God Of football

Chapter 711: Conclusion.

The game restarted, but with two goals and a couple of minutes to get into contention, Real Madrid couldn’t do much and soon, or at last for the Real Madrid fans who couldn’t watch anymore, the shrill blast of the referee’s whistle finally broke through the thunder of noise.

FWEE, FWEE, FWEEEEEE.

It was over.

In the far corner of the Bernabéu, the away end detonated.

Red and white shirts, mixed with black ones, leapt in unison as their scarves spun in the air and voices cracked with disbelief and joy.

Flares that had been held onto till the last moments lit up a haze above them, chants collapsing into raw screams of release.

They didn’t just celebrate — they erupted, the sound carrying like a storm across the ground.

Everywhere else, silence.

The home end remained frozen, thousands of Madridistas staring blankly at the pitch as if waiting for something to change, for something to happen or for a whole they could crawl into to appear.

But nothing came.

Heads dropped in unison, hands tugged at hair, some eyes glistened.

They had wanted to applaud — because brilliance, true brilliance, demands respect even from rivals.

But to clap would be to admit that the knife had gone in too deep.

To see their house undone, not by a legend, but by an old rival to some extent and a seventeen-year-old in red at that — it stung in ways applause could never soothe.

High above, the broadcast camera caught movement in one of the executive boxes.

Florentino Pérez was no longer seated.

The Real Madrid president rose to his feet, slowly, deliberately, straightening his jacket as though reasserting control in the face of chaos.

He smoothed his lapel, eyes firm, then looked down.

The cameras followed his gaze, sweeping back to the pitch and there, standing, was Izan, shirt still clutched in one hand, his body gleaming with sweat, chest heaving, his name bold and white across the jersey he had raised just minutes earlier toward the fans who once mocked him.

Now he stood in the silence of their cathedral, the boy who had bent it to his will.

From the side of the frame, Kylian Mbappé came into view.

His own shirt was already in his grasp, his body too drenched to hide the battle etched into every muscle.

He approached Izan with a quiet smile, maybe even a grimace of admiration, cutting across his face.

The two shared no words at first, only that glance — one of acknowledgement, one of inevitability.

”This counts as match 3 and I haven’t even won one,” Kylian Mbappe said as he tossed Izan’s shirt over his shoulder.

Izan just grinned wryly, not knowing what to say until the Frenchman smirked and then turned towards the other players.

”Arsenal fans... drink this in. They came here needing to hold their nerve, they came here needing to prove they belonged — and instead, they’ve left with something far more extraordinary. It has finished at the Santiago Bernabéu, Real Madrid 2, Arsenal 3... and 5-3 on aggregate. Arsenal are through.” Ian Darke’s voice broke through, carried by disbelief yet sharpened by experience.

Robbie Savage couldn’t contain himself, his words spilling over.

”Unbelievable, Ian. Absolutely unbelievable. You talk about maturity, about composure — this kid. We say this again and again, but \ this seventeen-year-old, he’s turned the greatest club in European history inside out. Two goals and an assist, away at Real Madrid. I don’t even want to check the stats now, but we have to. It is 9 goals and 6 assists against this team in 4 games.”

Darke continued, his tone dipping into reverence.

”And remember, Arsenal had already done their part at the Emirates — a convincing 2-1 win there. But this... this is something else. They were rocked here, Madrid pushed them to the edge, the crowd bayed for blood, and yet one young man — one boy, really — dragged them back with sheer brilliance. Izan Miura Hernández. Remember the name, because Europe will never forget it after tonight.”

Savage added, almost breathless, ”People talk about wonderkids, about prodigies — but how many actually step into the Bernabéu, under these lights, with this pressure, and tear it apart? Arsenal have a diamond on their hands, an absolute diamond. And you just feel — this isn’t the peak, this is the beginning.”

The camera lingered one last time on Izan, shirt still in hand, sweat running down his face as he exchanged words with Bellingham, who had approached right after he finished talking with Mbappe.

After a few more words with Jude, he turned at last, walking back toward his half as if even victory couldn’t break his composure.

Behind him, a few Madrid players slumped into the turf, their supporters silent.

Ahead of him, Arsenal teammates sprinted across the pitch to embrace him, to embrace history.

They had fallen at this round in the previous year’s edition, and so making it to the Semi-Final, for the first time since the 08-09 season, it was something worth commending.

But before Izan could melt fully into the arms of his teammates, a voice called his name from the touchline.

One of the UEFA media officers, headset crooked over his ear, pointed toward the small interview area where a reporter already stood there, microphone in hand and smile sharpened with the glow of breaking news.

Izan glanced sideways, looking around until his eyes met one of Arsenal’s backroom staff.

A media relations officer, he knew well, caught his eye and gave him a cheeky grin, both thumbs pointed skyward as if to say, You’ve got this, lad.

Izan rolled his eyes, half a sigh slipping past his lips.

”Alright, fine,” he muttered under his breath before trudging toward the backdrop where the ”Player of the Match” award already waited, perched on its little plinth.

The reporter didn’t waste time, her voice warm, eager, and cutting through the din still rolling from the stands.

”First of all, congratulations, Izan. Your Player of the Match award, and of course, Arsenal’s qualification to the semi-finals. How are you feeling right now?”

Izan nodded slightly, still catching his breath.

”Thank you. Honestly... it feels incredible. We knew it was going to take something special tonight, and everyone gave everything. To come here, to Madrid, and get through—” he exhaled, letting the sentence trail into a tired smile. ”Yeah, it’s hard to put into words.”

She leaned a little closer, sensing he was open, not hiding behind the usual soundbites.

”And now it’s confirmed. Paris Saint-Germain in the semi-finals. How does that sit with you?”

Izan rubbed the back of his neck, shifting the award awkwardly in one hand.

”Well, PSG... you know, everyone knows what they are. Quality everywhere, players who can change a match in one touch. But if we worried too much about names, we wouldn’t have got past Madrid, would we? So, respect to them, but we’ll be ready. We’re not here to make up numbers.”

There was an edge in his tone, not cocky, just matter-of-fact, as the reporter continued to ask a few questions until the last arrived.

The reporter hesitated for a moment before steering the conversation toward the thing everyone had whispered about, but she went for it anyway.

”One last thing, Izan. During the halftime break, there were cameras that caught what looked like a bit of tension between you and Mikel Arteta. People are already talking. Can you clear that up?”

For the first time in the interview, Izan let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as if he’dexpected the question all along.

”Ah... yeah, that. Look, it wasn’t what people are going to make it. At halftime, the doctors had a look at me and noticed that my ankle was swollen. They thought maybe it was too much, maybe I should come off. And the manager... he was just looking out for me. But I told him straight, I wasn’t done. I couldn’t leave the pitch like that.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the pitch again, where Madrid’s players still dragged themselves through the motions of defeat.

”People will probably spin it into me not listening to tactics or something like that. That’s not true. Mikel’s the boss. But sometimes... You just know you can’t walk away, you know? Tonight was one of those times.”

The reporter gave a small nod, her smile softening as though she understood the weight in his voice.

”That makes sense. Thank you for clarifying. Congratulations again, Izan — Player of the Match, and a semi-finalist with Arsenal. Go and enjoy it.”

He inclined his head in thanks, no more words needed, before stepping away from the backdrop.

The award still felt heavy in his grip, but the night itself, the roar still tumbling from the away end, made even the pain in his ankle fade for a moment.

A/N: Sorry, I still haven’t caught up. It might sound like an excuse, but I haven’t gotten that much time recently, with the ongoing exams and all. I will try to make it up with my free day, so hold on for a bit. I am just a Chapter in the red, aside from the daily 2, so I will release two after this to get us back on schedule before releasing the last of the day this evening. Have fun reading, and I will see you in a bit.