God Of football

Chapter 773: Alter Ego.

Some fans sang the Liverpool anthem; others barked insults.

Every Arsenal shirt was like the red rag myth to a bull.

One by one, the players filed off, heads down, headphones on, trying to drown out the madness.

But when Izan emerged, the volume doubled.

For a moment, he just stood there, the evening chill brushing his face and the lights of Anfield looming above.

The wave of hostility rolled at him, unrelenting, but he just turned his head toward the crowd, eyes scanning the sea of red scarves and furious faces.

Then, in a move that caught even some of his teammates off guard, he raised his hand and waved.

Not dismissively, not arrogantly, almost casually, like he was greeting old acquaintances.

The reaction was instant.

A ripple of confusion passed through the crowd, then turned into renewed fire.

The chants came back louder, harsher, as if his small gesture had insulted them more than any boast could.

Izan didn’t flinch.

He smiled, opening his mouth as if to breathe more of the taunts in as he slid his headphones into place, the bass thumping quietly in his ears with the noise of the fans pouring over him.

And then, unpredictably, like he had been the whole day, he began to move his hand in small circles, with a stylus pen between his fingers like a baton.

He lifted his other hand, gesturing in time to their rhythm, as if he were conducting them, the jeers, the boos, the curses, all into a twisted orchestra of sound.

Some fans looked momentarily thrown by it, unsure whether to laugh or seethe.

Most chose the latter.

Bottles clattered against the barriers, chants turned uglier, but Izan kept moving his hands, shoulders loose, lips curved into the faintest grin.

Behind him, a couple of teammates exchanged looks, with Arteta, who was almost entering, also turning towards Izan, before chuckling at the actions of the latter and then entering.

”He’s gone insane,” Lewis Skelly muttered from the front of the line.

Saka, stepping down right after, didn’t even bother hiding his exasperation.

”Why do I even bother saying anything to him?” he muttered under his breath, jogging a few steps to catch up.

The security line ushered them quickly into the tunnel, where the chants muffled into echoes, swallowed by concrete walls.

The air inside was cooler, sterile compared to the chaos outside.

Boots clicked against the floor as they made their way down the corridor toward the away locker room.

For a few steps, there was silence, just the players’ breaths and the distant thrum of the stadium filling up.

Then, one of the defenders, Kiwior, exhaled and said, half-grinning, ”You’re going to get us killed one day, you know.”

Izan just shrugged, tugging his headphones tighter.

”Better to have them shouting than silent.”

The group filed on, the sound of the crowd still buzzing faintly through the walls, the smell of turf drifting closer, until the away dressing room door swung open, and they stepped inside, carrying the noise of Anfield with them like a shadow.

...

”And just like that,” Peter Drury’s voice came alive over the broadcast, rich with that familiar cadence that always seemed to hang between poetry and football, ”the tone is set. Arsenal have arrived at Anfield, and if the reception from the home supporters was anything to go by, tonight will be played at fever pitch.”

The cameras rolled a replay: the Arsenal bus slowing to a crawl, swallowed by red smoke and noise, fists pounding the sides, scarves waving, the air thick with a kind of hostility that was almost ceremonial in Liverpool.

Then the cut zoomed in on Izan stepping down, that small, almost mischievous smile, and the way he’d lifted his hands like a conductor, baton in spirit, whipping the Liverpool chants into even greater volume.

Jim Beglin chuckled lowly beside him.

”He’s turned into a bit of a troll, hasn’t he? In the last few days, especially. It’s not just what he’s done here. He’s had the fans wrapped around his news for a minute. Yesterday, there were screenshots of him arguing with a Manchester United supporter online... can you believe it? Arguing in the comments, throwing little digs back and forth. Not exactly what you expect from a lad about to walk into what has turned into something of the league final.”

”Oh, but that’s exactly what you expect,” Drury countered with warmth, refusing to scold.

”He’s seventeen, Jim. Seventeen. These are the years when most are chasing lifts from their parents, worrying about exam marks. He’s not only leading Arsenal into a final but having a little fun along the way. What are you going to do? Tell him he’s not allowed to smile, not allowed to provoke, not allowed to live as a teenager does?”

”And you sense,” Beglin replied, ”that it’s part of what makes him so dangerous. He doesn’t feel that fear yet. Or if he does, he wears it like a joke. That lightness, it unsettles people.”

The production team rolled another clip, showing the Anfield crowd’s furious response, red scarves and angry chants sharpened by that moment of Izan waving like a cheeky villain on stage.

”And whether it backfires or not,” Beglin added, ”we’re about to find out. Because if you come to Anfield and you poke the bear, you’d better have claws of your own.”

The camera drifted from the replay, out towards the mouth of the tunnel, the commentary softening into anticipation.

In the studio, the tone wound down as the discussion lingered for a final breath on Izan’s youth, on the strangeness of such confidence at such an age, and then the broadcast tilted, seamless, back to the pitch.

A ripple of noise rose over Anfield’s own heartbeat, swelling as the cameras shifted toward the touchline.

There, the Arsenal players, led by the youngest of them all, emerged first, spilling onto the green for their warmups, away team, yes, but first to step into the theatre.

And that, too, carried its own message.

......

Back at Hampstead, the living room lights were low, with the only real glow coming from the television where Anfield red filled the screen.

Red smoke, chanting, a restless kind of fury that seemed to spill out even through the broadcast, were all things felt by the 4 women in the room.

Komi sat forward on the sofa, hands folded in her lap, brow tight.

She didn’t take her eyes off the screen when she asked quietly, ”Why is he acting like that? Why is your brother agitating them more?”

Hori, cross-legged on the rug, blinked at the question.

”I don’t know,” she admitted, voice flat, almost careful.

For a moment, nobody said anything more, until both Komi and Miranda, who had been silently scrolling through her phone, turned toward Olivia.

The latter, perched on the far end of the couch, looked cornered but not surprised.

She let out a small breath, lips twisting into a wry smile.

”He told me he was going to troll the Liverpool fans before the game. Said it was something he doesn’t normally do but... this time felt different.” She shrugged, as if she herself couldn’t fully explain it.

”Guess he wanted to get under their skin.”

The room settled into another uneasy quiet, all of them watching as Izan’s figure disappeared into the tunnel on screen.

The noise of Anfield swelled, less like atmosphere and more like a storm building.

”Would we have been stoned if we went there?” Hori asked suddenly, still staring at the TV, her voice half-joking but laced with real nerves.

”If people recognised us as his family?”

No one answered as her gaze hardened, following the crowd’s reaction to Izan’s wave.

”Forget about us,” she murmured, turning toward Komi. ”I’m not sure he’ll get home at all.”

On screen, the stadium shook with chaos, red scarves whipping in the air, the broadcast cutting between players and fans who looked ready to burst through the rails.

.....

[Away restroom]

Izan leaned over the sink, splashing cold water onto his face, the droplets clinging to his skin before dripping down into the porcelain.

His chest rose and fell steadily, calm on the outside, though the walls vibrated faintly with the fury of thousands waiting for him.

Then, without warning, a shimmer of light bled into the space in front of him.

The system materialised, its faintly translucent interface hanging in the air with bold letters pulsing at the top:

[Quest Completed: War Before THE War]

The description unrolled beneath, as if taunting him: ”Win the battle before stepping onto the pitch. Annoy them. Needle the fans. Make the atmosphere theirs, but the nerves yours. Especially the Liverpool fans.”

Izan huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

”And that’s what all this was for,” he muttered, eyes skimming the glowing text.

Beneath it, a neat reward line blinked into place.

+25 Stat Points

For a moment, he just stared, lips twitching into a smirk.

”Really?” he whispered, tilting his head.

”Either you’ve run out of ideas, or the author has.”

The interface hung there, awaiting his input, until Izan exhaled sharply and dismissed it with a mental flex.

The hologram dissolved into sparks, leaving the restroom bare again as a sudden knock rattled the door.

”Oi, Izan! The nerves catch up with you finally? Arteta wants a word—speech before we head out.”

”In a minute,” Izan said before he straightened, grabbed a towel to wipe his face, and cast one last look at the sink as though the light might return.

Then he pulled open the door, shoulders squared, and stepped back into the main space of the locker room.

A/N: First of the day.