God Of football

Chapter 782: What He’s Become.

Izan’s lips curved into the smallest of smirks, nodding at the winger before turning back to the Norwegian in front of him.

Ødegaard straightened, the faintest laugh leaving his throat.

”Remember what you said,” he reminded him, tapping Izan’s shoulder.

”Not even to draw. To win it.”

For a heartbeat, the words lingered heavier than the roar around them.

Izan gave no long speech, just that smirk, the one of a boy who had promised something that seemed impossible at the moment, and who would now try to drag the whole stadium through fire to prove it.

Behind them, the Kop was raging, their chants accusing Arsenal of time-wasting, the noise swelling into boos.

The referee strode across briskly, gesturing firmly for Ødegaard to leave the pitch.

The Norwegian jogged off, waving once towards the away end.

At the same moment, Jakub Kiwior stepped on, jogging quickly into a defensive slot.

Arsenal’s intent was clear now: survive, but with their jewel standing front and centre.

Izan remained at the touchline for a few seconds longer, the medical staff leaning in to check his eyes, shining a light briefly to confirm clarity.

His jaw tensed, impatient.

Then came the signal from the referee, a wave of the arm, permission granted as the match was already in full flow.

The roar from the Arsenal end was thunderous, louder than any jeers from the Kop.

They applauded as one, chanting his name, willing him back into battle.

Izan jogged across the white line, armband strapped tight, shoulders squared as if nothing had ever been wrong.

From the gantry, Peter Drury’s voice swelled into the moment.

”And there he is. Their Prodidy. Their Talisman and now, Captain of Arsenal, captain of this contest. The youngest player ever to wear the armband in Premier League history. History not written in ink tonight—but in blood, in bruises, and in brilliance.”

The cameras caught him, Izan jogging into his position, head high, every movement defying the blow that had dropped him minutes before.

Arsenal had their captain.

Arsenal had their heartbeat.

And the game, somehow, still had everything left to give.

As the game continued, the fourth official’s board rose once more.

This time, not for substitutions but for the number that would define the next stretch of history: eight minutes.

The green digits glowed into the dusk air of Anfield, and with it came a guttural roar from the Kop.

Eight minutes of hope, eight minutes of siege, eight minutes they believed would tilt the balance their way.

From the restart, Liverpool threw themselves forward in waves, feeding on the fury of the stands.

Raya’s goal-kick was swallowed up almost instantly, red shirts surging as though driven by a single heartbeat.

They pressed, they probed, but each pass, each attempt to slice Arsenal open felt an inch short, a touch too heavy, a decision a moment late.

Then came the misstep, a loose ball turned over, and suddenly Arsenal had space to breathe, space to carve back.

Zinchenko swept a diagonal ball into Izan, who met it on his chest with effortless control.

The entire stadium held its breath, expecting the inevitable burst, that violent sprint of his which had haunted them all night.

But instead, he stilled, whipping round, shoulders open, eyes scanning for his colours, and he found them, or at least, found one.

He shifted the ball calmly towards the right, where Saka was already waiting.

Saka took it in stride, darting down the flank, Robertson chasing in his shadow.

The winger, after the short sprint, slipped the ball toward Merino, the Spaniard cleverly stepping over it as Curtis Jones lunged, fooled entirely, as the ball rolled onto another Spaniard.

And this time it was Izan, sweeping in from deep.

The latter took a touch, not to stop it but to release, an outward-grounded curler, splitting angles and defenders, sending it once more to Saka.

”Back-to-back balls from Arsenal here,” Peter Drury called as the ball found Saka again.

Near the byline, the latter fought Robertson again, pushing the ball across his body for the cutback.

But Robertson stuck out a desperate leg, deflecting it away.

Corner Arsenal.

The away end erupted, thousands leaping as one, and the noise clashed with the hisses from the Kop, the stadium split right down its heart.

Saka trotted across with the ball, ready to place it, but Izan was already storming over, arm raised, shouting.

The young winger didn’t argue.

He slapped the ball towards Izan, who feigned letting it run through his legs and behind him, Saka darted, retrieving the ball and delivering the cross again.

The ball streaked across the air and into the box, but before any Arsenal shirt could make something of it, it was cleared.

Yet, it went only as far as the edge of the box.

And then, time slowed.

Izan.

The boy with the armband.

The boy with forty-five goals stepped into the box.

Ding,[Knight In The Area Lv 2 Activated]

The sound from the system, as always, was like music to the ears as Izan’s body coiled, back taut, muscles snapping into motion, as the ball spun down through the dusk.

His right leg uncoiled, and when leather met leather, the sound cracked like thunder.

The ball flew.

It wasn’t just struck, it screamed.

It swerved outward first, arcing away, seeming harmless, even wasteful.

Defenders leapt, threw shoulders, flung thighs and arms into the path.

But it bent.

Wicked, alive, it still bent.

Past them all, and then past Allison’s desperate dive.

And then it curled inward, nestling in the top corner, right after smashing the inside where the post met the crossbar, before rustling the net.

The silence in the stadium was loud as the Arsenal fans kept wondering if what they were seeing was real, but the movement from Izan said it wasn’t a dream.

Then eruption.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLL!!!!!!!!1

Pandemonium.

The Arsenal bench leapt as one, bodies scattering in delirium as Arteta sprinted forwards once again, before being yanked back by his staff, but this time, even they were not going to stop him.

He clipped off the arm holding him and joined the players who were streaming after Izan, who was sprinting towards the Liverpool end.

”THIS IS WHAT FOOTBALL IS. THIS IS HOW FOOTBALL LOOKS LIKE AND THIS IS WHO FOOTBALL WAS MADE FOR. IT’S AN IZAN WORLD AND WE ARE JUST LIVING IN IT,” Peter Drury roared.

The Youngster stopped dead at the corner, right in front of the howling Kop, and then shut his eyes, chest rising.

And then, he dragged a thumb slowly across his neck.

Done. Slain.

Peter Drury’s voice broke through the din, raw and breathless:

”Oh, sweet, merciless child! What are you? What have you become? At the end, he silences Anfield. He slays Liverpool! In a title race built for gods, it is a boy who has written his name across the night. Izan Miura Hernández. Remember it, recite it, revere it because Arsenal lead, Arsenal live, Arsenal dream!”

The camera lingered on him, arms spread, eyes closed, an image etched in fire.

Behind him, teammates piled in, Saka first to leap onto his back with Martinelli from the bench and in a puffer jacket, crashing in after.

The away end was a storm, bodies tumbling over barriers, shirts flying, voices shredded to nothing.

And in that moment, Anfield’s great roar was drowned, not by silence but by the defiant hymn of Arsenal.

Izan had slain them.

And he had done it with the cut of a god’s blade.

...

In the pub, in North London, an old man was outside again, his breath puffing in the cool North London night.

He had slipped out of the pub almost instinctively, phone pressed to his ear, his voice brimming with triumph.

”We’ve done it,” he said, unable to keep the tremor of joy from his throat.

”We’ve bloody done it, love.”

On the other end of the line came a silence.

Then, sharp and feisty, his wife’s voice cut through:

”You and who have done it? Did you play in the game? You lace up your boots? You touch that ball?”

The man winced, half-amused, half-irritated, rubbing his temple with the hand not holding the phone.

”Not now, woman. Not now. Don’t ruin this. This shit means something to me!”

”You hung up on me earlier,” she pressed, the scolding tone refusing to soften.

”Why? To go shout in a pub with your lot? You—”

But he never let her finish.

He thumbed the red button, shaking his head with a chuckle.

”This woman wants to stop my joy,” he muttered, pocketing the phone before pushing the door open again.

The wall of noise hit him immediately, chants, songs, bodies in Arsenal red bouncing off each other in delirium.

Someone grabbed him in a bear hug before he even reached his seat.

Glasses clinked, tables shook, and through the television above the bar, Izan’s image replayed, again and again, volleying Arsenal into immortality.

And it wasn’t just that pub.

It was everywhere. North London was alive, streets lit with headlights flashing in rhythm, horns blaring, strangers embracing like family.

Smoke bombs hissed crimson in the night, the chant of ”Champions, champions!”rolling down Holloway Road, across Finsbury Park, into every alley and corner.

For one evening, Arsenal was the heartbeat of the city.

But in Hampstead, the scene was quieter and much heavier with emotion.

Komi and Olivia sat together, both teary-eyed, watching the broadcast in silence as Izan’s face filled the screen, chest heaving, eyes wide, the armband shining on his sleeve.

Olivia had her hands clasped, almost prayer-like, with Komi’s hand resting gently over hers.

They looked drained, but in that exhaustion was pride.

On the same couch, Hori sat with Miranda.

The agent’s composure, which she had unknowingly built around herself to never look weak in deals for Izan, finally broke down.

Her eyes glistened, a tear finally rolling down her cheek as she whispered, voice breaking, ”I never even got to dream. Izan never gave me time for it. He just... did it. He’s realised all of them. All my dreams. And now... now I’m the agent of the best player in the world. The best and now, a Premier League winner.”

Her words hung there, trembling with truth as she turned, at last, away from the television, and caught sight of Hori beside her.

Tears streaked her cheeks, though Hori had her chin tucked down, eyes squeezed shut like she could will them away.

”You’re crying,” Miranda said softly.

”No, I’m not,” Hori shot back quickly, her voice cracking even as she wiped her sleeve across her cheek.

”I’m not crying. You are. They are.”

She motioned stubbornly toward Komi and Olivia, both of whom sniffed, smiling through their own tears.

Miranda laughed quietly, shaking her head as she brushed another tear away.

Komi squeezed Olivia’s hand a little tighter while Olivia’s shoulders shook as she buried her face in her palms.

And in the corner of the room, the television carried on, Izan’s goal and celebration looping endlessly.

A boy who had carried them all into the impossible, who had made them all cry without permission.

A/N: Our Boy Has Finally Done It.