Chapter 564: Knights Of The Table

The parking lot hummed with quiet after the car chaos.

Most of the squad hadn’t rushed to leave.

They leaned on car doors and loitered in small clusters, soaking up the warmth of victory and the rare freedom of a two-day break.

Saka still stood near his Audi, bouncing a bottle cap between his knuckles like a coin flip while staring in the direction Izan had left in.

Rice leaned against the hood of his Range Rover, arms crossed, listening while Ødegaard recounted some half-serious story about pre-season conditioning and near-death sprint drills.

“Man should’ve let me in that Gemera,” Saka muttered, shaking his head.

“Just once. Let me feel rich.”

“Yeah,” Rice chuckled.

One by one, the boys peeled off.

Rice gave a lazy salute before ducking into his car while Ødegaard followed, glancing once toward the lot exit like he half-expected Izan to circle back.

Saka lingered the longest.

Then he got in, started the engine, and rolled out, nodding to no one in particular.

Minutes later, the hum returned but in a different setting.

Izan eased the Gemera into the private lot of his building.

The drive back had been short but quiet.

He stepped out, keys in hand, the gullwing door lowering behind him with a soft hiss.

His apartment building loomed above—glass, grey, discreet.

The elevator smelled faintly of eucalyptus.

Someone had dropped a folded pizza box in the corner.

Nothing pristine stays that way for long.

When he unlocked the door to the flat, the shift in atmosphere was immediate.

Half the living room was boxed up but that was their half as the apartment was livable the moment Izan had stepped in back when he joined Arsenal a few months ago.

He heard the faint rustle before he saw her.

Olivia stood in the far corner, one foot balanced on a stool, reaching toward the top of a tall cabinet.

A taped-up box wobbled near the edge and she stretched further.

He didn’t hesitate.

In two strides, he was there.

One arm around her waist, the other steadying the box above her head.

She gasped—not from fear, just surprise—and let herself fall into his grip as he gently lowered her back to solid ground.

“I had it,” she murmured, smiling.

“Sure,” he said. “Right up until gravity was about to step in.”

She kissed him briefly, then pulled back, brushing her sleeve against her cheek.

“Miranda called,” she said. “The movers will be here around six tomorrow.”

He nodded, eyes scanning the room.

“That’s fine. Arteta gave us two days off.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Two?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“So we’ve got time. No rush.”

She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders giving way

Izan took one last glance at the half-packed room, then turned back toward her.

Without warning, he scooped Olivia up in one smooth motion.

She yelped, arms flailing briefly before settling against his chest, her palm thudding softly against him.

“You’re impossible,” she said, half-laughing, half-protesting.

“Mm,” he hummed, already walking them over to the couch.

“It’s been a while since we cuddled.”

She stared up at him like he’d just confessed to believing in fairies.

“A while?” she said. “We did this morning. Before you left for Colney.”

Izan gave her a slow, deliberate nod as he set her down gently on the cushions.

“Exactly,” he said. “This morning. That long.”

She narrowed her eyes, a smirk tugging at the edge of her lips.

“You’re actually serious.”

“Deadly.”

He leaned in before she could retort, pressing his mouth to hers—slow at first, then deeper, steadier, until the room and the boxes and the time of day all slipped out of focus.

Her hands moved from his chest to his jaw, fingers curling behind his neck, pulling him closer.

Neither of them said anything for a while.

The kiss lingered—less heat, more gravity. Like something rooted.

Eventually, Olivia pulled back just far enough to breathe, her forehead resting lightly against his.

“You know,” she murmured, voice barely audible, “we’re not going to get anything else done at this rate.”

Izan smiled, still close enough to taste her breath.

“Exactly,” he whispered, before going in again.

……..

Night had settled over the city like a slow breath, soft and absolute.

The skyline pulsed faintly beyond the windows, a quiet canvas of yellow-orange haze smeared by car lights far below.

Inside, the bedroom was still as Olivia lay tangled in the sheets, her hair fanned out against the pillow, one hand resting where Izan’s chest had been.

The gentle rise and fall of her breathing gave the room its only sound, rhythmic and peaceful.

A warm scent of fabric softener and skin lingered in the air—home, temporary or not.

Izan lay still beside her, eyes open, gaze blank but active.

He hadn’t been asleep long.

His body had rested, yes, but not his mind.

At 7:03 p.m., his thirst finally pushed him out of bed.

He rose gently and slid the sheets off without stirring her.

Barefoot and shirtless, he moved through the apartment in silence.

The place looked stranger now at night—half-packed, in limbo.

In the kitchen, the fridge light cut through the dark as he reached for a glass.

The water was cold, and biting, exactly what he needed.

He downed it, refilled it, then drank again and stood there for a few seconds after, glass in hand, staring at nothing.

Then he walked back, to the living room this time.

He sat down, hands resting on his knees, breathing once—deeply, quietly.

And then, “Max,” he whispered, barely louder than the breath itself.

“Pull up my attributes.”

Nothing changed immediately.

But inside, something moved, a sensation—like an elevator descending inside his chest, like the air shifting molecules around him.

> System connected.

> Attributes loading… Standing.

Izan closed his eyes for a second, steadying his breathing.

When he opened his eyes again, they didn’t just see the bedroom anymore.

In front of him—hovering, suspended in the air just beyond the reach of his fingers—his attributes began to form.

Each one a node of light, pulsing gently.

> Upgrade module detected. Criteria met.

> Awaiting confirmation…

The lights pulsed brighter, stretching outward like wings ready to expand.

He stared at them—this impossible mirror of his evolution—and felt the edge of something building.

Izan sat there, caught between what he had become and what came next.

…

The boardroom high above the Madrid skyline glowed with the last of the day’s light—dim, golden, precise.

Down below, the city buzzed with tourists and traffic, but up here, everything was serious.

Cold water in crystal glasses.

Polished wood and closed folders.

Men sat in tailored suits, their faces lit by a single overhead fixture that cast shadows long across the table.

They had just wrapped the final touches on internal matters: Bellingham’s long-term image rights balance with Adidas, Vinícius Jr.’s global market surge in Brazil and South America.

Rodrygo’s new media team after his Champions League campaign, and Mbappé—already a brand of his own—whose transition had been smoother than anyone dared hope.

One by one, documents were closed and pens capped.

And then, stillness.

No one needed to ask what came next.

The men glanced toward the head of the table, where Florentino Pérez sat with his hands folded, thumbs lightly tapping each other.

He hadn’t spoken for over twenty minutes.

But now, he looked up.

“There is one final matter,” he said.

His voice was calm.

But it wasn’t soft.

He turned a page slowly.

The name sat alone, typed in clean black text on white paper.

“Izan.”

One word.

That was all it took.

Carlos Méndez raised a brow.

“You want to go after him now? I thought that interview you had was to just plant the idea in his head for the future.”

Pérez didn’t answer right away.

“You know we don’t need to do this,” said Julio Esteban, Director of Sporting Philosophy.

“We already have the next generation. Jude, Vini, Mbappé. Rodrygo. Arda’s progressing and Endrick has shined when given the chance. We’ve got end product and stardust.”

“We are Real Madrid,” added another.

“We don’t chase. We attract.”

Pérez listened to them all.

Then he looked down, slowly, as if searching the wood grain for something.

When he spoke again, his voice had dropped half a register.

“I thought that too,” he said. “For years.”

He looked up.

“But the game is changing. And this boy—it’s not just hype. It’s not noise. It’s an inevitability.”

Some of the men exchanged glances.

“We’ve always been the peak,” said Méndez.

“The pinnacle. If we move first, if we act like they act, we weaken that image.”

“No,” Pérez said, sharply now. “We change it.”

Silence followed.

“Izan is the one,” he continued, his voice steady now.

“Not just a talent. A phenomenon. There’s a difference. Talents get scouted. Phenomena bend the game to themselves. If we wait, he’ll outgrow any club’s reach.”

“We’re not the only ones watching,” Eva Martín murmured from further down the table, her tone more cautious than combative.

“Of course we’re not,” Pérez said.

“Which is why we move now. Not after he wins the Ballon d’Or. Not after Champions League trophies. Before. While the door is open.”

“And what if he says no?” Esteban asked.

“What if he’s too grounded, too focused on staying in England for now?”

Pérez paused. Then he nodded, slowly.

“Then we’ll have at least been in the conversation. And when he’s ready, he’ll remember who showed intent—not just prestige.”

He pushed back slightly in his chair, spine straight.

“This isn’t just about buying a player,” he said.

“It’s about reminding the world that when the game changes, Real Madrid doesn’t change with it but we shape it.”

He stood.

“Izan is a future we cannot afford to watch from afar.”

The room remained silent.

Some thoughtful. Some hesitant.

But no one disagreed.

A/n: First of the day. Have fun reading.

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