God Of football

Chapter 821: Goosebumps.

Yamal had twisted onto his left, twenty yards out, slicing a vicious shot toward goal, but Raya punched it away, hard, over the bar.

”Ooooh, and Raya with a strong hand! Keeps Arsenal alive for another few seconds!” Martin Tyler called, voice rising over the din.

Barcelona took their time again, of course, as Pedri and Raphinha jogged to the corner flag, exchanging glances that reeked of cynicism.

The corner came short, a game of keep-away disguised as football.

Pedri shielded it near the flag, leaning into the ball, his back turned toward the field while Izan closed in, eyes narrowed, one step, then another.

Pedri smirked faintly, waiting for contact.

He’d done this a hundred times, bait the foul, win the whistle, kill the seconds.

But Izan didn’t crash into him.

He slipped around him.

Like water through fingers.

His right foot stretched, almost impossibly far, looping around Pedri’s leg with a subtle poke, so clean it startled even the Barcelona bench.

The ball popped free as Pedri’s hands shot up instantly.

”Throw-in!” he shouted, already pointing.

But the referee’s glance toward the linesman told another story as the flag stayed down.

Play on.

The noise spiked, half the stadium in fury.

And in that split second, something inside Izan snapped awake.

The faint hum, the quiet pulse, that feeling he’d learned to recognise by now, came.

[Speedster trait Activated]

The ground blurred beneath his feet as the night seemed to contract into motion.

And before Barcelona could even reorganise, Izan was already gone, roaring forward into the dying seconds, where everything could still change.

Peter Drury’s voice trembled at first, the words finding their way through disbelief.

”And here goes Izan Miura... look at the ground he’s covering!”

It was as if time had been yanked by the throat as the world blurred around him.

Izan was gone, tearing across the pitch with a velocity that defied reason.

The grass blurred beneath his boots, his strides so fluid they almost didn’t belong to a human body.

He tore through the centre like a living bolt, leaving blue and garnet shirts in his wake.

”Foul him! Foul him!” someone screamed from behind, and they tried, reaching, lunging, clutching at shadows, but Izan slipped through them all, the air whistling behind him as though the stadium itself couldn’t keep up.

”He’s still going! How fast is he running?! Miura... impossibly, inexorably... unstoppable!”

Every eye in the Allianz was on him now.

Every breath, held, looking at Frenkie De Jong, who slid in front of Izan, but he was too slow.

Izan danced around him with a flick of the boot, the ball glued to his feet as if magnetised.

Then he reached the edge of the box, and suddenly it felt like the whole Barcelona team had collapsed onto him.

Eight players.

A wall of garnet and blue.

No space.

No window.

Nothing but chaos.

And still—

But every eye in the stadium knew that that wasn’t going to stop him.

He cut inside, shifting the ball to his right with a motion so clean it could’ve sliced glass.

”He can’t shoot from there, surely not!” Tyler gasped, the crowd’s roar trembling between disbelief and terror.

But Izan didn’t hesitate.

[Gravity Arc Lv 4]

[Pinpoint Accuracy]

[Focus LV 4]

Ding,[Host as achieved the ’STACK’ effect]

[Union achieved.]

The flurry of notifications rang in his head as Izan leaned back, body coiled, and let his right foot fly.

The ball left the ground and screamed through the air, curling outwards at first, like it was leaving hope behind, and then, as if kissed by divine intervention, it bent back in.

An impossible arc.

A strike touched by madness.

Szczęsny dove, full stretch, fingertips grazing nothing but air and before he could complete his lunge, the net rippled.

And, the stadium exploded.

”IZAN MIURA!” Drury roared, his voice echoing through the thunder of the crowd.

”GOOSEBUMPS. IMPOSSIBLE. HE IS THE WALKING EMBODIMENT OF NOT KNOWING WHAT IS POSSIBLE AND NOT. IZAN IN A LEAGUE OF HIS OWN, TO BRING ARSENAL LEVEL, AT THE ALLIANZ ARENA!!!”

Izan didn’t even think; he sprinted, tearing toward the corner flag, arms wide, face alight with fury, joy, release, everything all at once as the Arsenal bench erupted.

Arteta was gone from the touchline, running, his coat flapping behind him as the rest of the substitutes chased, Nwaneri, Rice, Martinelli, all of them colliding into Izan in a sea of limbs and disbelief.

The red corner of the Allianz was shaking, literally shaking, grown men in tears, strangers clutching each other, mouths open in disbelief as Peter Drury’s voice wove through the chaos, his tone a trembling hymn.

”A goal for eternity... a child has just written his name into football’s divine scripture. Arsenal, from ashes to resurrection! Izan Miura, a name to echo through the corridors of time, even if he was to end here!”

Outside the stadium, the sound hit before the news did, a deep, earth-moving rumble that rolled through the streets of Munich.

Fans who had left early froze in their steps, phones lighting up as push notifications poured in.

”Miura equalises!”

”Arsenal 4-4 Barcelona!”

A man in a red-and-white scarf dropped the beer in his hand.

”No. No way,” he whispered, staring at his screen as the notification flashed like the lottery.

Around him, people screamed, some collapsing into laughter, others into tears.

A group of late-stayers who’d been singing out of hopeless loyalty began to jump and chant again ”Miura! Miura! Miura!”, their voices echoing down the cobblestone streets.

Back in London, pubs erupted.

From Holloway Road to Camden, from Finsbury Park to the Emirates itself, the noise was tidal.

Drinks flew. Chairs toppled.

On one massive screen, Izan’s goal replayed in slow motion, over and over, and each time the ball hit the net, another roar followed.

People climbed on tables, waving flags, hugging strangers.

Someone in an Arsenal kit was crying openly, voice cracking as he shouted.

”He’s done it! He’s done it again! He’s bloody seventeen! But he is a bloody Gunner”

Traffic outside ground to a halt.

Drivers honked horns in rhythm, while in living rooms across the city, families stood stunned in front of televisions, wide-eyed and wordless.

Even if you were not a fan, it was hard to deny the greatness and weight of the moment.

And then, back to Munich, the commentary found its solemn, awe-struck rhythm again.

”In a final that will live for generations, we have witnessed something transcendent. Barcelona and Arsenal, two titans locked in a story that feels older than time itself. But tonight... tonight belongs to the boy who refused to bow. It is only level here, but we might as well hand over the trophy to this boy. A Hatrick in the Champions League final”

Tyler’s voice followed, soft but electric.

”This... is one of the greatest Champions League finals ever played.”

The stadium lights shimmered against the sweat on their faces, and even now, minutes from the whistle, it felt as if the air itself had turned electric.

Barcelona huddled quickly near the centre circle, no time wasted, no glances spared.

As soon as the referee’s whistle went, Yamal nudged the ball to Pedri, and Pedri, with a snap of his boot, launched it straight into Arsenal’s half.

”Barcelona wasting no time,” Tyler murmured. ”They’re trying to shake Arsenal before the adrenaline of the goal gets to them.”

And it worked, for a moment.

White shirts scrambled backwards, tracking runs, shouting over the din.

But then, Izan barked for the ball, voice cutting through the chaos, hand stretched out.

Rice spotted him, who in turn found Saka down the right, and Arsenal began to build again, slow, patient, searching.

”As it stands now,” Peter Drury said, his voice steady but tense, ”we are headed for extra time. Arsenal have clawed back from the brink, but this is far from over.”

Saka, dancing on the touchline, tried to take Balde one-on-one.

The crowd swelled with every step he took, every feint, every twitch of his boot, until Balde timed it perfectly.

A sliding challenge, clean and ruthless, swept the ball away from the Englishman’s boots.

”Brilliant from Balde!” Tyler snapped. ”Didn’t buy a single trick.”

Balde was up before Saka could blink, slipping the ball inside to Raphinha as Barcelona looked to spring one final spark.

The Brazilian cutting inside with his familiar swagger, chin up, eyes darting forward, but Izan was there, in a flank he wasn’t supposed to be.

He slid in, catching the ball with perfect precision, a whisper of contact sending it spinning toward the touchline.

”Miura again!” Drury breathed. ”Where is he getting the Stamina!”

The ball trickled out for a throw as Izan rose, panting, his gaze already fixed back toward his own half, ready to reset the line, the shape, the calm.

But before he could even turn fully, Raphinha moved fast.

He snatched up the ball for the quick throw, launching it long, over the top, into the Arsenal box.

”They’ve gone early!” Tyler gasped.

Izan spun around sharply, his eyes darting to the flight of the ball as it sailed over the defenders’ heads, dropping like a stone near the byline where a flash of blue darted to meet it.