God Of football-Chapter 627: To Wembley

"Relief for Arsenal," the co-commentator said with breath caught.

"That... was almost a brace for Isak. Inches away from 5–5."

Arteta finally turned to his bench and called towards Cuesta, and the next moment, all eyes turned towards the pitch.

"There he is," the commentator called as Izan rose.

"Finally, he is called upon."

The camera followed the movement—down the touchline, across the back of the dugout, to where Izan had peeled off his jacket and was jogging towards Cuesta.

The doctor approached, checking a few things with Izan as his name rolled off the away fans like thunder in a bottle.

"Izan, Izan, Izan!"

"You’d think he scored already," the co-commentator muttered as the fans kept on calling, the desire to close out the match seeping from their voices.

"Give him five touches," came the reply from his co-commentator.

"He just might," he continued.

Cuesta handed him a final note—a quick tactical detail.

Izan barely glanced at it.

Just nodded, pulled down his sleeves, and waited near the fourth official.

Back on the pitch, Newcastle players stole glances.

Some tried not to look, but they just couldn’t help it.

"Didn’t think they’d risk him," Bruno turned and muttered to Trippier but Trippier didn’t answer.

The board went up.

#10. in green.

Merino, being taken off, walked slowly, in hopes to sway the momentum away from their opponents however the referee caught it and beckoned him to leave the pitch faster.

The fourth official waved him through.

And Izan stepped onto the grass like it was always meant to happen this way.

"Listen to that," the lead commentator said, voice low but tinged with awe.

"He hasn’t touched the ball, and yet—look at them."

The cameras panned to the Newcastle fans, once raucous, now wary.

And then to the Arsenal fans behind the goal—singing, louder now.

Because chaos had knocked and Arsenal?

They had just opened the door.

And let in the Chaos, personified.

...

It wasn’t immediate.

Not a lightning bolt.

Not some divine fanfare.

But the tempo bent the moment he touched the ball again.

Izan stood near the halfway line, palms resting on his hips, head slightly tilted, eyes scanning, and weighing his options even before he got the ball.

Eventually, it came rolling in from Rice, slow and routine.

Izan moved, took his first touch, with the outside of his boot, and just that opened a world of possibilities.

Joe Willock was tasked with staying on Izan, but he quickly realised that it was easier said than done.

Izan, moved to the left, eyes and body facing that direction but his feet were saying something else.

Willock, looking at Izan’s posture moved to the left to block the path but Izan just spun into the space he had left behind before he began driving forward.

Newcastle dropped instinctively.

Not out of fear but out of recognition that something might just be simmering.

Trippier checked his shoulder twice while Schär gestured wildly, calling for the low block.

Burn, Izan’s next victim, started to step, then froze but he was already late in figuring out what was happening.

Izan glided past him, acceleration booming as Burn felt a gust of wind up his face.

He turned to follow Izan, but the moment he turned, Izan was returning from his feint.

He turned a defender on the edge—spun him like a compass with no north—and drove straight into the box, leaving the veteran face first on the grass.

Two defenders crashed toward him, hoping to block what they thought might be a shot from Izan, but it didn’t come.

There was a murmur from the crowd.

The kind that comes when people expect something devastating and aren’t ready for it.

He chopped it with his right, pulled it back with his left, then poked a disguised reverse ball into Havertz’s stride, whose shot was blocked.

But the ball bounced up—awkward, spin-heavy, unpredictable.

Joelinton, free and with space, moved to take a hold of the ball but, the blur of red and white made him slow down.

The ball hadn’t landed, but Izan had already shaped his body.

The ball wasn’t going to drop.

He hopped, before following through the ball with an effort meant for a different stage.

Nick Pope, blinded by the chaos inside the box, could only watch as the net bulged behind him.

"Izannn, he is that good! His first shot of the game, but it doesn’t matter. And just like that—it’s 6–4 on aggregate! The margin returns to two, and Newcastle’s efforts have been snapped into dust by this, man, this boy, this little phenom!"

Newcastle players stood still, heads turning like they’d lost track of the score.

And maybe they had.

Because if you didn’t know better, you’d think Arsenal were the ones trailing—judging by how Izan marched straight into the net, scooped the ball, and turned.

Pope reached out—almost instinctively, like he wasn’t sure if he should stop him.

Izan just took it, tucked it under one arm, and jogged back like he was hunting a comeback that didn’t exist.

The crowd buzzed, a ripple of confusion.

Arteta—who should’ve been relieved—just shook his head and chuckled.

"Of course he did," he muttered to Cuesta.

At midfield, Izan didn’t let anyone else place the ball.

He set it himself.

Just the ball, the circle, and him— a few metres away from it, like he was about to restart a war.

"Newcastle should have been the ones to rush the restart, but it seems Izan is in more of a hurry than they are."

The Newcastle players strolled to restart as Eddie Howe, from the bench, yelled at his men to restart quickly, but he would’ve wished he hadn’t, because the moment Newcastle kicked off again, it was detrimental.

Bruno Guimarães didn’t sense him early enough.

He received the pass with his back to play, shielded his body like he always did—but Izan was already closing.

He came in like a falcon.

One smooth step around the blind side, a shift of balance so subtle you’d miss it in real-time—and just like that, the ball was gone.

Like it had been handed to him.

From there, Izan didn’t explode.

He unfolded.

Accelerating in strides that made no sense.

Each touch felt gentle, almost lazy, but the space he covered was surgical.

Blades of grass blurred beneath his boots as defenders began to scramble, late, and unsettled.

Joelinton reached for a foul, but he missed.

Murphy backpedalled, but it was futile.

Izan floated through the gap like vapour.

Schär stood up, body square, tracking like a man who’d seen every tape of Izan.

Who thought he’d studied enough, and the truth wasn’t far off from that.

But what came next wasn’t on any screen.

Izan shifted weight to his left, let the ball run almost too far, baiting

Schär into a lunge.

That was all Izan needed.

With one drag of the studs, a faint twist of the hips, and a slight nudge towards Schär, the ball snuck through the sliver of daylight between the defender’s boots.

"Ow, wow," the commentator called out, but WOW, didn’t do what was happening justice.

Pope had done the math.

He rushed out early, arms wide, knees bent.

He was ready for a shot. Ready for anything.

But Izan didn’t shoot.

He watched, slowed just slightly and let Pope commit.

Let him fall into the delusion that he could do something about this, but Izan broke his delusion with a side step and a drag to the, slipping the ball through the arms of Pope on the grass.

Then came the kill.

Izan didn’t even glance down.

He knew where the ball would be.

Now on his left foot, angle narrowing, defenders converging behind—but too far, too late.

He opened his body, picked his spot, and slapped it.

Low and hard into the inside of the side netting.

The ball hit the net.

The stadium exhaled. Slowly.

And then—

Explosion.

The away end erupted like a fire, finally finding oxygen.

"OH MY WORD," came the voice from the gantry.

"Two goals and thriving. Surely now, beyond all doubt, Arsenal are joining Liverpool in this season’s edition of the Carabao Cup final. Izan Hernandez. What do you even say?"

On the pitch, Newcastle heads turned, but their feet stayed still.

Izan, as if trolling, moved to grab the ball from the net again, but Saka met him halfway and slapped the ball out of his hands before pointing towards the corner flag.

Izan chuckled, showing expression for the first time since coming on before he wrapped an arm around Saka, jogging towards the away end before sliding in front of the home fans.

"It’s over, but the party might not be over. How many more could this man want? I don’t know, but I’m sure Newcastle are praying for the whistle more than Arsenal were a few instances ago."

Izan slowly got back up from the grass as his mates hurled themselves on top of him.

The referee gestured after a while for the restart, but there was nothing left to restart.

A/N: Okay, guys. I’ve been feeling that the Novel has dropped a lot in quality from a few Chapters ago. I would like to take a hiatus to rediscover things, but as a reader myself, I don’t like it when books or Manhwa’s I’m reading, pause, so I’m reducing the release count so I can find time to guarantee the quality while experimenting Behind The Scenes. I’ll try to get over this phase quickly so I can come back with much better content. Thanks for the support, and I hope you will continue with it. Love Y’all and thanks for the comments and suggestions. Never shy away from mentioning something that you think could help bring up the quality of the book

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