Chapter 296: Lifeline

The Stuttgart Arena was frozen in time. Even the German fans, still basking in their lead, couldn’t look away.

Izan took his stance, body coiled like a spring, eyes locked on the ball. The stadium lights bathed the pitch in a golden glow, illuminating the moment.

Behind the goal, Spanish supporters clutched scarves to their faces, barely able to watch.

Some murmured silent prayers. Others stood still, breathless, waiting.

In the German wall, Rüdiger and Kimmich exchanged tense glances. Neuer bounced on his toes, arms outstretched, calculating.

Martin Tyler:

"Two minutes left. This… this might be Spain’s last chance."

"Every single pair of eyes in this stadium—on him. Every Spanish heart—praying for a miracle, me included" Cesc Fabregas said fidgeting behind the pundit counter.

"Well is Spain going to bow out of the euros or is there going to be something we haven’t seen before"

The stadium held its breath, a vast sea of red and white, of tension and prayer.

In the Spanish dugout, De la Fuente stood frozen, eyes locked on the ball. His entire staff stood beside him, unmoving. No one spoke. No one breathed.

On the other side, Nagelsmann had his arms folded, his sharp gaze fixed on the scene before him, eyes narrowing.

The referee’s whistle had blown.

Izan took his first step.

The world—watching.

The Spanish fans—pleading.

The German wall—bracing.

Neuer—poised.

Izan’s body shaped as though he was going to curl the ball into the box. The German defenders tensed, expecting an aerial duel.

But then—

Instead of striking it, Izan nudged the ball sideways.

Straight to Pedri.

Gasps rippled through the stadium. A collective intake of breath.

Pedri stood just beside the German wall, the ball rolling toward him, his right foot poised—

And then—

A flick.

A delicate, effortless flick, lifting the ball off the ground.

Everything slowed.

The world stopped turning.

[Earlier]

Izan, eyes burning, whispering under the stadium floodlights.

"I’m going to pass it to you."

Pedri had blinked, startled. "What?"

"Lift it for me."

A pause. Pedri stared at him. "You want me to—?"

"Trust me."

Pedri had exhaled, shaking his head. "You’re insane."

But then he’d looked into Izan’s eyes, and despite everything—

He believed him.

[Now—back in the present—]

The ball was in the air.

Floating.

Rising above the grass, inches from perfection.

Izan’s mind was blank. His body, however, was electric.

The system inside him activated—

VOLLEY INSTINCT [EX] – activated.

Trait description

"A moment of perfect control. When the ball is airborne, the world slows."

Izan’s eyes sharpened.

Every calculation snapped into place. The angle. The drop. The movement.

One step forward—

Twist.

Body alignment—perfect.

Left foot—planted.

Right foot—coiled, loaded, primed like a gun.

Then— he released it.

CRACK.

The sound cut through the night like a gunshot.

A rocket. A bullet. A perfect connection.

The ball tore through the air.

Neuer saw it. His reflexes kicked in.

His arms shot out— prying for the save.

The ball moved—unstoppable.

The world—watched.

Izan—held his breath.

The ball was moving but it felt like an eternity with the gazes of some of the fans alternating from Izan’s shot to Neuer’s stretch.

Izan’s frozen gaze. Neuer’s fingers stretching. The ball’s relentless path.

Nagelsmann’s expression tightened.

De la Fuente’s jaw clenched.

The Spanish bench—on their feet.

The German bench—motionless.

And then—

Martin Tyler:

"OH MY—!"

Time slowed to a crawl.

Neuer still—diving.

The ball—blurring through the air, a missile streaking toward its destination.

Neuer’s gloved fingers stretched, reaching—

A desperate swipe—

Did he get it?

Did he stop it?

The entire stadium watched in stunned silence.

Izan—watched.

The ball was past Neuer.

And then—

The net.

Did it move?

Did it bulge?

Did it go in?

And then—

The explosion.

"GOOOOAAAAALLLLLAAAASSSSOOOO"

The sound of the Spanish fans detonating all at once, a deafening roar of pure disbelief and unfiltered euphoria.

The net had rippled.

Spain had scored.

The camera flickered between shots—Neuer’s body on his he floor, Izan’s frozen expression, the Spanish bench’s collective gasp, Nagelsmann’s tightening jaw, and De la Fuente’s blooming smile

The players on the pitch erupted.

Lamine Yamal sprinted toward Izan, arms wide, his face a picture of sheer joy while Nico Williams followed, yelling incoherently.

Izan still hadn’t moved.

Still hadn’t breathed.

The ball had left his foot.

And now it was in.

His ears rang from the noise.

His body felt weightless.

Then—contact.

Pedri crashed into him, arms around his shoulders.

"YOU’RE NOT REAL!" he shouted into Izan’s ear.

Then came Rodri, Dani Olmo, Cucurella—swarming him, hands gripping his jersey, shaking him, screaming his name.

The bench had cleared.

De la Fuente had his hands in his hair, disbelief etched across his face.

Luis Enrique, Spain’s former manager watching from the stands, just mouthed, "Wow."

The camera then cut to Nagelsmann—his expression unreadable, his arms still crossed, his jaw tight.

And Neuer—

Still sitting in the net, staring at the ball, his gloved hands resting on his knees.

He had thrown everything at it.

And still—

Izan had beaten him.

"IZAN HERNANDEZ … HAS JUST SET EURO 2024 ON FIRE! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? FORGET THE KOPA’S, GIVE THIS BOY THE BALLON D’OR ALREADY. A BOY IN A MAN’S WORLD. IZAN IS THE NEW NORMAL"

Spain was in Euphoria, Germany in Desperation

Across Spain, chaos reigned.

In Madrid, bars turned into battlegrounds of celebration. Glasses clashed midair, beer foamed over tabletops, and strangers clung to each other, screaming.

Some had climbed onto stools, waving jerseys over their heads, while others collapsed to their knees in disbelief, hands on their faces.

In Valencia, La Cartuja, and Seville, fireworks cracked through the night. Streets flooded with fans, flags draped over shoulders, car horns blaring in an endless rhythm of celebration.

In Barcelona, the famous Plaça Catalunya had become a sea of red and yellow. Thousands of fans chanted Izan’s name like a war anthem, their voices carrying through the city.

—Tokyo, Japan.

At home, Hori buried her face into Komi’s shoulder, her small body trembling. Tears poured freely, but her lips curled into a wide, shaky smile.

"He did it," she whispered. "He actually did it."

Komi, overwhelmed, held her tighter, her own eyes glassy. She didn’t say anything—just ran a hand through Hori’s hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Still in Japan, a small Izan fan club, gathered in a sports bar, had erupted in madness.

One fan, wearing a jersey three sizes too big, screamed into his phone while replaying the goal.

"IZAN-KUN! SUGOIIIII!"

........

Back in Stuttgart, the Spanish bench was still celebrating. Players had cleared their seats, their joy uncontainable.

De la Fuente, usually composed, had his hands on his head. His mouth moved, but words failed him.

Assistant coach Pablo Amo grabbed his shoulders. "We’re not done yet!"

Because—on the pitch—Germany were already waiting.

The referee blew his whistle.

"VAMOS, VAMOS! BACK TO POSITION!"

No time to breathe.

Kroos had the ball under his arm, his expression cold, unreadable. Müller who had been subbed on clapped aggressively, barking at his teammates.

Nagelsmann was shouting now. His calm demeanor? Gone.

"DREI MINUTEN! GO! GO! GO!"

Germany had been stabbed.

Now, they wanted revenge.

They threw everything forward.

Kimmich tapped the ball to Gündoğan. Spain barely had time to settle before Germany struck.

A pass—direct. Vertical. Ruthless.

Musiala darted forward, his close control mesmerizing, slipping between defenders like a shadow. Pedri, legs spent, gave chase, but couldn’t catch him.

Florian Wirtz hovered, waiting for the final pass.

A one-two between Gündoğan and Kroos—Germany were already in the final third.

The Spanish dugout screamed.

Rodri and Laporte organized the backline, barking orders. Dani Olmo tracked back, lungs burning.

But Germany were faster. Hungrier.

Kroos chipped the ball over the top.

Musiala—one touch. Two touches.

He squared it—

"WIRTZ." Martin Tyler screamed.

HE STRUCK IT!

DEFLECTION!

The ball spun wildly, curling toward the post.

The stadium gasped as Muller tried to reach the ball but Rodri’s last-ditch tackle sent happened.

Bodies collided. The ball ricocheted—

And rolled dangerously toward the sideline.

Out?

No.

Because a blur of red and blue exploded into the scene.

IZAN.

He was moving like a bullet, cutting across the pitch like lightning.

German fans previously chanting along their team’s attack were now screaming for the whistle.

The referee glanced at his watch slightly keeping the German fans hopeful.

The ball was inches from crossing the throwline but still, the referee kept—silent.

Izan stretched. His right boot met the ball just before it crossed keeping the ball out of bounds.

A collective gasp rang.

The Stuttgart Arena held its breath.

Izan didn’t stop.

He turned. He ran.

It was now just Rudiger between him and Neuer.

Ding, [Speedster trait: activated]

As if entering a higher plane of existence, Izan bolted away from Sane making the Bayern speedster look like a snail.

Rudiger suddenly caught between approaching and staying put couldn’t get much time to think as Izan galloped across the pitch, bringing the fight to him.

Finally choosing what to do, Rüdiger acted.

A/n:" I guess this is it. Thanks for going through this with me and I’ll cherish every moment I have with you" is what I would say if I were your bf/gf and we were breaking up but unfortunately, you’re stuck with me💀. Anyways, guess what happens next if your favorite writer ends the next chapter or keeps milking it like the genius he is. Have fun and Grant me your gifts and Golden tickets. Alright. Good night, morning and afternoon.