God Of football

"Alright," he whispered, almost to himself. "Let's see it."

Then, with a small, deliberate motion, he pressed the button as the screen exploded into light.

.....

"Uh, what is this?" Izan muttered as the light that had almost blinded him subsided.

He found himself inside a stadium, but it felt more like a colosseum, and the noise had already begun to fade by the time Izan sat down.

He didn't remember walking to the edge of the pitch, but he now found himself in a chair, which he had just seen.

The screen came back and then flickered somewhere in his mind, golden light threading across the blackness.

The familiar hum of the system rose from deep within his chest.

And then —

✦ LEGEND LEVEL 5 UNLOCKED ✦

For a moment, Izan thought it was a glitch since this wasn't how the system rewarded, and the manner of the reward wasn't the same as always, as he soon found his hands were trembling too much.

But the voice, calm, patient, a mix between something neutral and his father's voice, came through clearer than ever before.

SYSTEM: "Reward — CROWN OF REALITY [Mythic Passive].

'When the game ends for others, it begins for him.'"

Izan's breath caught.

His pulse slowed.

"Crown of… Reality?" he repeated under his breath, barely forming the words.

The system didn't respond immediately, as if letting him absorb the title and the gravity behind it.

Then, it spoke again, not loud, but resonant enough that it felt like it was echoing inside his skull.

[You've reached the highest coherence between will and motion.

The world, for a moment, will follow your rhythm, not by power, but by truth.

You will not get stronger. The world will simply stop lying.]

He frowned slightly, unsure whether to laugh or stay silent.

"Stop lying?"

[Yes. Football, like all things, hides behind chaos, deflections, luck, and chance.

But for 30 seconds, the illusion collapses.

The ball moves exactly how you mean it to.

The pitch becomes what you see, not what exists. And the ball exists solely for you.]

Izan stared at the grass beneath him, his fingers digging lightly into the turf.

Thirty seconds. Just thirty seconds. "And after?"

[After comes recoil. The world reclaims its balance.

Your senses will slow, fatigue, experience vertigo, and disorientation.

A small price deemed for bending the thread of causality.]

He chuckled softly. "So… no infinite power then."

T[here never was. Only clarity.]

The words hung there, longer than they should have.

And as he sat beneath the glow of the stadium, the meaning began to sink in.

He could become the pure, unfiltered alignment between intent and outcome, across a span of half a minute.

"When the game ends for others," he whispered, tracing the words the system had spoken, "it begins for him…"

[Because while others play to win, you play to redefine.]

The system added, with faint streams of gold folding through the dark, outlining faint memories: Madrid, Barcelona, the Basque, North London.

All the moments that had shaped him into something unrecognisable from the boy who first touched a ball on a dirt pitch.

He exhaled deeply. "So, it can be triggered only once per match?"

[Yes. And only when all else collapses, defeat imminent, morale broken.

It responds to emotion, not command. It requires pain, conviction… or love.]

He smiled faintly. "Love, huh? That's rare for a football system."

[Reality responds to emotion, not numbers. That is what makes it human.]

He looked up then, the crowd still singing somewhere in the distance, but it felt detached, muffled, almost unreal.

But Izan sat still.

The silence around him felt sacred.

He whispered quietly, "So… this is what it means to bend reality."

[Not bend], the system corrected.

[Reveal. The world does not change; you do. For thirty seconds, you see football without illusion.]

He thought about that, how many players had lived and died by the inches of deflections, the cruel bounce of the ball, the invisible hand of fortune.

And here he was, being told that, for a fleeting heartbeat, all of it could be stripped away.

"Then what does this mean," he murmured, "for the game itself?"

[It means football will never be the same, as long as you exist.

For every match you play, the world tilts slightly, toward truth.]

He almost laughed at the absurdity, but something inside him knew it wasn't a metaphor.

It was literal.

The Crown of Reality wasn't about domination; it was about inevitability, something he was becoming very well associated with.

He tilted his head slightly, whispering, "And if I use it too often?"

[You risk collapse. Mental burnout. Emotional fatigue. Reality resists permanence, even for gods.]

He stared into the empty space, watching as the text dissolved slowly from his vision, replaced by a single final line, glowing softly in silver-white:

"Some players master the game.

A few become the game.

You made the world watch itself through your eyes."

The screen faded as the hum disappeared, with Izan finding himself back in his bed.

"Such drama," he muttered, with a slight smirk, before setting his head on the pillow and then sleeping.

....

Three days later, North London was unrecognisable.

Shutters stayed down, cafés had handwritten signs reading "Closed for the Parade", and the air itself seemed to hum with colour.

Streets that usually buzzed with traffic now overflowed with red flags, shirts, scarves, and faces painted with the cannon crest.

From a narrow doorway in Holloway, a woman leaned out, tugging gently at her husband's sleeve.

"Make sure you look after him, yeah?" she said, her voice half drowned by the distant chant already swelling down the high street. "I know you have both waited long for this."

Her husband smiled, adjusting the scarf around their son's neck.

"Don't worry, love," he said softly, ruffling the boy's hair. "We won't miss a thing."

The boy's eyes were wide, the kind that could barely contain wonder.

In his small hand, he held a flag almost bigger than himself.

Together, they joined the flow, a moving sea of supporters all headed in one direction, drawn by the same invisible pull.

And then, the sound hit them.

A rolling roar that trembled through the ground, growing louder with every step.

The red bus came into view from the corner of the street, slow, towering, unstoppable.

People screamed, phones shot up, children sat on shoulders, and for a brief moment, every worry in the city vanished.

On top of the bus, four trophies gleamed under the pale sun — the Premier League, the FA Cup, the Carabao Cup, and the Champions League.

The full sweep.

Four from four.

The father stopped walking.

He just stared.

He had dreamed of moments like this since he was a boy, through seasons of heartbreak and rebuilding and false dawns.

But to see it now, to see Arsenal like this, it almost didn't feel real.

The chants grew louder.

Players leaned over the rails, waving flags, tossing scarves and shirts into the crowd.

Some fans, wild with joy, climbed lampposts and traffic lights, reaching out desperately just to touch a piece of that red blur passing by.

Down the street, the air was thick with smoke from flares, red and white confetti, and the echo of songs that every generation of Gooners seemed to know by heart.

Near the front of the bus, Odegaard stood with one arm around Saka, both laughing as the crowd's roar shook the rooftops, while Nwaneri sprayed a bottle of champagne into the crowd, just as Rice did.

The rest of the players were all in their elements and in the middle, leaning on the rail, calm and quiet beneath a sky of flashing cameras, Izan Miura Hernández.

Just watching and breathing it in as the bus slowed.

A voice from somewhere below began a chant, hesitant at first, then louder as the crowd joined in, tens of thousands of voices rolling together in rhythm.

"Four from four!

We've got four from four!

Please ask, Tottenham, what's the score?!"

The entire street erupted, laughter mixing with the chant until it became pure delirium.

Odegaard grabbed a microphone, his grin stretched wide, trying to calm the chaos.

"Alright, alright! Easy! We're not done yet!"

He looked over his shoulder, eyes landing on Izan, and held out the mic to him.

The crowd noticed and began chanting his name instantly.

"I-ZAN! I-ZAN! I-ZAN!"

He hesitated for a second, then stepped forward, taking the mic with both hands.

The sound was deafening now, a living wave pressing against the bus from every side.

Izan brought the mic close to his mouth, the fans at the front leaning forward, the entire crowd falling into a tense, electric hush for the first time all day.

He opened his mouth to speak.

And before a single word could leave him, the roar hit again.

Louder than anything before.

He lowered the mic slowly, smiling.

No speech could compete with that.

From the ground, the boy clutched his father's arm, his face glowing red from flare smoke and excitement.

"Dad!" he shouted above the chaos, "He didn't even talk!"

The father just laughed, a full, unfiltered laugh.

"He doesn't need to, son," he said, looking up at Izan as the bus began to move again, the trophies glinting above him.

"The whole city's already speaking for him."