God Of football

Chapter 950: Blitz Vanta!

Raya didn’t waste a second.

He scanned once, then rolled the ball sharply into Zubimendi’s feet.

The midfielder opened his body before the touch even settled and swung the play forward with a smooth, instinctive pass that found Izan stepping into space.

”Arsenal break with real intent here. Zubimendi releases Izan and looks at the room ahead of him.”

Izan took the ball on the half-turn and pushed forward.

United’s first line tried to close, but his next touch wasn’t meant for them.

He drove his foot through the ball and sent it tearing down the centre channel, behind the entire Manchester United shape.

It cut their defensive line cleanly in half as the stadium gasped, the noise flickering between fear and awe.

Then Izan went.

Not ran.

Went.

His acceleration snapped the air.

One heartbeat, he was behind the ball; the next, he was a blur pushing off the grass with frightening force.

Fans near the front instinctively leaned back as he flew past their sightline, nothing but a streak of red and white tucked in between the pitch and the stands.

”Oh my-... look at the...speed! He’s away--,” but every time the commentary tried to finish, Izan made them hitch.

Bayindir had already left his line, planning to meet the ball first.

But halfway out, he slowed.

You could see the doubt flash across his face because Izan was arriving far sooner than the keeper expected, footsteps pounding with such force that even from the stands you could hear the rhythm change.

In Izan’s head, something familiar triggered.

[Blitz Vanta.]

The world tightened for a moment, as if someone had grabbed the frame of reality and pulled it forward.

Izan felt a shove inside his chest, not physical but unmistakable.

The pitch seemed to tilt toward him, and suddenly he closed the last ten meters like they were nothing.

United’s defenders could only stare at his back shrinking.

Some tried to sprint.

Others didn’t even bother because deep down, they knew they weren’t catching him.

Bayindir lunged anyway, throwing himself into the collision path, but Izan kissed the ball to the side with a soft outside touch and slipped it around the keeper like water skimming around a rock, and at that point in time, every player had just become a prop, a bystander in the show, the Izan show.

Izan didn’t even glance at the goal.

He shaped his body, kept his eyes on the grass ahead of him, and guided the ball into the far corner with a calm, simple pass.

The net rippled.

The stadium erupted, and a wall of noise crashed down on itself as fans shouted in disbelief.

”No, No No! We had our suspicions from before, but this is simply Inhumane. I refuse to believe this. I really want to, but this is happening... right in front of our eyes. He has become the reason why many have turned to this game. He is the embodiment, and now, he has scored what could be the most obnoxious goal in the history of football!”

Izan slowed into a slide toward the United corner, boots carving a trail in the pitch as he glided on his side.

His momentum carried him almost to the advertising boards before he pushed up onto his feet in one smooth motion.

He looked straight into the sea of United supporters, lifted his chin once and stared as if saying, Your move.

Behind him, his teammates sprinted to catch up.

Saka was the first, but after he got near, even he felt a bit hesitant to touch the cause of the chaos.

Martinelli followed, smacking Izan on the back while Gyokeres wrapped an arm around him with a grin that stretched wide.

But the voice in the broadcast booth continued to be the loudest of them all.

”There was no need for us to act like there was any stopping this kid. And if you still have some thoughts about that, toss that into the Thames, because there is the devil of North London, putting his foot on the neck of the Red devils of Manchester!”

....

[Tech Box Room]

The place was quiet except for the faint hum of monitors and the occasional beep from a console.

A man stood over the bank of screens ahead, eyes locked on the replay of the goal.

The stadium’s roar seemed to vibrate through the walls even here, but all he could focus on was Izan’s movement.

He turned to his staff, voice measured but sharp.

”Check his speed. I want numbers, everything we can get. GPS, accelerometers, anything. How fast was he?”

One of the analysts frowned.

”Sir, the trackers in his vest didn’t record properly. The accelerometers had an error. And we... we, the gun radars weren’t functioning properly at the point. I do not even understand because it is working now.”

The man’s jaw tightened as his eyes remained fixed on the screen.

Every frame he watched made his disbelief deepen.

Izan had gone from behind the midfield to the Manchester box in what seemed like a blink, bypassing every marker in his path.

He tapped his fingers against the console, impatient.

”Use the ball. All the sensors built into it. The systems around the stadium. Anything. I don’t care. Whatever data you can extract, do it. That speed... must be kept.”

Another staffer scrolled through schematics and displays, checking the stadium’s integrated tracking systems.

”We can overlay trajectory and player positioning from the cameras,” she said. ”It’ll give us a read on velocity across the pitch, sir.”

”Do it,” he said, voice calm but carrying the weight of urgency.

”I want every meter, every fraction of a second. This isn’t just fast. It’s beyond fast. Record everything. Cross-check the physics. I need to know exactly what we just saw.”

There was a pause as the staff scurried into action, fingers flying across keyboards, switching displays, recalibrating sensors.

The man’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.

Izan’s figure zipped past defenders again and again in slow-motion replays, the acceleration, the precision, the audacity of it, looping endlessly.

Finally, he leaned back slightly, still staring, and muttered almost to himself, ”Unbelievable.”

..

Back on the pitch, Arsenal’s players were regrouping in their half, collecting themselves after the whirlwind goal.

The crowd’s energy followed them, reverberating against the stands, leaving an unmistakable mark of what had just happened.

The Manchester United players lined up again, their formation slightly tighter this time, eyes flicking toward Izan like he had suddenly grown another pair of legs.

Some couldn’t hide the disbelief, faces tightening as they exchanged glances that spoke louder than words: ”He can do that too?”

The ones who had seen him sprint past defenders with impossible acceleration rubbed at their foreheads, trying to convince themselves that the blur of movement wasn’t a trick, wasn’t some optical illusion conjured by adrenaline and crowd noise.

Even Cunha, after passing the ball back to reset the game, stole one last look at Izan, wondering if there was another gear, a higher one to his play from what they had already seen the past season.

As Arsenal’s players reformed and the whistle blew to restart, the commentary came in, voices brimming with exhilaration.

”Back again for the restart, but it is really hard to get what Izan has just done out of mind.”

The ball began to move through United’s midfield cautiously now, each pass measured, the tempo slower, more aware of the predator waiting to pounce.

Arsenal pressed immediately, a relentless swarm that allowed no breathing room.

The crowd felt it, the commentary felt it, and even the players on the pitch could sense it, a pressure that left no gaps, no hesitation.

Saka, alert and quick, tracked every pass like a hunter tracking prey.

He drifted wide, watching the play unfold, and as the ball was pushed down the right flank, he anticipated the moment.

A subtle weight shift, a timed sprint, and he was there, closing the distance in a blink.

Dorgu, caught off guard by Saka, tried to play the ball through, but he only made it worse for himself as his attempt fell right at the feet of the Englishman.

”Saka! That’s incredible anticipation from the Arsenal winger.”

As the ball reached Saka at the byline, poised and dangerous, the stadium seemed to hold its collective breath at the thought of what could happen.