Chapter 526: Football Wizardry

Chapter 526: Football Wizardry

Izan nodded faintly, still on his side, eyes clenched shut as his breathing began to slow.

One sharp inhale, then another—shaky but steadying.

“Just got the wind knocked out,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

The other medic tapped his shoulder.

“Take your time. We’ve got you.”

As they helped him to a seated position, the camera panned to the referee, now organizing the wall at the edge of the box.

“He’s okay,” Peter said.

“It looked bad at first, but Izan’s sitting up. Breathing again. He’ll want to take this himself if they let him.”

“They won’t,” Marsha added. “But you get the sense he might anyway.”

Declan Rice picked up the ball with both hands and looked toward the bench.

Arteta pointed at his temple and said something none of the players could hear over the rising swell of the crowd.

Rice set the ball down, then crouched to adjust his socks—but before he could step back to take the free kick, a hand gently took the ball from him.

Izan.

He was upright again, wincing slightly but walking.

His breathing was back, his face calm.

He pulled up his shirt to wipe the sweat across his face, and there was a faint mark on the side of his ribs where Konaté’s shoulder had collided, but he didn’t seem to notice it anymore.

“You sure?” Rice asked, pausing.

“I’m fine,” Izan said quietly.

His voice was clear now.

Saka walked past him and gave a quick pat on the back of his head.

“Take your time.”

Timber said nothing, just nodded as he jogged away into the box to take his position while Merino tilted his head in Izan’s direction, just for confirmation.

Izan gave him a brief nod in return.

He had all and everything in control.

He placed the ball down carefully, gently spinning it with the edge of his boot until the logo faced outward.

The Liverpool wall was already set, a five-man column of red led by Van Dijk and Konaté, both standing tall, arms pressed to their sides.

Behind them, Caoimhín Kelleher stood on his toes, barking orders, waving his arms frantically.

“Right shoulder up! Closer! Trent, don’t drift!”

The crowd noise hadn’t faded—it had shifted.

It was a hum now, electric and waiting.

Everyone knew Izan might cross this.

He probably should cross this.

But everyone also knew this boy had other ideas, and a lot of them at that.

Up in the booth, the commentators watched in silence for a few seconds, letting the tension speak first.

Then Peter Wallace broke it.

“This is probably too tight to shoot from,” he said, voice low.

“Just outside the box, and at a tight angle. The best option here is to whip it into the far post—hope Gabriel, Partey, or someone else gets on the end of it.”

Marsha’s voice followed, more cautious.

“But look at him. He hasn’t looked toward the box once. He’s not scanning. He’s staring at the goal.”

“He’s made up his mind,” Dion muttered.

“You can see it in how he’s standing. That’s not a decoy posture.”

On the sidelines, Arteta paced three sharp steps and then stopped.

His eyes locked on Izan, unreadable.

He said something to his assistant but didn’t make a gesture.

On the opposite bench, Arne Slot leaned forward in his seat.

He spoke to no one in particular.

“Don’t jump early,” he said softly.

“Please don’t jump early.”

Back on the pitch, Izan adjusted his socks one last time—first the left, then the right—and backed up slowly.

He took three steps away from the ball and then one more to the side.

Everything slowed for him.

Not in the way movies slow down before the hero strikes—but in that eerie, involuntary stillness that sometimes happens before something big.

The noise around him warped.

The breeze across the pitch brushed only his shoulders.

The stretch of grass between him and the goal didn’t feel like twenty-one yards.

It felt like a stage with a target.

And he held the arrows.

Kelleher bounced once on his line, arms loose, knees flexed.

The Liverpool wall shuffled forward an inch, trying to encroach on the space in front of them, but the referee turned, stepped toward them, and barked sharply.

“Back!”

He walked over, put his arm across Van Dijk’s chest, and motioned with his hand, pushing the wall back into position.

His whistle hovered between his lips.

And then he turned away from them and walked back toward Izan.

No one else moved.

And Izan, still standing over the ball, hadn’t blinked.

The referee raised the whistle to his lips.

A sharp, single blast cut through the stadium.

For a second, nothing moved.

Then Izan began his run—no rush, no disguise.

Just a deliberate angle, the type strikers use to arc around defenders.

But he wasn’t curving toward space.

He was shaping the shot before his boot ever touched the ball.

On the touchline, Arne Slot took one step forward.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t breathe.

He had only one thought echoing through his mind: Don’t jump early. Just hold the wall. Don’t give him the angle.

And as if they could hear him, his players listened.

Van Dijk stayed grounded.

Konaté too.

The wall remained rigid, not a twitch in the jump timing.

And that was the mistake.

Kelleher, eyes locked on the ball, anticipated near post.

He shifted half a step left, body already leaning, weight tilted slightly toward the angle most players would choose.

But Izan wasn’t like most players.

He opened his body at the last second, sweeping through with his right foot in a perfect arc.

[Gravity Arc LV 4 and Pinpoint Accuracy LV 3 ACTIVATED]

[UNION PROTOCOL ONLINE]

The ball left his foot as these words, music to Izan, echoed through his mind.

The strike wasn’t violent—it was pure.

A clean curve that bent around the wall, not over it.

The ball carried fast, faster than anyone expected from that angle.

It curved like it was under a spell, held its line like it was pulled by a thread.

Kelleher’s eyes widened too late.

He pushed off—fast, full stretch—but his feet weren’t set.

That tiny lean toward the near post had cost him the spring.

His fingertips grazed the air where the ball had been a second before as the ball kissed the inside of the far post.

The sound was metallic.

Clean.

Almost cruel.

It pinged in like a bullet snapping into a chamber.

And then the net gave way, snapping backward in a ripple of surrender.

For a moment, the Emirates didn’t erupt.

It paused. They weren’t expecting such a feast for the eyes.

The sound that followed wasn’t a cheer—it was detonation.

A cannon fired from the throat of 60,000 people.

“OH MY WORD!” Peter Wallace erupted. “FOOTBALLING WIZARDRY AT ITS FINEST. WHAT DID I TELL YOU? THIS BOY IS MAGICAL!”

“That’s absurd!” Marsha cut in, disbelief in every syllable.

“From that angle? From that distance?! That is sorcery!”

“He’s not supposed to have that shot,” Dion added, nearly laughing.

“He’s supposed to dink that into the box like a good kid. Instead, he bends the laws of physics to his will. This is Absolute Cinema here, Peter!”

Izan didn’t sprint to the corner flag. He jogged slowly, passing by Konate before pointing to the spot where the latter had fouled him, thinking he had the upper hand.

Saka reached him first, wrapping him in a hug so tight it nearly knocked him off balance.

Timber and Martinelli followed, both shouting something incoherent but joyful.

“I’m stating the obvious, but I think Konate will be kicking himself tonight. What a beauty from Izan”

In the VIP section, Hori lost her mind.

She was jumping, screaming, arms flailing, even as Miranda pulled her back by the elbow and Komi tried to hold a hand in front of her face to avoid being caught on the big screen.

Olivia just laughed, letting the moment wash over them all.

Down on the pitch, Liverpool looked like they’d been punched.

Kelleher sat on the ground, both arms stretched wide as if asking the grass what had just happened.

Van Dijk walked slowly back toward the center circle, eyes low, biting the inside of his cheek while Konaté shook his head, still not believing it had beaten them at that angle.

Arne Slot exhaled, the breath leaving him like a lung had collapsed.

“We should have tried harder,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Arteta turned away from the touchline, clapped twice, then looked to his bench.

“Stay calm!” he barked.

“We start again!”

But even he couldn’t stop the flicker of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

Izan jogged back into position, the roar still echoing.

His chest rose and fell once, twice.

Then he adjusted his wrist tape, reset his shoulders, and looked at the ball at the center spot like he’d never left it.

“We’re all square here at the Emirates. Liverpool thought they’d gone ahead, but not for long, as Izan bends one past almost the whole team. 27 minutes played, it’s Arsenal 1, Liverpool 1.”

A/N: First of the day. Imm’a go bed so spam the Golden tickets and I’ll see you with the GT chapter. Byee

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