God Of football

Chapter 857: Killer Of Hope.

With a minute to the restart of the second half, the tunnel buzzed with activity.

Both sets of players lingered around the tunnel mouth, catching the rumble of the crowd that sounded ready for another half of exciting football.

After a while, the match officials came, and then one by one, the players emerged from the narrow mouth of the corridor, the heat and colour of the stadiumswallowing them whole as the officials beckoned them.

”Second half coming up from Capming World Stadium,” the commentator’s voice came.

”Both managers will have said what needed saying by now, words have been spoken, voices raised, strategies drawn. But all of that means nothing unless it shows here, on the grass. It’s time for the players to walk the talk.”

The camera panned across the pitch, the lights blazing white on the grass, the crowd restless but loud, still buzzing from what they’d seen in the first forty-five.

Arsenal led by three, and the fans knew it wasn’t just the scoreline that separated them.

Yet, as the Fluminense players emerged, there was something different in the way they moved.

Whatever Renato Portaluppi had said in that locker room had settled in deep.

They didn’t look beaten anymore; they looked ready to defy inevitability, and one of the commentators picked up on it immediately.

”You can tell there’s been a shift,” he said.

”Fluminense coming back out with a bit of fire there, maybe believing there’s still something to be written here. You can’t fault them, though, because it’s a proud club with a proud heart and they’ll fight for it.”

Then came Arsenal, relaxed and perhaps a bit too much as Arteta walked behind them, hands in his pockets.

The English side looked composed, but the lineup hinted at what Portaluppi had predicted.

The signs of a manager managing the bigger picture.

Raya wasn’t in goal anymore.

In his place, the veteran Neto warmed up lightly between the posts as the players settled into their positions, and Saliba had been rested for Tomiyasu, while a few others had also been switched around.

The starters, Izan among them, were still there, but there was an unmistakable sense that Arteta had begun to throttle down.

And that, in its own way, breathed life into the Brazilians.

”Look at that,” the co-commentator said, as the camera cut to Portaluppi on the touchline, arms folded, eyes bright with something between defiance and amusement.

”His thoughts must be running wild now after seeing the changes made by Arteta. This might just be the moment Fluminense were waiting for.”

Seeing both teams in place and ready, the official blew his whistle to restart the game.

Fluminense kicked off the second half, their intentions clear right from the start.

The ball zipped across midfield, one, two, three passes, before being funnelled wide.

The Brazilian crowd rose, sensing the urgency in their play, that push against the inevitable.

But Arsenal had seen it all before.

They had an answer for everything that was conjured up by the Brazilian side, but still, the latter refused to let up.

”Fluminense working the ball nicely here,” the commentator called as Ganso slipped the ball behind the Arsenal defensive line, that were still trying to get used to the changes that had been made at halftime.

One of the Fluminense attackers, Jhon Arias, got onto the end of the ball from midfield, coming one-on-one with Ben White, who looked poised to block all outs, but with a little bit of Joga Bonito, Arias got away from Ben White before slipping the pass through.

”Oh, who’s on the end of it?” rang from the broadcast gantry as German Cano, Arias’s half of the strike partnership, got onto the end of the ball, sticking his leg out and redirecting the ball towards goal, but Neto went down quickly, snapping at the ball before punching it out of the box.

Fluminense got the loose ball back as they reset, looking to go again, but a heavy touch from Fluminense’s number eight saw Declan Rice pounce at the ball, snatching it clean from the reach of Fluminense’s Martinelli.

”Lovely challenge by Declan Rice.”

With the ball back, Rice didn’t hesitate to send the ball forward.

A flick of his boot sent it slicing through the midfield, perfectly weighted, and Izan was off, gliding into space as if drawn by something invisible.

The noise from the stands built with every stride.

Each step cut through the humid air, the sound rising, not as a roar, but as a living pulse, one heartbeat after another.

”There he goes again,” the commentator said, voice tightening as the crowd swelled.

”Izan down the right... It’s the same story, and still, no one can stop him!”

The Fluminense left-back tried to hold his ground, feet shuffling, arms out, but Izan’s next course of action was impossible to read.

With a single stepover to misdirect, Izan nudged the ball to the right with his left foot, with the left back following suit, before he connected again with his left, this time to send it the other way to finish the reverse elastico.

”Oh. Izan, showing a bit of Joga bonito to the Brazilian.”

Away from his man, the grass opened before him, the box, the keeper and the silence before the strike.

He slowed, the ball tethered to his feet, every touch light, deliberate as the defenders in the box came, collapsing towards the space around him, but Izan was already drawing back his left foot.

”He’s gone for it!!” the commentary roared as the ball left Izan’s foot, a clean, curling blade that arced through the air, spinning away from the keeper’s reach.

The entire stadium seemed to freeze.

The ball hung there for a heartbeat too long, suspended before kissing the far corner with the softest ripple of net.

The silence shattered.

A roar cracked across the stands, raw and thunderous, rolling through Orlando like a storm.

Izan didn’t even flinch.

He just watched it happen, chest rising, eyes calm, the faintest trace of a smile flickering on his lips.

”Oh, stop it!” the co-commentator burst out, half-laughing, half-yelling over the noise.

”Just stop it! That’s ridiculous, ridiculous! He’s not even giving them a second to breathe! Raise them up, and then drop them to the ground. Izan might have just killed off any hope for Fluminense.”

The main voice came in a second later, his tone lower but almost reverent.

”Four-nil to Arsenal... and it’s that man, that boy again, Izan. The difference. The rhythm. The inevitability. Whatever word you want, he’s always it and today is no different.”

By the time the replay hit the big screen, Izan was standing near the corner flag, arms spread, expression still unreadable.

He just stood there, letting the noise wash over him like a tide while his teammates caught up seconds later, barrelling from behind.

Nwaneri first, wrapping him in a grin and a shove and then Rice close behind, shouting something lost in the chaos.

From the touchline, Arteta clapped once, sharply.

He didn’t smile, but the nod that followed said enough.

On the opposite bench, Renato Portaluppi exhaled, long and low, his eyes tracking the scoreboard that now read 4–0.

His players were still frozen where they stood, some with hands on their hips, some just staring at the grass.

He turned to his staff, gave a small shrug, and then walked to the bench before settling down.

The commentary came again, this time quieter.

”And that... might just be it. Whatever fire Fluminense carried out of that tunnel has been doused by one swing of that left boot. Arsenal, ruthless, efficient and absolutely merciless tonight.”

The camera drifted up, pulling away from the players, catching the glow of the scoreboard framed by a sea of red-and-white flags.

Arsenal players jogged back into position, passing their opponents, who had their heads hung low.

Fluminense’s captain, Thiago Silva, clapped his hands, shouting for shape, for courage, anything to hold onto, but even he couldn’t hide the weight in his shoulders.

Meanwhile, in the stands, the chant began to roll again.

”I-ZAN! I-ZAN!”

Thousands of voices, all hitting that same syllable, again and again, until it vibrated through the humid night air.

The camera caught him one last time, head bowed, before the whistle to restart came from the referee.

He glanced once toward the Fluminense bench, then back to the ball as Fluminense restarted the game.

.

And across the pitch, you could feel it, the quiet truth settling over everyone watching.

The fairytale was almost over, and they couldn’t really do much about it because the one writing the ending had a name, and it was Izan.