God Of football

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They had just crossed the 90-minute mark, and Arsenal weren't retreating.

They pressed higher, passed faster, and played harder while Liverpool dug in.

Robertson dropped deeper and Van Dijk had stopped stepping forward.

The midfield collapsed like a net around the penalty box while Slot's voice was hoarse from shouting instructions.

His bench was half-standing, half-sitting—no one settled.

And yet, Arsenal kept coming, like undead beings.

Never knowing when they're beaten.

The ball moved like a current, flowing through Rice, then to Timber, who pushed it into Merino.

Izan floated into space again—his boots barely making noise now, his movement a whisper between the lines.

"Merino" Izan called and the midfielder wasted no time slipping the ball toward him.

No time wasted.

One touch to kill it and then another to turn before—

[KNUCKEBALL LV 3 Activated]

He launched a shot with his left foot—low, skipping, snaking through legs before rising almost unimaginably.

Kelleher dropped and tensed before gambling on where he thought the ball could nestle and it paid off after the ball dipped again.

Groans rolled around the Emirates like thunder trapped under the stands as Kelleher hurled out and punched the ball away.

"Come On" he roared after getting up with Van Dijk patting him on the back.

"That shot was traveling. You'd think that looked easy but it was anything but that. Arsenal are pouring bodies forward," Peter Wallace said from the booth. "Yet, Liverpool are surviving on instinct, not structure. They are holding on for dear life"

"They've stopped chasing goals," Marsha added.

"They're clinging to the draw. That's the posture now—just get out of here."

Arteta was on the touchline, waving players on, like pushing pieces across a chessboard he no longer controlled.

His assistants yelled numbers while the home crowd kept rhythm—chanting, urging, rising with every pass.

The fourth official walked to the edge and raised the board.

+7

The crowd didn't cheer.

They stood. Like it was a signal.

Like they had just been handed seven minutes of fate.

Izan didn't even glance at the board.

He was already back on the ball.

A one-two with Rice.

Then another with Timber.

He darted forward, caught between three Liverpool players, and still emerged with the ball tucked to his laces.

Robertson lunged.

Izan skipped past him.

Gravenberch collided shoulders—but Izan rolled off like water against stone.

He took the shot.

Tight angle from almost 25 yards out and yet, Kelleher parried again. Another save. Another cheer from the away end.

Saka followed up with a second effort but his shot was blocked before it could do damage.

On the next attack, Havertz tried to turn and shoot but he was out-muscled before he could get a shot away.

And still, the ball stayed in the final third.

In the 93rd minute, a gap almost opened again.

This time, Izan was fouled.

A kick to the ankle from behind.

He spun off it, stumbled, caught his balance, and the whistle blew.

Free kick.

The crowd surged.

He walked over slowly.

Placed the ball with care.

The Emirates was thunderous—but just around the edges. The center of it—right around the penalty area—was dead still.

Seven Liverpool players stood in the wall.

Kelleher crouched, muttering commands, shifting right, then back left.

Izan adjusted his socks, taking in a huge chunk of air as if he were literally trying to elevate his body.

Peter's voice came low. "He's already hit the post once tonight. Thirty-eight meters… is this too far?"

"Not for him," Marsha said.

The whistle blew and Izan took four strides.

Ding, [PINPOINT ACCURACY LV 3 Activated]

Ding, [KNUCKLEBALLL LV 3 Activated]

[System detects two traits in use. Initiating, UNION Protoc— FAILED]

"Uh," Izan groaned as curled the ball with a thudding thump that echoed in the chest more than the ears.

It spun.

Climbed.

Then, it dipped viciously, moving all over the place as it streaked toward goal, and finally, it beat the keeper.

But the post.

Again.

Clang.

"Ooooooohhhhh" the fans echoed before raising the sound in the cauldron again with a roar of applause.

The ball rebounded at a wicked angle with Saka sprinting for it but Robertson slid and cleared before Van Dijk booted it to halfway.

Gasps.

Claps.

Palms to foreheads.

Arteta dropped his head, just for a second.

The ball flew.

Flat.

Quick.

Humming through the air like it wanted out of the stadium.

Gabriel tracked it.

Backpedaled and judged it.

But it skipped off the grass once—

And bounced higher than expected.

Over his head.

And Salah was there.

Alone.

A split-second silence dropped over the Emirates like a curtain.

Then came the scream.

"Oh NO—it's Salah!" Peter yelled. "He's in! He's clean through! This could flip the script-"

"Look at the bench!" Marsha cried. "Arteta's holding his head! This could be it!"

The roar didn't build.

It erupted.

Fans stood.

Some turned away.

Others screamed toward the pitch.

Salah didn't glance.

He brought the ball down clean, and the space ahead of him opened wide like a runway.

Every Liverpool player stayed back.

Every Arsenal player chased—too late.

Except one.

Izan.

Ding, [Host has Activated SPEEDSTER LV 3]

And with that Izan burst forwards, carrying almost the entire wind on the pitch with him.

His first strides were fast.

His fifth was faster.

He passed Timber.

Passed Rice.

He tore across the pitch like it was made of glass and he refused to break it.

Salah entered the final third.

Rays still hadn't moved from his own goal line.

And then—

Izan caught him.

The crowd roared his name.

Some in panic.

Some in hope and some in sheer disbelief.

He was a step behind.

Then half.

Then close enough to reach.

He didn't dive in.

He read it.

One swing of the leg—not a lunge, but a sculpted arc.

Clean, measured, low.

He sliced across the grass and swept the ball away from Salah's left foot just as the striker touched it forward.

Gone.

The ball veered right.

Salah stumbled, arms wide in shock, momentum carrying him forward as the Emirates rose.

Every fan on their feet.

Some hands-on heads.

Others on hearts.

Marsha's voice, low and stunned, followed in the silence behind the cheer.

"He chased down a ghost and caught it."

And Dion, after a long breath:

"That's not recovery. That's defiance."

Salah spun in disbelief but Izan stood there, body still, chest rising, one hand bracing his thigh.

And then he looked up.

His eyes scanning the chaos he had just pulled the match back from.

Izan didn't linger in triumph.

He nudged the ball ahead with the outside of his boot, sliding it calmly into the path of Merino, who had just finished a lung-bursting sprint to recover space.

Merino took it in stride, eyes flicking up.

Izan had expected the return pass, his body ready to spring again—but Merino turned toward the left, spotting Saka in space.

Izan didn't stop moving.

He curved his run to the right, gliding wide like a shadow repositioning in changing light.

Then, he saw it—the next pass forming in Merino's mind.

Saka sprinted to the edge, and pulled Van Dijk slightly toward him.

That was all the room Havertz needed.

The pass came.

Havertz moved to receive it, but so did Van Dijk—shoulder square, stride firm, his eyes fixed on the German's every twitch.

And then Izan exploded.

He dashed inward at an angle, body dropping, knees churning, devouring ground in violent strides.

The ball had only just begun to roll toward Havertz.

But Izan was faster.

In a flash, he reached the lane between pass and player—and instead of letting the ball travel, he met it on the run.

No pause. No touch to set.

He planted.

Ding, [PINPOINT ACCURACY LV 3 Activated]

Ding, [KNUCKLEBALLL LV 3 Activated]

[System detects two traits in use. UNION Protocol Initiated]

And swung.

The boot struck clean.

The sound rang out—a hard, echoing *thunk*, sharp and final.

The entire stadium seemed to freeze for half a breath as the ball tore forward—slicing through the space like it had a purpose far beyond a goal.

"Izan, gone for glory!" Peter Wallace's voice climbed without warning.

The camera would've caught it all—his eyes burning, his follow-through locked in, the net not yet in frame.

And still, the fans rose.

They rose before the ball got there.

Because sometimes, you don't wait for it to go in.

You feel it.

The sound—the crowd, the echo off the boot, the weight behind the strike—it didn't just promise a shot.

It promised something more.

And Izan knew it the second it left his foot.

He stayed planted for a half-second, body extended, eyes tracking its path as everything else in the Emirates Stadium braced.

And the world, for that moment, watched the ball fly.

Kelleher moved late—not from hesitation, but because the ball didn't obey any law he'd seen before.

He dove left, full-stretch, hand extended.

Too late.

The ball struck the inside of the post and kissed the netting with a shiver.

The sound of inevitability.

Then the Emirates cracked open.

"OH MY WORD—HE'S DONE IT! IZAN! FROM A WORLD ONLY HE SEEMS TO SEE! IS THERE ANY DOUBT AT THIS POINT? ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?"

Chairs flipped shut.

Arms launched.

Grown men grabbed strangers.

Every fan who had held their breath through the shot now erupted like they'd never exhaled.

On the bench, Arteta fell to his knees.

His assistants were in the air, hugging, shaking each other by the collar like they couldn't believe it either.

Izan ran, towards the sideline, tearing his shirt off before showing the name behind it to the fans as if to show them who had made the difference.

And they all knew who it was.

Izan

A/n: Last of the day. Have fun reading and I'll see you in a bit with another chapter.