Chapter 464 - 464 Alien In The Making

464: Alien In The Making.

464: Alien In The Making.

The ball spun out for a throw near the halfway line, ricocheting off Saliba’s foot after a contested aerial with Lookman.

The referee’s whistle cut across the pitch, sharp and sudden.

At first, it seemed routine.

But then the official jogged toward the downed Atalanta man—Koopmeiners, clutching his calf—and motioned for medical staff.

A brief pause in play.

“Water break,” Darren Fletcher announced from the booth.

“A brief breather in what’s been a blistering first twenty minutes.” On the touchlines, both coaches surged forward like coiled springs finally released.

Gian Piero Gasperini wasted no time, rallying his midfielders and forwards together with terse, rapid Italian.

“State stretti!

Pressione più alta!

Izan è il cuore—chiudetelo!” (Stay compact!

Higher pressure!

Izan is the heartbeat—shut him down!) His eyes flicked up the pitch, where Izan stood near the sideline, sipping from a bottle, towel draped around his neck, chest rising and falling, but calm—collected.

Arteta mirrored the urgency in his huddle, crouching slightly as he pointed out shapes and zones on an invisible board.

His voice was low but commanding.

“Good.

Very good.

But stay sharp.

They’re about to raise the line, watch for the double press after each pass.

Izan, keep finding those half spaces, alright?

Keep that rhythm going.” Izan nodded, sweat beading down his temple, one hand resting on his thigh as he listened.

The whistle sounded again.

Play resumed.

Atalanta returned with something different in their gait.

Not just renewed energy—but precision.

Their passes hit tighter angles, their pressing gained half-steps, and their midfield rotated seamlessly, sharper than before.

At first, Izan thought it was the natural tempo shift of a good team responding at home.

But then came a duel.

He moved to collect a loose ball, his body already angled to shield.

Normally, it would’ve been a clean win.

But the Atalanta player—De Ketelaere—closed him down in a blur, poking the ball away with a burst of acceleration that didn’t feel normal.

Not fast.

Not sharp.

Unnatural.

Seconds later, Trossard tried to receive a pass down the line.

It was intercepted—again—with a velocity and reaction time that felt off.

Izan straightened, hands briefly on his hips.

There was something strange in the rhythm now.

Something off.

The spaces that were open ten minutes ago were sealed shut.

The weight of Atalanta’s presence had shifted, like someone had turned up sliders in a video game.

He jogged back into midfield, eyes darting from one player to another.

Then it clicked.

And as the realization struck him, a chill spread down his spine like a cold wire.

He remembered— ⸻ [Some weeks ago] Izan’s eyes were fixed on the holographic menu that floated in front of him.

The dim lights of his room seemed to flicker as if echoing his hesitation.

For a moment, he simply stared at the silhouettes, each representing a path he could choose.

The system, his quiet but ever-present companion, was silent as it waited for his decision.

“Maestro,” Izan muttered to himself, eyeing the first option.

It seemed like the natural choice.

A playmaker at heart, someone who could shape the flow of the game with ease.

Becoming the heartbeat of his team.

He could already picture himself dictating the tempo, making key passes, and orchestrating moves from the wings.

But then, his gaze shifted to the second silhouette: Prodigy.

The description felt almost like a compliment.

“The natural.

Elevate instinct over structure.” Izan had always trusted his instincts on the field.

It felt like the perfect fit, yet something about it didn’t quite feel like the challenge he was looking for.

He was already ahead of the curve.

This wasn’t the next step.

His eyes then landed on the third silhouette.

Catalyst.

Thrive under pressure.

Turn moments into momentum.

Izan’s thoughts lingered on that one for a moment.

He could feel the intensity of those words.

Catalyst was intriguing, but too much of a gamble.

What if it made him too volatile, too reliant on the unpredictable nature of the game?

If he played against a controlling team like Manchester City, he would be done for.

And then, the final option glowed brightly in front of him.

Alien.

His hand hovered over the selection.

The words “increased difficulty in games” flashed on the screen, and instinctively, Izan felt a shiver run down his spine.

This was the hardest path, but also the most rewarding.

There was something about this challenge—this push to compete at the highest level—that spoke to him.

Alien wasn’t just about playing well.

It was about becoming the best, no matter the difficulty.

If he could beat the best, he could be the best.

That idea lingered in his mind, fueling a growing sense of ambition.

Without hesitation, Izan tapped the glowing silhouette of the Alien archetype.

The system confirmed his choice with a soft hum and a new message appeared.

Legacy Path: Alien Passive Ability Gained: Tempo Link Effect: “Your presence improves cohesion.

You are the team.

It will function, but people will notice when you are playing and when you are not.” Izan chuckled softly under his breath, reading the confirmation.

The power it promised was tempting, but the warning attached to it lingered.

Noticeable when you are not playing.

Well, with the system, always playing wasn’t impossible.

………..

[Back to the present] Izan now back in the thick of the match in Bergamo couldn’t help but chuckle wryly as Lookman took the ball deeper into the Atalanta half.

Then, [System Notification] “Disturbance detected.

Alien Path conditions met.

Difficulty parameters for elite competition now engaged.” “Applicable Domains: UEFA Champions League, International Tournaments (Euros, World Cup), and Rival Fixtures.” “Welcome to the path, Alien.” Izan didn’t need an invitation.

Yes, it had to be like this or everything would feel too easy.

Darren Fletcher: “Well, you can feel the atmosphere shift here.

Atalanta seem to have picked up the pace, and look at this, they’re starting to push forward now.

Ademola Lookman with the ball, cutting in from the wing.

This is dangerous…

he’s looking for a chance to turn the game in their favor!” Steve McManamann: “He’s got the pace, the technique…

Lookman could be on for something here.

You can sense the confidence rising in the Atalanta attack.

But wait…

what’s this?

Where did Izan Hernández come from?” “Izan was nowhere near the ball just a second ago…

but out of nowhere, he’s swept in with an absolutely stunning challenge from behind!

It’s like he materialized from thin air!” Izan’s boots slid across the turf, his eyes locked on the ball as Lookman prepared to drive forward.

The Atalanta winger had started to cut inside, aiming for the gap between Arsenal’s defense and midfield.

But before he could shift into a dangerous position, Izan’s instinct kicked in.

In one fluid motion, he darted in from behind, reaching in with a perfectly timed tackle that left Lookman no time to react.

Izan scooped the ball from Lookman’s path, sending it bouncing forward and surged ahead but before he could get into stride, he felt the tug on the back of his shirt.

Lookman, not willing to give up without a fight, held on tightly, trying to slow Izan down.

The shirt stretched under the force of the pull, but Izan refused to be held back.

“Lookman’s still hanging on to his shirt!

He’s trying to stop him, but Izan’s not slowing down!

This is unbelievable—he’s turning this into a solo mission!” The ball was now at Izan’s feet, and the Atalanta defense loomed closer, but he wasn’t going to be denied.

The sight was almost reminiscent of Messi’s runs through opposition defenses—unstoppable, despite the desperate attempts to halt him.

“This is pure magic from Izan Hernández!

Lookman’s holding on for dear life, but Izan is taking the ball with him.

He’s got a clear path to the goal!” The tug on his shirt grew more insistent, but it barely registered in Izan’s mind.

A few fans kept calling for the referee to award a foul, but seeing as Izan wasn’t being stopped, the former let play rage on, giving the advantage sign.

Two defenders stepped up trying to block the path to the goal, but Izan dipped his shoulder, shifted left, and then exploded through the narrowest of gaps.

The sheer force of the movement caused Lookman to finally lose his grip, stumbling behind as Izan broke free, eyes now locked on goal.

He reached the arc of the box, time condensing into a single breath.

Izan knew.

He didn’t wait for a prompt or a command.

He activated it himself, his muscles coiling with focus and control.

[Knuckleball Lv 3] The word echoed like a thunderclap in his mind as his foot connected.

The strike was brutal—clean, flat, and full of unpredictable fury.

The ball left the ground with a hiss, slicing through the air with a venomous swerve.

It didn’t spin like a regular shot.

It wobbled mid-flight, a hovering bullet that danced in the air, swaying left, then right, before violently dipping.

The keeper barely moved.

Frozen.

Uncertain.

One wrong step and he was out of position.

Too late.

A/n: Damn.

Felt goosebumps writing this.

Anyways, last of the day.

Have fun.

I’m trying to compensate for not being able to do the mass release so now i will add 2 more chapters to the normal daily release for 3 days.

Thats as far as I go.

Have fun reading and I’ll see you tomorrow.

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