God Of football

Chapter 685: Carabao Rewards.

Fans were flooding comment sections asking what scent he wore.

What he ate pre-game.

What car he drove? What boots he used? What lip balm, even when a fan mentioned how juicy Izan’s lips were looking.

His name wasn’t trending anymore.

It was the trend.

At this point, even he knew, the glaze was crazyyyyy.

He liked each post quietly, fingers gliding with mechanical ease.

Then, as if sensing the moment had passed, he dropped the phone onto the sheets beside him, exhaling slowly.

For a few beats, silence wrapped around him again.

Then—

A buzz.

Ding,

The chime was subtle.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]

Congratulations. You have officially won your first trophy with Arsenal FC.

— Reward Issued: +50 Stat Points

— Reward Issued: 1x Mental Fluid (Rare)

— Reward Issued: Skill Unlock: Advanced Rainbow Flick + Reverse Sombrero

”Only fifty?” he muttered aloud, making his way toward the bathroom.

”You did say a while ago that 4 stat points now make 1 super point, which are the only things that can help my OVR grow aside from constant training. So why are you still being stingy with those?”

[SYSTEM: This was the Carabao Cup, Izan. Not the Champions League final. Keep your expectations realistic. Also, with the super points, did you expect it to always be this easy? Everyone is hunting you. Even the author is always wanting to nerf you]

He smirked and grabbed his toothbrush.

”That’s rich coming from the same voice that called this final ’high intensity’ just after the game.”

[It was intense. But that doesn’t change where the trophy sits in the football hierarchy. You did well — but don’t get comfortable. There’s more to win.]

Toothbrush in mouth, Izan leaned forward over the sink, scrubbing his teeth in circular motions.

”I know, I know,” he said, mouth full of past foam.

He rinsed, spat, and looked up into the mirror.

”So... what’s with the Mental Fluid?”

[They are temporary enhancement. Boosts cognitive clarity, reaction processing, and focus in high-pressure situations. Use sparingly — it’s rare. It won’t make you smarter. It just helps you think faster.]

”Hm.” Izan opened the bathroom door and stepped into the adjoining shower space.

The warmth of the steam wrapped around him before the water even hit.

He turned the handle, adjusted the heat, and stepped in.

”Now... these new skills. Reverse Sombrero? Advanced Rainbow Flick? Sounds like something Neymar would pull off at a beach match.”

[They’re more than flair. Both are high-difficulty escape techniques designed for tight spaces under pressure. Reverse Sombrero allows for an upward chip behind you with a back-step acceleration. Advanced Rainbow Flick builds from the basic form but adds deceptive footwork and redirection mid-air.]

”And what’s the catch?”

[They’re expensive to level up if you decide to use LPs. It is manageable with Stat points, but hard with training. You’ve had the base Sombrero for a year now. Still just level 2. You’ve used it 5 times in a match and successfully completed it just thrice. The other two don’t count because your opponents got a touch on it.]

Izan chuckled under the falling water. ”So I’m lazy?”

[No. Just selective. You prefer simpler solutions in actual matches. But flair, when refined, can be devastating. Consider investing in them — especially when defenders start overcommitting.]

The steam thickened, curling up from his skin as he stood still beneath the water, letting it soothe the minor bruises from the match.

”System.”

[Listening.]

”I know this isn’t that big, but be honest with me,” Izan said, brushing droplets off his eyelashes.

”Who’s the best player in the world right now? Not stats. Not potential. Right now. In this moment.”

There was a pause.

For a second, only the sound of water filled the silence.

[As of Thursday, 3rd April, 2025 — 12:07 p.m., there are two players with higher global presence and status than you.

Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro.

Lionel Andrés Messi Cuccittini.]

”Of course,” Izan chuckled.

He pressed his palms into the wall, water tracing down his back.

”Even now?” he asked softly. ”Even with their age?”

[They’ve declined athletically, yes. But class is permanent.

Their body of work, achievements, and global legacy keep them ahead of you. You may surpass them in ability now — but not in what they’ve meant to the sport. Not yet.]

”So if I had faced them at their peak,” Izan said, voice low, ”I wouldn’t win?”

[Correct. Their primes were incomparable — and brutally consistent.

Messi at Barcelona. Ronaldo at Madrid. Week in, week out. Against the best. On the biggest stages. You’re chasing ghosts, Izan. But that’s the point, isn’t it?]

There was a long pause, then the system continued.

[This is not to belittle you. You are 17.

They were in youth squads at your age, still dreaming.

You’re already writing Chapters — but they wrote the book.

Surpass them not just with talent, but with longevity, dedication, and trophies. Win more. Do more. Only then will you truly eclipse them, but remember, they are not the goal]

Izan turned off the water and stood in the quiet steam, breathing.

His chest rose and fell more slowly now.

He stepped out and reached for the towel.

”You really don’t hold back,” he muttered as he dried his hair.

[There’s no growth in flattery.]

”Hm?” He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped into his room.

”I get it,” he said. ”This was a first step. Carabao is... small. Not nothing — but small.”

[Exactly. Use it as fuel. Use it to demand more from yourself.

The Premier League is still alive. The Champions League is still in play. FA Cup. World Cup]

”You just want more trophies to hand out more rewards,” Izan joked, but he felt the system shrug.

”Huh. Max, show me my status,” he said as he reached for a fresh pair of undershorts.

Immediately, the familiar, translucent screen materialised in front of his eyes.

PLAYER INFO

■■■■■■■■■

NAME: [IZAN MIURA HERNANDEZ]

AGE: [17]

HEIGHT: [1.88m (6’1”)]

PROFESSION: [FOOTBALLER]

STATUS: [SENIOR TEAM PLAYER]

TEAM: ARSENAL FC / SPAIN NATIONAL TEAM

SYSTEM EVALUATION: [THE BEST IN THE WORLD/ CURRENT GEN]

PLAYER RATING: [93/100]

POSITION: [Wing forward / Attacking midfielder]

POTENTIAL: [97]

LEGEND POINTS: [ 399,800/507,000 to Lv 5]

SIMULATION POINTS: [1370]

STAT POINTS: [117]

SUPER POINTS: [0]

⸻

ATTRIBUTES

■■■■■■■■■

Speed: 98

Body Control: 94

Spatial Awareness: 95

Technique: 94

Shooting: 94

Passing: 94

Body Strength: 90

Defending: 70

Weak Foot Strength: ★★★★★(5)

Skill Moves: ★★★★★(5)

⸻

SKILLS POSSESSED

■■■■■■■■■■■■

Stepovers: [Lv 3] 50% Completion

La Croqueta: [Lv 2] 40% Completion

Cruyff Turn: [Lv 3] 17% Completion

Roulette: [Lv 2] 64% Completion

Rabona: [Lv 1] 99% Completion

Sombrero: [Lv 2] 10% Completion

+

TRAITS

■■■■■■

trickster: Equipped (offline)

Incisive Pass: Equipped(online)

rocket: Equipped (offline)

Pinpoint accuracy: Equipped (online)

speedster: Equipped (online)

Knuckeball: Equipped(offline)

Phantom Step: Equipped(offline)

+......

A small smile tugged at Izan’s lips, but before he could admire his abilities further, Olivia’s high-pitched voice came right from the door as she entered.

”Babe, I thought you were still sleeping...” she said, trailing off as her eyes wandered towards Izan’s mid-section, where his abs looked like they had been sculpted.

”Do you like what you see?”

”Yes,” the response came instinctively from Olivia, who realised what she had said and just looked away from his abs.

”Komi said come down before she drags you there herself”, she whispered before turning and walking down.

Izan just chuckled and watched her go before slipping on a shirt and then going down.

.......

Location: Emirates Stadium – Tunnel Outside Media Room

Time: Saturday, 6:43 PM

Arteta spotted him first—hood up, earbuds in, and moving with that usual slow swagger like the entire stadium was on his schedule.

”Nice of you to join us,” Arteta called out, falling into step beside him.

Izan slid one bud out and grinned. ”Traffic.”

”Right,” Arteta muttered, tone playful. ”You’re the only player I know who’s taken a helicopter to a commercial shoot. Don’t lie to me about traffic.”

”That was once,” Izan laughed. ”And I was on time for that.”

”Exactly my point,” Arteta said, nudging him lightly as they rounded the corner toward the press room.

As Arteta and Izan approached the doors, the muffled hum of voices inside shifted into a poised silence.

The moment they stepped into the media room, the stillness broke—but not with the chaotic frenzy Izan was used to.

Just a few polite clicks of the camera shutters this time.

No shouting. No leaning over chairs.

The journalists, though clearly eager, were surprisingly civil.

The room had the crisp professionalism of an official pre-match session, but with the added weight of anticipation that always seemed to follow Izan these days.

The two made their way to the front table, Izan sitting to Arteta’s right as a few more quiet flashes sparked from the corners.

Izan, seeing the composed atmosphere, suppressed a chuckle just as the moderator stepped up to the front.

”Good evening, everyone,” he began, tapping a finger gently against the mic.

”Thank you all for coming. We’ll be starting shortly.”