Chapter 561: He Already Is

It was a primetime rebroadcast on a major football network, revisiting the ceremony three weeks past.

It played with dramatic cuts—Bonmatí’s win, Rodri holding the trophy, the still of Izan in his midnight-black suit, stone-faced and radiant under golden lights.

Then came the post-show panel.

A sleek modern set.

A London skyline through tinted glass.

Three pundits sat around the circular desk, lights gleaming off the polished surface.

The host, Cara Eastwood, turned to the one on her right, raising a brow.

“Alright, let’s just go straight to it—Rodri won. But this young man,” she gestured to the screen behind them, where Izan’s highlight reel played, “hasn’t left the headlines. Still. Thoughts?”

“Here’s my issue,” said Martin Yeats, leaning back, arms crossed.

His grey suit fit too well and his voice had too much bite.

“Izan’s talented. No question. Possibly the best teen we’ve seen since Pele, as some say.”

“But,” he added, lips thinning, “the Ballon d’Or isn’t a talent competition. It’s about output. Longevity. Dominance” he stretched out the last part.

“And you can’t give it to a seventeen-year-old who’s had one elite-level season. It’s not a TikTok poll. It’s the most prestigious award in football,” he continued.

Cara blinked, almost like the words she was hearing were a joke.

“One elite-level season where he won the Golden Boot in La Liga, drove Valencia to a Copa del Rey win, the Player of the Tournament at the Euros, matched Platini’s record, and now, has 17 goals and 10 assists in 16 league matches in England. And not to forget, he’s the Champions League top scorer with 10 goals in 6 games. That one?”

Yeats smiled without warmth.

“Stats are nice. But moments define legacies. Rodri dominated midfields every week, in the Prem, in Europe, in the Euros.”

“He made systems work. Izan? He’s a firework. Bright, spectacular, unforgettable—but he could still fizzle.”

The third pundit, Kojo Mensah, leaned forward.

“That’s not fair, Martin. He didn’t fizzle against Monaco. He didn’t fizzle when he put Pickford in his place. He didn’t fizzle when he lobbed Henderson from halfway just previously. What else do you want? Blood?”

Yeats shrugged.

“No. Just time. I want time. Give me a second season. Give me scars. Longevity breeds greatness. Not just narrative.”

Cara narrowed her eyes.

“You sound like you’ve got a vendetta.”

Yeats smirked.

“No vendetta. I just know hype when I see it. Let the kid become the greatest before we crown him.”

The camera panned out, Izan’s face still on the screen behind them.

A pause hung in the air like smoke.

“Or maybe,” Kojo said softly, “he already is.”

…..

Izan, oblivious to the story about him, stirred slowly, his body cocooned in warmth and silence.

The soreness came first—like it always did after matches like that.

Deep in his thighs, along his spine, through his shoulders.

The kind of ache you didn’t just sleep off but did something about.

Olivia’s arm curled around his waist, her breath soft against his back.

He glanced down and smiled.

She was still tucked into him like she belonged there, and he didn’t have the heart to shift her.

But the stiffness in his joints disagreed.

Carefully, he peeled himself free and stood, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms above his head as he walked barefoot into the bathroom.

The tiles were cold but his feet didn’t care.

He opened the small mirrored cabinet—not for toothpaste, but for something hidden in a corner of his mind.

[Inventory accessed.]

Two small flasks appeared in his hand.

One—shimmering blue; the other, a pulsing amber glow.

[Conditioning Fluid]

[Recovery Fluid]

He unscrewed both and downed them simultaneously, the fluids swirling in his throat with the familiar zing of alchemy done right.

Relief washed over his body as it digested the contents of the two flasks.

Then came the third.

A dark silver vial.

Unused.

Untouched.

Until now.

[Bone Fortification Compound – Tier III]

He’d put it off long enough so without much thought, he downed it.

The liquid burned going down.

Not painfully—more like pressure spreading through every fiber of him, deep into the marrow.

[Processing Complete.]

[System Scan in Progress.]

[Current Body Status:

• Muscle Fatigue: 34%

• Bone Density: Optimal

• Recovery Rate: Boosted for 24 Hours

• Neuromuscular Responsiveness: High

• Overall Physical State: Stable, Enhanced]

[Suggested Activity Load: Moderate. Heavy impact training should resume tomorrow.]

Izan nodded slightly, still facing the mirror.

His reflection looked the same—but he felt the difference.

Lightness behind the eyes.

Sharpness in his limbs.

Then the familiar voice—the one only he could hear—snuck back in, smooth and sarcastic.

[You still look like you’ve been steamrolled, though.]

Izan rolled his eyes.

“You should try playing 30 minutes in three different positions.”

[I’m immortal software but I wouldn’t survive thirty seconds in those overpriced boots.]

He chuckled, shaking his head.

Just as he reached for the towel, his phone rang.

Miranda.

He answered with a groggy, “Yo.”

“Morning, sleeping dragon,” she said, chipper as ever.

“Got some news.”

He rubbed his face with the towel.

“Shoot.”

“Looks like Komi and Hori can finally join us in London. Their paperwork cleared last night. I’ve already started arranging the flight and the school stuff.”

That pulled a real smile from him.

“For real?”

“Dead serious. A couple more weeks and they’ll be here.”

He exhaled slowly, warmth settling in his chest.

“Thanks. That’s nice to hear for the st today.”

“Don’t thank me. Just don’t forget to meet them at the airport.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

She paused. “You good, Izan?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Just… good.”

Miranda didn’t push further. She didn’t have to.

“Alright,” she said. “Get some rest. You’ve got a title to chase.”

He hung up, still smiling, and walked out of the bathroom, the morning light creeping through the blinds and pooling in soft gold across the floorboards.

And as he moved back toward the bed—Olivia still curled like a comma under the sheets—his body lighter and his mind quiet, Izan looked out toward the city skyline.

He had no idea what today would bring.

But he was ready for it.

….

The sky over South London was the color of ash—cloud-blanketed and thick with mist as if the air itself hadn’t made up its mind.

Rain threatened, but hadn’t fallen yet.

Instead, it hung above Selhurst Park in a humid pause.

The stands buzzed in anticipation of the Carabao Cup tie rematch in the Premier League setting.

Like a fuse running long before the spark.

Crystal Palace’s faithful hadn’t forgotten.

They remembered every pass, every challenge, every roar from three nights ago—when they’d gone toe-to-toe with league leaders Arsenal in the Carabao Cup quarter-final and came seconds away from extra time before Izan etched a thunderbolt across the sky and across their hopes.

But this wasn’t a cup game.

This was the league.

And revenge, for what it’s worth, would taste better.

The players emerged from the tunnel, side by side beneath the spotlight mist.

Arsenal in sleek black with gold trim.

Palace in their blue and red stripes, shoulders squared like men unwilling to bow.

Up in the booth, Guy Mowbray’s voice broke the tension with that practiced steadiness only years of commentary could carve.

“Well, here we are again. Same teams, same venue, but very different stakes,” he said as the camera followed the teams across the pitch.

“Yeah, and maybe some leftover feelings too,” Ally McCoist added with a chuckle.

“That was a heartbreaker of a finish the other night for Palace, and if they’ve got any pride, they’ll want to return the favor.”

On the pitch, handshakes gave way to head nods.

No pleasantries this time.

Eberechi Eze gave a quiet slap to the chest of Chalobah while Mark Guehi adjusted his armband.

Across from them, Izan jogged lightly in place, jaw set, eyes unreadable under the drizzle.

His hair was tied half-up, the rest falling loosely behind him, glistening already from the moisture in the air.

He hadn’t started the previous match but he looked ready for this one and soon, kickoff came.

The ball rolled back to Rice, who turned on his heel and played the first diagonal wide to Calafiori.

The rhythm started like a slow heartbeat.

Tap.

Pass.

Turn.

Arsenal’s machine—efficient.

Measured.

But Palace?

They pressed high.

Every touch was met with a foot.

Every turn answered with a shoulder.

Two minutes in, Saka was on the ground, arms wide after a collision with Chalobah.

No foul.

Just pressure and the crowd loved it.

“I think this one’s going to be different,” Guy said as the first tackle rattled in from Doucouré.

“Palace have come to make a mess.”

“And Arsenal better be ready to clean it up,” McCoist replied.

“Because this might not be a replay but a whole new scene.”

A/n: Okay, sorry for the late update. I’ve got no excuses other than being a bit occupied this week. I hope that can change next week. Anyways, have fun reading and see you in a bit with the first chapter of the tomorrow or today I should say depending on where you are.

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.