God Of football

Chapter 645: Dutch Destruction. [GT Chapter.]

Back on the pitch, PSV were the first to emerge from the tunnel.

Their players jogged out with fixed expressions—some steely, others hollow—as if trying to outrun the echoes of the first half.

The crowd stirred faintly, a murmur of recognition, not expectation.

Peter Bosz remained by the touchline, arms folded, jaw tight.

His eyes scanned the far tunnel, waiting.

Moments later, Arsenal appeared.

The noise inside the Philip Stadion swelled.

Not with hope, but memory of what they’d just witnessed, and fear of what was still to come.

The energy in the stadium hadn’t died.

It had only been thinned by shock, now rekindled by a reluctant anticipation.

Nobody knew what to expect—but they knew it wasn’t over.

Ødegaard trotted ahead, slowing near the centre circle where Izan stood already, foot on the ball, eyes forward.

He tapped Izan’s shoulder.

”That thing you said—Malacia, left side? If it’s still there,” Ødegaard gave a sharp nod, ”let’s kill it early.”

The whistle blew, and Arsenal restarted the second half with no urgency.

Somewhere high in the Philips Stadion, a PSV fan whispered under his breath, barely audible over the hush.

”Alsjeblieft... laat het stoppen...”

Please... let it stop.

But it wasn’t going to stop.

Not with forty-five minutes still left.

Not with Izan still out there—hands on hips, composed, a metronome awaiting his cue.

He nudged the ball to Ødegaard, who slipped it back to begin the half.

And that was all it took.

After a half-hearted clearance by PSV after a splendid Saka run, Izan dropped deeper to receive, hovering near the left touchline as PSV’s midfield compacted too tightly around the centre.

Malacia had pushed forward moments earlier and was now struggling to track back.

Ødegaard noticed.

”Left side,” he muttered, already jogging into space between the lines.

Izan’s eyes flicked once, scanning ahead and shifting his weight, before bursting forward past Schouten’s attempt at a tackle.

His stride lengthened as he carved diagonally through the pitch, drawing the attention of both PSV centre-backs, who were now hesitating between pressing him or covering the lanes.

Malacia scrambled to recover.

But he was late.

Too late.

Izan’s final touch was sharp, angled outward, luring both defenders closer before —

Zip.

A slicing reverse pass through the gap Malacia had abandoned.

Ødegaard was there — perfect timing, perfect angle, one touch to take it wide of the keeper and then a second touch: a cool side-foot into the net.

The net bulged and Benítez sank to his knees, beaten again.

Ødegaard turned and pointed straight at Izan, a knowing smile on his face as he jogged to him.

Izan met him halfway, gave a small nod, then jogged back toward the centre circle as if it had all been inevitable.

”Once again... the weakness was on Malacia’s side,” the lead voice said, breath catching.

”And Izan didn’t just see it—he weaponised it.”

His partner exhaled.

”It’s almost surgical. One quick feint, one gap, one pass... and Ødegaard finishes it off. That’s four.”

Peter Bosz, on the touchline, turned to his assistant, who in turn signalled for one of the more defensive options to start warming up.

”Peter Bosz is finally being forced to take action, and it looks like Malacia might be coming off”

....

Ødegaard’s goal was meant to be the exhale, but instead, it triggered a storm.

Barely a minute later, Martinelli was tripped thirty yards out, central.

A soft foul, but no complaints from PSV.

They were retreating now, shadows of the side that started the night with hope.

Izan stood over the ball unceremoniously.

After the referee’s whistle sounded, he walked up to the ball and struck it with venom.

The ball soared over the wall, dipped like it had been pulled from the sky, and slammed off the underside of the bar into the roof of the net.

5–1.

Seventeen goals in Europe.

The Philips Stadiondetonated.

And the commentary box followed suit.

They couldn’t hold back anymore.

One voice, almost shouting with disbelief, gasped over the feed, ”That’s seventeen! Cristiano Ronaldo’s record — matched in March! And he’s only 17! What are we watching?! What even is this boy?! This is a one-man demolition job!”

They weren’t wrong.

The screen flashed with the number — 17 goals in a single Champions League campaign — right next to Ronaldo’s name.

But beside it, another stat blinked in bold.

”Matches played: 10.”

The crowd knew what it meant.

They screamed it. Sung it.

This wasn’t football — it was something unrelenting, something terrifying.

PSV kicked off in a daze and almost immediately gave the ball away again.

A limp backpass was all it took.

Izan saw the opportunity a heartbeat before the defender did, slipped in, knocked it past the desperate leg—then felt the contact.

Cleaned out.

The whistle cut through the roar.

Penalty.

He didn’t wait for Ødegaard or anyone else.

Ball on the spot, staring at the keeper who bounced on the line, nervous.

He probably knew.

Izan stuttered slightly, then drilled it low into the corner with that same deadly calm.

6–1. And the record was his. Eighteen.

”Hat-trick. He is the epitome of current football. Eighteen! He’s broken the record! He’s broken it! And it’s not even the quarterfinals yet! We said he was chasing greatness — but maybe he is it.”

And still, Arsenal weren’t done.

PSV looked finished, legs drained, minds lost.

When they tried to pass out from the restart, Declan Rice stepped in, cool as ever, intercepting and sliding a quick ball into Ødegaard between the lines.

Ødegaard didn’t even need to look.

He just knew where Izan would be.

The through-ball carved the defence in half.

Izan darted in behind, timed it perfectly, took one touch, and lashed it low across the goal.

7–1. Four goals. Nineteen in the Champions League.

There wasn’t a single face in the crowd that wasn’t either stunned, grinning, or frozen in disbelief.

And now the commentary almost whispered, reverent,”Nineteen. He’s nineteen. And the goals won’t stop coming. How do you describe this?”

On the touchline, Arteta finally moved.

He turned, tapped Ethan Nwaneri on the shoulder, and nodded toward the fourth official.

Izan, on the pitch, noticed the movement and knew instantly who was going to come off.

And then the chant started slow and thunderous, growing with each repetition.

”I-ZAN! I-ZAN! I-ZAN!”

It rolled around the stadium like an avalanche.

”Take a bow, Izan,” the commentator murmured over the stadium noise.

”That’s nineteen goals in a single Champions League campaign. And it’s only the round of sixteen.”

”It’s surreal,” his partner added, almost laughing.

”Cristiano Ronaldo’s seventeen in 2014... we thought no one would touch that. But this kid? This kid has just rewritten the record book. And if Arsenal go all the way, there are still five more games to go.”

”A legacy,” came the soft echo.

”That’s what we’re watching. Not just a season. The birth of a Champions League legacy.”

As Nwaneri stepped on, Izan clapped his hand, leaned in close, and whispered something in his ear — no cameras could catch it.

But Nwaneri nodded, then jogged on.

And just minutes later, whatever Izan had muttered to him seemed to come to fruition.

Trossard, still burning down the left like the score was level, skipped past his man and zipped a cutback low across the box.

Nwaneri didn’t think twice.

He stepped into the path of the ball and smashed it into the back of the net.

8–1.

And the second youngest on the pitch that day had added his name to the scoreboard.

This time, the bench did explode — even Izan allowed a small smile, draped in a towel, nodding once to Cuesta before turning back to the pitch.

Still not done.

PSV tried to control the damage but Arsenal pressed again and PSV gave the ball away again like their Christmas spirit of giving had manifested early.

This time, it was Calafiori, only just introduced and hungry, who surged forward from the back like a midfielder.

He didn’t hesitate either — just let fly from the edge of the area.

Low. Driven. Clinical.

9–1.

Nine goals in an away Champions League match.

Against the Dutch champions.

And every single one had felt intentional.

The camera panned to the home stands — disillusioned fans holding their heads or filming, laughing in stunned disbelief.

Flags were limp. Some couldn’t even look.

”Arsenal haven’t just won tonight,” came the final word from the broadcast.

”They’ve delivered a warning. And on the bench sits the boy who started it all... arms folded, watching. This isn’t just dominance. This feels like the start of an Era. The Izan Era, and we might just have to buckle in because this kid is only 17, and it will be a long ride.”

A/N: This is the GT Chapter. Sorry if it felt a bit rushed. It wasn’t planned like this but I’m sure none of us would want to read a 5 Chapter arc of a match against PSV so have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the last of the day.