Chapter 569: Peak Human [GT ]

Chapter 569: Peak Human [GT Chapter]

The grass at Colney was slick from the morning dew, but the sun was climbing quickly now—sharp enough to start burning it off by the time the squad assembled at the center circle.

Most of the players now stood in clusters, light jogs, quiet chatter, a few with long sleeves, others in base layers.

It wasn’t a full-contact day, but they knew Arteta wasn’t the type to ease them back in with hugs and stretching bands.

He walked out from the tunnel, hands in his pockets, black training jacket zipped halfway, eyes already scanning the group before he said a word.

They gathered quickly.

“Two days,” Arteta started, voice low but clear.

“Not much time, right?”

Some nods.

One or two shrugs.

“Enough time,” he continued, “for a few of you to indulge.”

His eyes cut across the group like a laser, stopping—without hesitation—on Jorginho.

A few stifled laughs broke out as Jorginho, chewing gum slowly, looked down at his midsection and sucked in his stomach.

“No names,” Arteta added dryly.

“But some of you will be joining the warmup extra early.”

He let the smile linger for half a second before it vanished.

“Before drills, we’re checking fitness levels. Quick baselines. Mobility, recovery, breathwork. Just short med checks. Nothing dramatic—unless you make it dramatic.”

He clapped once. “Let’s get moving.”

Players were filtered in and out of the side tent just off the training pitch—converted for a quick pass of diagnostics: heart rates, joint mobility, reaction speed, muscle tension, and even breath control.

Most walked out looking mildly winded or just indifferent.

Then it was Izan’s turn.

The moment he stepped in, the tone shifted.

Dr. Langford looked up from his notes with a half-smile.

“Alright, let’s see how the golden boy’s held up.”

Izan gave a shrug. “Haven’t died yet.”

They ran the tests.

First was a mobility sequence—ankle rotation, hamstring activation, and hip engagement.

Then came the stabilizer tracking, followed by a core pressure test.

And that’s when the doctor frowned.

Not in concern—more like confusion.

“Hold still,” he said.

Izan did.

“Again,” Langford said, resetting the monitor.

Still the same results.

Perfect muscular balance.

Bone density beyond expected range.

Core rotation ratio above 98%.

Breathing capacity flirting with the edge of elite Olympic numbers.

Another doctor stepped in to cross-check the readings and when Arteta arrived five minutes later, Izan was still seated on the bench, towel around his neck, breathing steady, barely glistening.

Langford looked up from the monitor.

“You might want to see this.”

Arteta leaned in, arms crossed.

“He’s showing the muscle symmetry of a 26-year-old track athlete. Bone density is spot-on. Zero instability markers. No tension in the hamstrings, no delay in joint response.”

Arteta raised an eyebrow. “And the growth spurt?”

Langford turned the tablet to him.

“This kid’s not adjusting to it. He’s already calibrated. Top to bottom, this is the profile of an athlete in peak competitive shape.”

He looked back at Izan, who was tightening his laces like he hadn’t just broken half the clinic’s benchmarks.

“Something has happened in those two days but I can’t tell what?” Langford finished.

Arteta stood there for a second, lips pressing together.

Then the faintest smile crept in.

He glanced at Izan.

“You planning to let the others catch up at some point?”

Izan looked up.

“Not really.”

Arteta shook his head, grinning now.

“Didn’t think so.”

He turned back toward the pitch, raising a hand to signal the rest of the staff.

“Alright,” he said. “Drills in five. Someone warn the midfielders—he’s not slowing down.”

Arteta gathered the squad near the halfway line, his voice even, eyes moving with intention as he addressed them.

“We’re splitting it today—starters against reserves.”

No one reacted more than they had to.

It was a standard format, a usual part of the routine, especially after a break.

The only real shift came when he paused briefly and then glanced at Nwaneri.

“Ethan, switch with Izan.”

There was a ripple of quiet surprise, but nothing dramatic.

Izan simply nodded once, jogged across to the reserve group, and pulled his bib on without a word.

Nwaneri offered him a brief fist bump in passing before slipping into the midfield of the starters.

From the far side of the circle, Saka raised an eyebrow and tilted his head with mock confusion.

“Oi,” he called out loud enough for the whole squad to hear.

“You already fallen out of favor?”

Izan didn’t respond.

He just smiled—small, calm, and dismissive enough to be an answer on its own.

He adjusted the bib, rolled his shoulders once, and took his spot in the reserve lineup, tucking in at the attacking midfield position.

Arteta gave a sharp nod.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Start sharp.”

The whistle sounded, and the play began.

For the first few minutes, the flow was exactly what everyone expected.

The starters controlled possession with confidence and ease, rotating between Ødegaard, Rice, and Zinchenko like clockwork.

Saliba and Gabriel pressed high but steady, keeping the reserves penned into their half without ever needing to break a sweat.

Saka hovered wide, stretching the line and calling for it every few seconds, while Havertz dropped in to link.

Izan, on the reserve side, remained quiet.

He moved off the ball, drifted into space when it made sense, and recycled possession when it reached him—but nothing remarkable.

Nothing to draw attention to.

To most watching, it might have looked like he was just easing in, coasting through the rhythm like everyone else.

But then, something shifted.

Ødegaard dropped deeper to receive the ball, turning slightly with his back to goal, ready to pivot out of pressure.

Before he could even adjust his stance, Izan was on him—not rushing or diving in recklessly, but already there.

His positioning had crept in so subtly that no one had noticed, and in one smooth, silent motion, he picked the ball off the captain’s boots without fouling or forcing contact.

It was clean and effective.

Ødegaard barely had time to turn before Izan was gone.

With the ball now under his feet and the entire starting midfield momentarily wrong-footed, he surged forward, keeping his stride compact and fluid.

His control was clean, the kind that didn’t just push the ball ahead but carried it with him like it was an extension of his body.

Saliba stepped up immediately, body open, feet ready.

He anticipated a cut to the inside, but Izan dragged the ball onto his left foot with just enough disguise to sell the opposite, shifting his weight so quickly that Saliba lost his balance mid-pivot and staggered sideways, out of the lane entirely.

Gabriel stepped in next, more forceful and deliberate, trying to use his size to close the space.

But Izan absorbed the pressure with ease, leaning into the contact just enough to hold him off without losing his own center of gravity.

He let the resistance work for him, waited for the right step, then shifted again—this time into open space and something no one expected from his angle, came just two seconds later.

After suddenly pulling his leg back, Gabriel who thought Izan was faking the shot didn’t commit until Izan went through with it and struck the ball with his left foot.

The ball zoomed from his leg with recoil, low and fast, curling slightly, before kissing the inside of the post with a metallic clack and then settling into the back of the net.

Raya didn’t even flinch.

No dive. No reach.

He had seen it too late, but by then, it was already over.

Some of the reserves wanted to shout but they couldn’t.

Izan simply turned away and jogged back toward midfield, calm and quiet, without looking back at the net.

A few of the others offered nods, some shook their heads with restrained disbelief, and even among the starters, there was a kind of subdued respect in the silence that followed.

Raya walked into the goal slowly and picked the ball out himself while Saliba stood near the edge of the box, adjusting his socks while avoiding eye contact.

Saka bit the inside of his cheek and said nothing.

And Arteta—who had watched the entire play unfold from the touchline—stood motionless for a moment longer than usual, his mouth slightly open, as though he had expected brilliance but not quite that level of clarity, speed, and force in one sequence.

Eventually, he composed himself, took a few steps forward, and raised his voice.

“Again,” he called out, the edge returning to his tone.

“Restart the drill.”

And restart they did.

The starters moved the ball with a touch more urgency as if trying to shake off the weight of the goal they had just conceded.

Ødegaard barked directions more sharply now, and Rice dropped deeper to act as an anchor, hoping to contain the sudden disruption that had tilted the balance.

But it was clear something had shifted.

Even without Izan touching the ball, his presence now loomed across the pitch like a shadow that couldn’t be tracked.

Eyes followed him, not just out of caution—but curiosity.

Then came another moment.

Kiwior, tucked in behind the halfway line on the left, scanned the field and called Izan’s name.

The latter was already moving, shoulders low, body angled in anticipation.

Kiwior took the risk and launched a long, arcing pass—not clean or easy, rising too high, hanging in the air like it had been misjudged.

But Izan didn’t hesitate.

He sprinted into the channel, and just as the ball seemed to float past reachable height, he exploded off the ground.

A/N: Sorry guys for the privilege problem. I’m really sorry about it. I’ll try to avoid such problems in the future. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit or tomorrow if I can get time after my classes.

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