Chapter 517: Trailblazer

Chapter 517: Trailblazer

The front door creaked open with a stiff pull, and he stepped inside, shaking off his umbrella in short, sharp flicks.

Rain clung to his coat, droplets pattering onto the mat as his tired hands reached to hang it on the hook.

From down the hallway came the soft click of claws against tile.

Then a rush of fur and paws.

“Hey, buddy,” he muttered with a worn smile as his golden retriever greeted him with a wagging tail and a cold nose against his leg.

He gave the dog a quick rub behind the ears before stepping inside, the door shutting with a gentle thud behind him.

The house was dim, still. No dinner clatter. No music.

Just the glow of the television seeping from the living room ahead, and the voice of a commentator weaving through the silence like it was part of the air.

“…and honestly, you look at the way this match has unfolded—it’s almost impossible to explain how it’s still level…”

He stepped into the living room, loosening the top button of his collar as his wife turned slightly on the couch, just enough to acknowledge him with a glance.

She sat with her legs folded beneath her, a blanket draped over her lap, and on either side of her, the kids were pressed into the cushions—two boys, maybe ten and twelve, and their little sister between them, clutching a pillow against her chest.

None of them looked away from the screen.

His eyes flicked to the scoreboard: ARS 1 – 1 SHK | 77:04, and still counting.

He let out a soft scoff and dropped his bag by the wall.

“A draw’s got you all glued to the screen like that?” he said, voice half amused, half baffled.

“Shhh,” his wife whispered without turning her head, hand flicking out toward him like a conductor guiding silence.

He chuckled under his breath and sank into the armchair beside them, shoes still on, socks damp from the walk home.

Just then, the graphic slid onto the screen—clean, clinical, brutal.

Shots: Arsenal 31 | On Target: 22 | Saves: Shakhtar 11

His brow furrowed as the commentator picked up again, the tone shifting—less awe, more disbelief.

“…and those numbers… I mean, it’s dominance bordering on absurd. You create thirty-one chances, you hit the target twenty-two times, and still… still they can’t find a second goal. And what do you even say about the Shakhtar keeper? Eleven saves, and counting. It’s………”

……

Back at the stadium, the roar had returned—not at full volume, but as a constant hum, restless and circling, like a storm waiting to break again.

Izan had the ball at his feet.

The camera tightened on him as he scanned the field, sweat running down his temple, eyes sharp.

He nudged the ball forward with the outside of his boot, gliding past the first marker.

The commentator’s voice crackled through the tension, dry and a little breathless: “Well, maybe the thirty-second time’s the charm…”

Izan cut in again, only for three Shakhtar shirts to collapse around him.

They came fast, angles closing, feet jabbing in unison.

A flash of pressure, one heartbeat too long, and they’d strip him of possession, but he stayed cool like he always did.

With a twist, he slipped the ball to Merino just outside the arc—calm, balanced—who returned it first-touch, almost instinctively.

Izan caught it in stride, didn’t hesitate, and with the inside of his boot, slid it straight between the legs of the defender lunging in—smooth, almost disrespectful.

Gasps echoed around the stadium as the ball rolled ahead into space, and Martinelli, fresh-legged, razor-sharp, exploded forward to meet it.

He’d come on for Havertz only minutes earlier, and it showed in the burst he gave down the flank.

One-on-one and the crowd rose in anticipation once more like they had been doing all match, with one side praying for a goal and another praying that they do not concede.

Martinelli feinted left, cut right, and tried to pull his marker off balance, but the Shakhtar defender stayed with him, step for step, eyes locked, body turned just enough to funnel him toward the touchline.

Another defender dropped into the lane, cutting off the pass before a third hovered to intercept a switch.

It was a wall.

Impossibly tight.

Disciplined and Coordinated.

Martinelli had no choice but to turn back, recycling possession to Izan, who took a touch and fired a pass toward Saka on the opposite wing—only for a Shakhtar boot to dart out and flick it clear.

The ball skidded out of bounds, with the camera panning wide— as it showed the whole pitch, a canvas of movement and exhaustion.

Then the whistle came. Sharp.

The referee raised his hand.

Water break.

Players squatted and some knelt, while others walked slowly to the touchline, heads bowed, sucking in the humid air.

Coaches shouted instructions, but most just nodded, barely absorbing them.

Shirts clung to backs, and the field was soaked in sweat and rainfall.

Cleats left deep, muddy prints across the turf.

From the commentary box, the tone had shifted again—quieter now, almost reverent.

“You can’t say Arsenal aren’t trying. This isn’t a lack of ideas. It’s a siege. It’s wave after wave. But Shakhtar… they’re not just holding. They’re growing into it. It’s defensive poetry at this point.”

The camera found Izan standing alone near the halfway line, chest rising and falling, head tilted slightly toward the sky.

For just a moment, it felt like the entire match was suspended, hanging by a thread, and all were waiting to see when it would snap.

Arteta crouched low, hands gesturing in quick, clipped motions.

He spoke fast, eyes sweeping his players, voice low but forceful—cut the gaps, keep the width, stay brave.

Then he paused. Looked around.

“Anyone need off? Be honest.”

Nobody raised a hand.

He stood, exhaled, and nodded once.

That was enough.

The referee’s whistle blew again, sharp and quick, and they were back to it.

Arsenal resumed from the throw-in near midfield.

Saka took the ball and tossed it lightly into Ben White’s path, who brought it down, but was met immediately by a hard press.

The touch was heavy, and a second Shakhtar player pounced, wrenching the ball free before bolting away.

White turned and gave chase, but the orange kits were already surging forward, gambling on the broken rhythm.

Shakhtar snapped passes across the field—two touches, then one.

The ball moved like it had a plan.

They managed to work it wide, then cut back inside, and suddenly, they were now they were in Arsenal’s third.

The tempo had flipped, and the air tightened.

Number eleven—Kevin—fresh legs, clean boots, eyes alight—cut in from the right and didn’t hesitate.

He let it fly from twenty yards, low and curling.

Raya exploded to his left, full stretch.

Fingertips pushing the ball out of the danger zone.

The crowd gasped as the ball deflected just wide.

Corner.

“What a save!” one of the commentators hissed, the tension catching in his throat.

“Kevin almost shattered the deadlock, and Raya—Raya keeps Arsenal alive with a world-class reach! Arsenal have been knocking all night, but they were almost caught out.”

Shakhtar smelled blood.

From the touchline, they made a switch.

Off came a midfielder, on came the towering Alaa Grahm—a six-foot-three center-back turned weapon.

The corner curled in, perfect weight, spinning through the air like it knew where it wanted to land.

Alaa rose.

Beat Gabriel to the jump.

Met it with a thunderous header.

The net seemed destined to bulge.

But from nowhere—Calafiori.

Sliding in behind the keeper, body twisting, boot stretched—

He cleared it off the line.

“Oh, my days! Cleared off the line! Calafiori! From absolutely nowhere!” the commentator roared, words tripping over each other.

The crowd hadn’t even finished reacting before everything flipped.

The clearance didn’t just relieve pressure—it ignited it.

Because Izan was there.

At the edge of Arsenal’s box, alone.

He took one touch, controlled it.

The ball was rolling.

Then he ran.

He nudged it ahead of him, not far, just enough to let it kiss the grass and skip forward.

“Wait—look at Izan—he’s gone!”

The commentary raced to catch up.

“That’s pace—no, that’s devastation—how did we forget how fast he is?!”

He blazed past the halfway line as one Shakhtar defender gave chase, legs churning, but Izan was already past him.

He didn’t dribble anymore—he launched the ball just ahead of him and chased it like it was prey.

The last Shakhtaer man stepped up, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Izan knocked the ball past him too, straight into space, wide open.

Now came Riznyk.

The keeper sprinted off his line, low and fast, hands already reaching, trying to get there first, trying to shut the angle, to smother the miracle.

It was a race.

Just legs and instinct.

The stadium was holding its breath as it tried to guess who would reach the ball first but it was almost like the away fans were denying reality because from the moment Izan got the ball, nobody was going to take it away.

With the calm of a killer, Izan nudged it right, just wide enough to take it around Riznyk.

The keeper lunged—and missed.

The ball slowed.

Izan didn’t.

He swept around the flailing arms, arms already rising—not in plea, but in celebration.

The Emirates stood to its feet like it had been yanked by a string.

He opened his arms wide, flying, and then—calmly, deliberately—kicked the ball into the empty goal.

2-1.

“He’s done it. Again. Izan has ripped this game apart. From a goal-line clearance to a solo thunderbolt—Arsenal lead, and the world has just been reminded who this boy is!”

The camera found him, arms out, face to the sky, swallowed by the noise.

A pure footballing phenomenon.

A/N: Hello guys, first chapter of the day. Have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a few hours with the second chapter and probably the last chapter of the day unless something like a Golden Ticket rush happens. Anyways, have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a bit. Also, be sure to check out my novel, Harbinger Of Glory.

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