God Of football

Chapter 689: Pantomime Villains.

The media had gotten hold of the narrative already.

”The White Angels Have Landed — Real Madrid to Slay the Devil of North London.”

– Marca headline, bold on every sports stand by morning.

It wasn’t hard to guess who the devil was.

The Spanish press had already adopted the myth.

Izan Miura Hernández — Arsenal’s prodigy and, inarguably, Europe’s current best, at just 17 at that.

Real Madrid knew it too well, and they were prepared to put their pride aside to battle it out at the Emirates.

.......

It was past midnight in Hampstead, but the house wasn’t quiet.

Olivia was asleep upstairs, her breathing soft and even, but Izan sat in the dim light of his room, hoodie up, thumb resting over the screen of his phone.

A message pinged in.

Jude Bellingham:

He’s locked in, mate. Carlo’s not said a word to anyone all evening. That man’s in full war mode.

Izan blinked at the text, smirked slightly, then watched as another one came through almost immediately.

Jude Bellingham:

The whole squad’s on edge. We had a tactical meeting mid-flight where Camavinga said it felt like a Champions League final, not a quarter. I mean, we might have heard a joke or two, but Vini really doesn’t want to lose again.

Izan tilted his head back against the wall, exhaling silently.

Then he typed back.

Izan:

Good. If the white angels came to slay the little devil, then I hope they brought more than prayers.

A moment passed.

Then:

Jude Bellingham:

Bro, come on, you know how serious it is when even Vini’s locked in.

Izan:

Then we should stop chatting before I start feeling sorry for Madrid.

He grinned as he hit send.

The screen dimmed for a moment before a soft tone hummed through the room—low, atmospheric.

His system lit up in front of him with a faint shimmer, like a thin curtain of data being pulled aside.

MATCH UPDATE: Because of the opponent’s unwavering tactical focus and managerial cohesion... REAL MADRID HAS GAINED A HALO: THE DON HALO

[THE DON HALO]

Real Madrid’s tactical unity triggers a passive, team-wide boost. Players anticipate threats instinctively, move in sync without speaking, and rarely lose composure under pressure.

Every decision feels rehearsed, every reaction precise. Breaking them down becomes a puzzle with no clear solution. The Don sees all.

[Match Difficulty has gone up]

Izan stared at it, eyes narrowing just a little.

”Don Halo, huh,” he muttered under his breath, more amused than worried—but not dismissive.

He closed the system with a mental flex and let his phone screen, which had been buzzing for a bit now, fade to black as the room settled back into its natural stillness.

......

”NORTH LONDON FOREVER! WHATEVER THE WEATHER—”

The voice cut through the evening air like a flare shot into the sky.

Hoarse but powerful.

Londoners turned, smiled, then joined in almost instinctively.

”WE’LL BE TOGETHER—SIDE BY SIDE!”

It spread like wildfire.

From the Holloway Road station exit to the black iron fences of the Emirates, the chant echoed off buildings, spilt through the streets, rising in tempo like a beating war drum.

Flags were hoisted.

Red and white scarves swayed.

Children on their dads’ shoulders shouted the chorus with lungs too small for such belief.

And yet they still shouted.

The crowd moved chaotically, but there was rhythm in their chaos.

Thousands of fans, shoulder to shoulder, shoes thudding on the pavements, flooded North London.

They were pilgrims to a holy ground—marching, chanting, laughing.

Phones out, hearts full.

Even the fog over the roofs parted for them.

As they neared the stadium, the Emirates loomed out of the haze, lit up like a fortress made of glass and steel, holding the memory of every roar and heartbreak.

The atmosphere was tense, but not anxious.

More like defiance meeting destiny.

The Real Madrid bus arrived first.

It moved with clinical slowness through the clearing path, a dark-lacquered machine glowing under police escort.

Madrid’s crest, like a monarch’s seal, reflected off the windows.

Cameras clicked, fans surged slightly forward—phones in the air, not out of obsession, but reverence.

Spanish chants broke through the hum of English support, not aggressive, not confrontational—just proud.

They’d travelled. Paid. Prayed. Dared.

The team disembarked in sequence—Vinícius first, hood up, headphones on, not even glancing left or right.

He was dialled in.

Mbappe, the boy who had the world at his feet at one point, came next, and then Bellingham followed behind, dressed in all-black Real travelwear, his expression unreadable, like stone before a storm.

Tchouaméni, Militão, Lunin—one by one, players stepped off, greeted by their small cohort of travelling fans behind barriers.

Some players nodded back.

A few stopped to sign autographs—Carvajal scribbled something onto a kid’s scarf while Nacho gave a quick smile and a wave.

But the general energy was tightly wound, intense.

These weren’t tourists in London. They were kings invading.

Still, none of the players lingered.

They all headed straight for the players’ entrance—until the last one stepped off.

Luka Modrić.

The old general.

As he stepped down, a young voice broke through the ambient noise.

”¡HALA MADRID!”

It wasn’t a shout but more like a cry, cutting across the scene like a blade.

Modrić stopped in his tracks and turned, just his shoulders first, then his head, like someone remembering a song from years ago.

The fan—a boy, maybe 14—was standing on his toes, pressed against the metal rail, wearing an old Modrić Croatian jersey.

Their eyes met, and following it was Modrić who gave a small nod.

Then he turned and disappeared into the stadium.

The boy’s face lit up like he’d just touched a star.

And all around him, the chants swelled again.

Arsenal fans noticed the exchange—but they weren’t worried.

They only sang louder.

They were the little devils of London.

This was their turf.

The angels had arrived. But whether they’d leave with their wings intact... that was another story.

.......

”It’s a strange thing, isn’t it?” Darren Fletcher began ”... how the tide of European football can shift in just a single season.”

”Once upon a time, nights like these belonged to one side alone – Real Madrid, the immovable force, the crowned kings, the pantomime villains in every neutral’s heart. Every time they stepped onto this stage, it was them against the dreamers... and more often than not, they broke those dreams apart.”

”But not tonight. Not this season.”

”There’s a new villain in town.”

”An Arsenal side that’s rewritten the storybook, Chapter by Chapter. Undefeated in the league. Unbreakable in the Premier League. And in Europe? Just a single blemish – a narrow 1–0 loss to Inter Milan in the league phase, when the job had barely been done.”

”But even that doesn’t tell the full tale. Because Arsenal haven’t just been brilliant. They’ve been brutal.”

”This transformation... it hasn’t come from nowhere. It’s come from him.”

”The player they call the villain. The big bad wolf. A seventeen-year-old force of nature who’s ripped through defences with a snarl and a smile. A talent so frightening that he’s changed the tone of every opponent’s press conference before a ball is kicked.”

”And tonight, against the biggest institution in Champions League history... the villain wears red.”

Down the tunnel, the hum of the stadium was distant, dulled behind thick concrete and walls of soundproof glass.

But the tension was always present in the tunnel, and you felt it.

Boots, shifted against the hard flooring with Kit managers adjusting shin pads and pulling tape taut one last time.

Arsenal were already lined up in their Red and white kits, crisp under the artificial lights, with the crest stretching across chests like something ancient and proud.

The squad stood in line but not rigid — just still, heads up, minds running.

Then came the murmurs from the other line beside them.

Grey ash kits. Calm steps. Madrid.

They moved like men used to these nights.

Luka Modrić was first to cross into view, mouth set in that tight, unreadable line he always wore before kickoff.

Behind him: Valverde, Rodrygo, Mbappe, Rüdiger, all with that same unshaken presence.

And then Jude.

He glanced up the moment he caught Izan’s eye.

”Well,” he said under his breath, low and casual as he fell into line beside him.

”Still time to fake an injury if you want.”

Izan didn’t blink. ”You can go first. I won’t tell.”

They both smirked, breaking out into a little laughter before composing themselves, just two young stars wearing different colours for the night.

Then footsteps slowed as Modrić passed behind Jude and gave Izan a short, firm nod — not warm, not cold, just... respectful.

A warrior’s nod, maybe.

Izan returned it, quiet and steady.

Then no more words.

Just the ref’s call, which they stood waiting for, but they didn’t have to wait long.

The tunnel soon shifted, and after a bit, the two teams began to walk out of the tunnel.

A/N: Okay, early second of the day. Here. I just finished this, so I wouldn’t have to be thinking about whether I have released this the whole day. Okay, it’s like 5 am now, so I have to sleep. See you in a bit.