in celebration had found its way to the Arsenal bench — now perched on top of a water bottle like some ceremonial relic.

Ødegaard jogged past and muttered with a half-smile, ”You planning to top that?”

Izan smiled slightly and looked on the other side of the pitch.

On the PSV side, Guus Til crouched low, hands on his knees, the sting of being left in the dirt still fresh.

De Jong clapped twice, barking: ”Focus now! Reset!” — but the shouts had a hollow echo to them.

The referee signalled and PSV kicked off.

”It has taken 18 minutes for Arsenal to score their first goal. Let’s see how long it takes to score the next or how PSV respond now — they need to shake off that shock quickly,”the co-commentator said.

”Because Arsenal look hungry.”

Rice stepped high almost immediately, joined by Ødegaard in the half-space.

Merino tucked into the passing lane like clockwork, forcing PSV toward the touchline.

Izan lingered wide, just hovering near the right-side centre-back like a bad thought.

Close enough to make you nervous.

Far enough that you couldn’t justify marking him tightly.

The ball rolled toward Schouten in midfield, who took a heavy touch and the PSV fans couldn’t help but shudder because Ødegaard was there to make a quick jab sending the ball ahead.

And just like that, Izan was gone.

He swooped in and picked up the ball in stride, gliding right across the face of PSV’s back line.

”Look at the acceleration again! The balance!”

The PSV players converged on the path Izan was treading because most expected a shot but it didn’t come.

Instead, he turned sharply at the edge of the box and clipped it across to Saka, arriving in space on the right.

The PSV defenders had been dragged and stretched like old elastic.

”Arsenal are slicing through them now — like they smell blood.”

The fans behind the goal stood up in a wave.

Saka brought it down, checked his options, laid it back to Lewis Skelly, and Arsenal began cycling again — patient, probing, ruthless.

”Izan’s goal didn’t just put Arsenal ahead,” the main commentator said.

”It’s tilted the whole match on its axis. You can feel it. PSV are trying to play... but Arsenal are hunting.”

The camera cut to Arteta on the touchline, one hand raised, the other pointing to space.

And in the middle of it all, Izan moved again — already drifting into that same right channel, already looking for the next trigger.

”I-ZAN! I-ZAN!”

The chants returned — louder now, more unified.

From the away end.

From the Dutch locals.

Even from the neutrals who’d just come for a good game and were now watching something else entirely.

”Seventeen years old,” the co-commentator said softly, ”and he’s the gravity in the room.”

The match moved again — PSV trying to hold their shape, but Arsenal weren’t slowing.

Izan checked in from the right, took the return pass from Skelly, then laid it off to Saka with a soft touch.

Saka didn’t even look.

He knew what was coming.

A short bounce pass, one-touch, and Izan was off again, sweeping down the channel.

Malacia shuffled out to meet him, planting himself low to match any change of acceleration Izan did, but the latter slowed before pausing.

Then stepped over the ball once, left foot, then right — a blur.

Malacia twitched.

And that was all it took.

Izan glided past on the outside like a ghost brushing past a crowd, then whipped his right foot around the ball, snapping it across the box with a vicious curl.

It was perfect.

A teasing ball that begged to be attacked.

And Merino, crashing the six-yard box, met it with a thunderous header.

Thwack.

The net rippled again — this time low and left — and the away end erupted for the second time in under five minutes.

”That’s TWO!” the commentator roared. ”It’s only been three minutes — three! — and now it’s Izan with the assist!”

”He scored one from another planet, and now he’s here carving up defences like it’s nothing!”

Merino wheeled away in celebration, pointing straight at the corner flag where Izan stood, arms slightly out, not celebrating — just watching the crowd.

”You give him a sliver...” the co-commentator added, ”and he gives you moments. It’s frightening.”

A/N: First of the day and hopefully not the last. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit if I can but I will upload the Golden Ticket Bonus Chapter so keep spamming the Golden Tickets and Bye for now