God Of football

Chapter 819: Knows No Loss.

Eric Garcia sat on the grass, his face twisted slightly in discomfort as one of the medics knelt beside him, gloved hands steadying his head.

The crowd noise dimmed into a dull hum while the medic pulled out a small flashlight and tilted his chin upward.

A thin beam of light flashed across his pupils once, twice, as Garcia winced but nodded faintly, blinking as the medic followed his gaze.

After a few moments of quiet assessment, the medic gave a subtle nod to his colleague and offered Garcia a hand up.

”You’re alright,” the medic murmured, giving him a firm pat between the shoulders.

Garcia exhaled and brushed a streak of grass off his shorts before jogging slowly toward the touchline.

The Catalan crowd offered a light round of applause as he was cleared to continue, stepping back onto the pitch with a faint shake of the head and a hand signal to reassure the bench that he was fine.

”Garcia’s fine,” Drury murmured, as Izan picked up the ball and rolled it back between his feet.

”And perhaps what Barcelona should fear most here is Izan, who has the ball at his feet. There’s always something dangerous when this youngster has the ball at his feet, but when the ball he has at his feet is a deadball situation, it gets extra juicy.”

The camera caught his face briefly as Izan turned towards Martinelli and Rice, calling them over for the setpiece tactics, while the referee pulled García aside, gave a warning, and motioned for play to continue.

Rice and Martinelli soon stood near Izan and the ball, a distance away from the box that had begun to pile up with players from both teams.

Izan’s voice dropped low, covering his mouth as he turned towards the two players beside him.

”I need a decoy,” he said to Rice, eyes flicking to the ball. ”Pull the markers in front of the ball,” with the latter nodding before turning to Martinelli, ”You. Flick it to the right the moment he moves. Don’t think. Just do it.”

Both men nodded without hesitation, even though they had little idea of what their talisman was trying to do.

They’d learned not to ask Izan how these things worked, just to trust that, somehow, they did.

As the referee jogged into the crowd inside the box, gesturing for jostling players to calm down, the three stood quietly, motionless in their little formation.

The referee finally backed away, raised his whistle to his lips and blew.

The sound cut through the air like a signal flare.

”Here we go,” one of two commentators, Martin Tyler, murmured, the tension slipping into his voice.

Rice took his run-up, every movement screaming that he was going to whip in a cross, causing the players at the front to poise themselves, but at the very last moment, he stepped over the ball, letting it roll untouched.

Martinelli followed in stride, flicking it sharply to the right, just where Izan was waiting, and the latter immediately took off with the ball.

”Didn’t go for the shot or cross, and now, Izan has the ball,” Drury called out as a few of the Barcelona players moved towards the aforementioned.

Pedri lunged in immediately, reading the angle, but Izan nudged the ball again, just a sliver further to his right, enough to open space.

The grass almost hissed beneath his boots as he planted his foot, but his mind burned hot.

[Focus Lv 4 – Activated]

[Pinpoint Accuracy Lv 3 – Activated]

[Knuckleball Lv 4 – Activated]

FORMATION: UNION

The system’s warning screamed at him, [Overload detected], but he didn’t care.

He struck, and the connection that came was nearly thunder.

His leg nearly phased through the ball as it left the turf with an unnatural pulse, spiralling forward, curving, dipping, then rising again in defiance of physics.

”OH, WHAT’S THAT?! WHAT IS THAT?!” Peter Drury roared, voice cracking as the ball zoomed towards goal, the target the keeper, but Szczęsny would have been better suited to be a mannequin in this instance.

”Szczęsny’s, he’s seen it late! He’s seen it late, and, oh my word, it’s in! It’s gone in! Izan Miura has just ripped a hole through Barcelona’s net!”

The ball slammed into the top corner with violent precision, the net rippling and snapping as the keeper’s hands flung upward, far too late.

For a second, no one moved.

Even the Barcelona defenders froze, their eyes darting to Izan, who stood around 37 yards from goal, chest heaving lightly, face unreadable.

Then, without a word, he began to walk forward, the walk turning into a jog as the camera followed him.

He reached into the net, plucked the ball free, and turned.

Every player’s eyes followed him as he jogged back to the centre circle, including his mates, who just stood there watching Izan jog past them before they also turned and followed the teenager.

”A goal of the highest order, but not the right time to come. Two goals are a lot to chase... but if there’s one player who doesn’t seem to understand the word ’done,’ it’s him. Arsenal have life again. It’s now, 4–2 at the Allianz Arena”

–––

In the VIP suite, Hori was already on her feet, tears still shining in her eyes from before, hands clapping furiously.

”Go on, Izan!” she yelled, her voice breaking with joy.

”Go and get them!”

Her mother tried to calm her, but even she couldn’t help smiling through the tension, whispering, ”He’s not done yet, is he?”

The remaining 3 women could only stare at Hori, who seemed to have more belief in her than the entire Arsenal fanbase.

....

Outside the Allianz, the crowd that had left minutes ago stood stunned.

A roar, that unmistakable, stadium-rattling kind, had erupted behind them.

Phones came out, screens lighting their faces in the dark as they hurriedly moved their hands across to their screens to check if it had gotten more detrimental or a lifeline of sorts had appeared.

One fan’s trembling voice broke the silence.

”Wait... they scored?”

Another checked the live update.

”4–2. Izan scored,” he said as they exchanged uncertain glances.

Some looked back at the towering structure of the stadium, still echoing with the aftershock of the goal.

But the stewards had already locked the gates; no re-entry allowed.

They could only stand there, listening as the noise rolled out again from within, a noise that didn’t sound like consolation.

It sounded like belief.

And as the game restarted on the pitch, the goal had done more than put Arsenal on the scoreboard.

It had lit something inside them.

Martinelli and Saka, once weighed down by the gloom of inevitability, suddenly looked unshackled.

The Brazilian’s first touch on the flank was electric, tight control, chest out, eyes burning with purpose.

He drove straight at Araújo, forcing the defender to backpedal as Saka mirrored the chaos from the other side, cutting inside, feinting left, feinting right, drawing double coverage, and still slipping past.

The Arsenal wings were alive again, and Hansi Flick could see it, the tilt of the field, the change in rhythm.

He stepped out of his technical area, his voice booming over the sideline noise.

”Ruhig! Ruhig!” he shouted, palms out. ”Keep it simple! Don’t rush!”

But his words were fighting a losing battle.

Because Arsenal’s press wasn’t human anymore.

They came in waves, red shirts snapping toward every blue one, chasing shadows like men possessed.

It was chaos, controlled only by adrenaline and instinct.

Yamal finally got the ball on the right flank, exhaling sharply as he turned toward space.

The young winger tucked the ball close to his boot, driving infield onto his left, his movements tight, sharp, weaving between Rice and Calafiori’s reach.

Then, in a flash, he cut outward again, dragging the ball back toward the right, thinking he’d bought himself enough room, but he hadn’t.

Calafiori came sliding in, timing it perfectly, grass spraying from under his boot as he clipped the ball out for a throw.

The Italian jumped straight back to his feet, fist clenched as he immediately searched for a man to mark.

Koundé rushed to take the throw, glancing down the line.

He searched for options, Pedri, Ferran and De Jong, but they were all marked, red shirts smothering every lane, every pass.

The frustration on his face was visible even from the stands.

”Barcelona look suffocated here,” Tyler exclaimed, voice tight with disbelief.

”There’s no space, no breath for them!”

With no options, Koundé launched it long toward Raphinha, who had dropped deep near the Arsenal box.

The Brazilian turned, catching it well and then snapping a left-footed shot on the half-volley, but Raya was already moving.

The Arsenal keeper dove low, glove snapping out to meet it with a dull thud as the rebound spilt, and there was Ferran Torres striking again, but Raya threw out his left hand this time, somehow parrying it away with catlike reflexes.

”Double save! Raya refuses to give in!”Drury’s voice climbed with the chaos.

The ball spilt again, rolling for an owner, and it found Saka, tracking back deep into his own half.

The latter pounced on the loose ball, hammering it clear upfield without aim, but two figures broke from the halfway line at full speed: Alejandro Balde and Izan Miura.