God Of football

Chapter 823: Herald Of Finality.

Raya was still on his knees, clutching his ankle.

His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his neck as adrenaline began to fade.

For a brief second, he looked ready to lie down, to let it all go.

The stadium was a blur of noise and tension; bodies scattered, lungs emptied.

But football didn’t wait, and Jules Kounde knew that.

Before anyone could gather themselves, he seized the ball, his throw snapping like a whip toward Lamine Yamal on the right.

The teenager’s eyes were sharp, alive as he took a touch to steady and then another to curl, a teasing ball, one of those wicked crosses that cut between doubt and disaster, bending toward the far post where Raphinha was ghosting in.

Raphinha lunged, arms out, teeth clenched, with the Barcelona bench rising.

But there was Izan.

He appeared from nowhere, like a red blur slicing into the frame.

One moment, it was Raphinha’s chance; the next, Izan’s boot was there, stretching, twisting, cutting across the line of fire.

The ball smacked off his shin, deflecting wide and away from danger before the youngster sprang up to chase the ball.

”One minute over the six already given,” Peter Drury’s voice cracked into the atmosphere, ”And still we play! You do begin to wonder, when will the referee call time on this breathless, beautiful madness!”

Izan straightened, breathing heavily as his chest rose and fell like he’d run through fire, cradling the loose ball he had collected in his grasp like a child.

He looked around, at his teammates dragging their legs through invisible mud, faces drained, eyes hollow.

Saka doubled over, hands on knees.

Martinelli leaning on his thighs, and Rice, hands spread, shouting hoarsely but sounding like a man who had already given everything he could.

And in that instant, Izan made a decision.

It wasn’t logical.

It wasn’t tactical.

It was something deeper, a pulse from somewhere primal that said, You have to shoulder it.

He pushed upfield with the ball, head lifting just above the horizon of blue and red shirts as he waited for the referee’s whistle, but it didn’t sound or look like it was coming yet.

His boots skimmed the grass, stride measured but sharp.

Each Barcelona player looked more distant now, their shape shifting but uncertain.

He crossed the halfway line, and the crowd murmured, that low collective gasp that comes when everyone realises they’ve seen this before, when something in their bones tells them to hold their breath.

Then time... bent.

In his vision, one of the threeOne-Time Guaranteed Goal cards glowed faintly, the golden edges shimmering like a candle in the dark.

He hesitated for a fraction, his mind screaming about the cost, the rarity, the not-knowing of when he’d ever get another.

But then he saw his teammates again, broken, gasping, done.

He exhaled.

”...Let’s finish it.”

The card disintegrated, dissolving into threads of light that vanished into his boots as the chime of the system rang in his head.

[Payment Accepted]

And suddenly the world slowed.

Every sound stretched, the rain, the heartbeat of the crowd, as even the chants of the awya crowd faded into something of a distant hum.

His body felt weightless.

His mind sharpened, and his eyes, lifeless as something ethereal, took over.

The ball under his feet hummed with energy as he took one more touch, and then, with everything in him, every atom, every story that had led to this night, he struck it.

From halfway.

The contact was clean.

Too clean as the ball tore through the drizzle like a comet, slicing through the Munich night, spinning with impossible dip and power.

Peter Drury’s voice cracked through reality, disbelief and awe tangled together:

”HE’S GONE FOR IT! OH, HE’S GONE FOR IT FROM HALF—!”

Szczęsny froze for half a second, the fatal half-second.

His eyes widened, his backpedal frantic as he scrambled, legs kicking against the turf.

The stadium seemed to rise in slow motion as the ball arced higher, the spin bending outward before curling back in, the kind of trajectory no human foot should be able to create.

Szczęsny reached the edge of the six-yard box, stumbling, flailing backwards as he leapt, twisting mid-air, one arm extended, fingertips just grazing the void where the ball had been.

But it was gone.

The net exploded.

A thunderous smack echoed through the stadium as the ball hit the back of the goal and rolled back out, almost mockingly, spinning across the goalmouth like it knew it might have just changed football forever.

The world went silent, utterly silent, for a breath.

Then chaos.

GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL

Pandemonium.

Peter Drury’s voice erupted like a roar from heaven.

”OHHHHH, YESSSSSSS! Do not scratch your eyes! He’s scored. Look at that! Izan Miura Hernández has shattered the ordinary! This is true, this is football, and this is what Izan can do. For what it has seen is not a goal, but a revelation! Arsenal, from dreamers to divinity! And now, Europe’s night, might just... belong to this child of light!”

Martin Tyler’s voice overlapped, his tone trembling, almost emotional.

”You could watch football your whole life and never, never, see that again! From the halfway line! When there was nothing left to give! Izan has a name, and it’s finality!”

The Arsenal bench emptied.

Players, coaches, and staff, all sprinting.

Even Arteta, arms flailing, screaming as he ran across the pitch, where they mobbed Izan, the other side of the touchline, where he hadn’t moved since the ball smacked the net.

He just stood there, chest rising, face tilted up toward the drizzle with his eyes half-closed.

Small pellets of rain kissed his skin, rolling down his cheeks like quiet tears.

He looked weightless, serene, as though the noise around him couldn’t touch him anymore.

Then his teammates, who had somehow gotten the energy to run around, hit him like a wave: Saka, Martinelli, Rice, Gabriel, all piling onto him, dragging him to the ground, laughing, crying, shouting his name.

Outside the stadium, the fans who had left early and now stood crowded in a circle, watching the game from Raya’s save up to the point, erupted as a ripple of disbelief swept through the crowd at the exits.

A collective, desperate realisation that their team had just won the Champions League trophy.

Some turned back, sprinting toward the gates, while others fell to their knees, phones in hand, watching the replay through trembling fingers.

Around London, pubs erupted as streets filled with screams and chants, cars honking, strangers hugging.

Back inside Munich, the noise was biblical.

Drury’s voice was half-lost in the roar, but his words still cut through the broadcast.

”The boy from nowhere... has given Arsenal everything. A goal to end the ages. To end the suffering. To carve his name beside the immortals.”

The referee didn’t even wait.

The whistle blew, sharp, final right after the goal.

It was over.

Arsenal had done it.

The players were still on the ground, tangled in joy and disbelief, while Izan lay beneath them all, his arms spread wide, his eyes still searching the heavens.

And for a heartbeat, football felt infinite, not a sport, but something divine.

Because from halfway, in the death of a Champions League final, a 17-year-old had resurrected his team to come out on top.

....

In the stands, Stan Kroenke stood there beside his son, Josh, and Arsène Wenger, with the three men looking as though they were the ones that had just come off the pitch themselves.

Their suits were rumpled, their faces pale and damp with the emotion of it all.

None of them spoke at first as the roar of Allianz Arena filled the air, but up there, it felt muted, like sound moving through water.

Wenger’s gaze stayed fixed on the pitch for a moment longer, on the sea of red shirts and the tangle of bodies that had collapsed over Izan near the touchline.

Then, slowly, he turned to the father and son beside him.

His voice came quiet, heavy with the kind of weight only time can give.

”Congratulations,” he said, a faint, knowing smile forming. ”You’ve just broken a very long curse.”

Stan Kroenke exhaled, not quite laughing, not quite believing.

He turned to his son, and for a moment, neither of them said a word.

Just a look, the kind that carried everything: years of questions, doubt, criticism, rebuilding, and now... release.

”You too, Arsene,” Stan said after a while.

”As an American and an investor, I just saw Arsenal as a very tidy and profitable venture since I never like soccer, or football as you’d call it. But I have come to love this team like I would a son, and only because I was shown glimpses of what we could become.”

”Thank you, Mr Wenger, for showing me that glimpse and thank you for bringing Izan to Arsenal.”

Josh nodded at his father’s words, eyes glassy, before the two turned back toward the pitch.

Down below, the players were finally rising from the pile, arms raised, the red shirts of Arsenal glinting under the lights like a tide of victory as Izan’s frame came into view.

”He really is a Dragon to be fed,” Josh muttered as Izan walked towards Arteta.