Chapter 584: Building Something

It came down with frost still clinging to its leather.

Rice’s pass floated, spun, and dropped like it had been caught in a gravity that only Izan understood.

He didn’t break stride.

He let it fall onto his chest like it belonged there, soft and controlled.

The ball kissed his torso and rolled into space, just ahead of him before he shifted—sharp, clean—hips turning, arms flaring slightly for balance, and then—

Izan’s boot rose and sliced through the air with a sharp crack, something in between a missile and a knuckleball.

The ball lifted off his boot like it had teeth, zooming straight toward the far post, too late for all who blinked and everyone did.

Even the commentators stuttered for a half-second, voices caught between breath and disbelief.

“Wait—wait, he’s hit that—”

“OH MY—what a strike!”

And just as the Emirates began to rise—

A hand.

Not just a hand—a stretch.

Pope’s arm flung across the space like it had no joint, no limit.

His fingertips found the ball at a height and angle they had no business reaching.

The ball curved away at the final second, clipped the outside of the post and spun behind the goal as gasps spilt from the stands like someone had just ripped the sound out of the sky.

“He’s saved it! Nick Pope has saved it!”

“That’s one of the best stops you’ll see in this competition—maybe in his career. That’s not instinct. That’s intuition. He had no right to get there.”

The shot shifted to the away end—hands on heads.

Disbelief.

Awe.

Then to Pope, sprawled near the post, eyes wide and chest heaving as he tensed for the follow-up but Burns quickly smothered it, sending it out for the throw-in.

Nick Pope then turned towards the source of the shot and found Izan, on the turf with one arm braced behind him, the other still stretched forward like he could catch the rebound that never came.

His face was tilted toward the goal—not angry, just… stunned.

He blinked once, exhaled and then sat back on the grass, lips pressing into a slight smile.

Not every bullet hits.

But the gun still works.

“That should have been a goal,” the commentator murmured again. “But Nick Pope here with some inhumane reflexes to keep it goalless. It’s just the third minute and Arsenal are making Newcastle work. Can’t wait for this match to unfold.”

The crowd stood in applause, one side for their talismanic midfielder and the other, for their short stopper.

The tempo shifted after the save.

Something had been unlocked—not just in Izan, but in the whole team.

Newcastle were still standing, but only barely.

Arsenal began to suffocate space like they were playing with fourteen.

Every second touch belonged to red.

Every loose ball returned to them like it had a magnet.

The crowd could feel it, and they let it be known.

The low hum that had lingered after Pope’s save turned into a full-throated rhythm now—chant after chant, song after song, as if the supporters had decided it was no longer a match, but a celebration in waiting.

And down on the touchline, Arteta felt it too.

His gestures were less frantic now, more pointed.

One hand swiping across the air, urging the midfield to press higher.

A sharp finger pointed to the left, just behind Burn—where space always seemed to bloom when Izan dropped deep and the pass came seconds later.

Declan Rice again—measured, controlled.

A diagonal that looked casual until it reached Izan on the left, just near the edge of the attacking third.

“And that’s where he wants it—just near the half-space. Look at the positioning. Look at the intent.” the commentator roared as Izan began driving with intent.

The crowd leaned forward.

One-on-one.

Tino Livramento was quick.

Disciplined.

But he stood too tall.

Izan waited just long enough for him to overcommit, then nudged the ball past his hip with the outside of his boot.

He didn’t break into a full sprint.

He glided—just fast enough to keep the ball moving, just slow enough to read everything ahead of him.

Ødegaard made a decoy run toward the edge of the box.

Saka held the width on the far side.

And Kai Havertz drifted—clever, silent—into the gap between Schär and Lascelles, just a whisper behind the back line.

Izan saw it.

He didn’t look up, but the weight in his shoulders shifted like he already knew where the run would end.

His left foot planted and his right wrapped around the ball with a curve that wasn’t dramatic, but deliberate.

He whipped it in with a backspin as left his boot low, climbed naturally into the air, and bent just behind the last shoulder of the Newcastle line.

“Dangerous ball from Izan here who can he find?”

Kai Havertz didn’t need to break stride.

He rose like a man answering a private call, timing the jump with ease.

His forehead met the ball flush, eyes already on the far corner as he turned his neck just enough to redirect it across the face of goal.

Nick Pope, still shaking off the memory of Izan’s volley, could do nothing this time as the ball kissed the inside of the post and rolled into the net.

1–0.

Textbook.

Flawless.

From the press to the pass to the run, to the finish—textbook.

“Oh, it’s pitch-perfect from Arsenal. Designed in training, delivered under lights. And who else but Izan with the craft to draw it all together?”

The Emirates roared—not just in celebration, but in satisfaction.

It felt right. Like football was meant to move in the way Izan was driving it.

Arteta, on the touchline, didn’t leap or spin or pump fists.

He simply nodded once to Carlos Cuesta, then turned toward the bench, barking a set of instructions.

On the pitch, Havertz pointed to the cross-maker as he jogged backwards, smiling.

Izan raised a hand in return, already turning to reset.

………

The final whistle was still ringing in the corners of the Emirates when the cameras swept back to the commentary box.

The crowd had thinned slightly, but their noise hadn’t.

Some still sang, some just stood there, soaking it in.

“It’s done,” the lead commentator said, voice low, like he was trying not to disturb something sacred.

“Any idea of a second-leg miracle has been crushed under Arsenal’s boots tonight.”

The camera lingered on the scoreboard—4–1—then slowly panned back to the pitch.

“And that,” the second commentator added, “is what having a player like Izan does. You don’t just play matches. You decide them.”

“And now they’re ninety minutes away from Wembley,” the first one said.

“And if form holds… they’ll be facing Liverpool.”

On the pitch, Arsenal didn’t celebrate much.

There were smiles, handshakes, and a few nods to the crowd—but mostly, they walked like men who had a job to finish, not one they just completed.

After Havertz’s first goal, the rest of the match had unfolded like a quiet storm.

Newcastle showed a bit of resilience but it all crumbled after Izan slipped a ball behind Fabian Schar to Rice but the latter was brought down before he could take a shot.

Izan stepped up, breathed once, and slotted it low, far from Nick Pope’s stretch.

The third was a rebounded shot from Saka to join in on the fun after Havertz failed to convert and then came the fourth.

Martinelli had made the run, but the credit was all Izan’s.

Dropping deep after Ødegaard came off, he peeled into midfield, waited for a pocket to open, and threaded a pass through Newcastle’s lines like he’d been waiting all night to do it.

Martinelli didn’t even need to look up and just finished it.

And now, as the players filed off toward the tunnel, the crowd behind the dugout still cheered—not wildly, but with a warmth that stuck to the ribs.

Chants followed them halfway down the tunnel.

Inside, the hallway was dim, brightened only by the overhead panels.

The walls hummed with the echoes of studs on concrete.

Bruno Guimarães had waited just off to the side, leaning against the concrete wall, sweat still slicking his temple.

As Izan passed, Bruno gave a low whistle.

“That pass, the one for Martinelli…”

Izan glanced sideways and caught his eye.

“Filthy,” Bruno said, shaking his head.

“You ever get bored of embarrassing us?”

Izan chuckled but didn’t say anything.

Bruno smirked and gave him a light tap on the arm.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, before jogging ahead to rejoin his squad.

Izan turned the corner and stepped into the locker room.

“Good job today,” Arteta said after most of the players had entered and settled down.

“We might have ended the clash but we still have to focus. We are building towards something and I think if we pull it off, you can bet that your names will be engraved in Arsenal’s history.”

He paused a bit, looking around and making sure they all got the message before, “Tomorrow is a rest day but don’t do anything I Gabriel would do.”

The last part caused the players to break into laughter s he walked out of the room, leaving his men to their devices.

A/n: Last of the day, see you in a bit with the GT chapter and the first of the day if I’m able to right them

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