Chapter 587: FA Cup

The Emirates buzzed, charged with that slow hum of anticipation you can almost touch when United’s fans suddenly went berserk, spotting Izan in their corner of the turf.

Harry Maguire, chest puffed out like he’d snagged the World Cup, leaned in close and chest-thumped midair, followed by Manuel Ugarte, both triggering an avalanche of jeers: “Waste of money! Overhyped brat!”

Izan dropped to the grass, sitting calmly, a slow grin curling at the edges of his mouth.

His shirt was already ripped at the seams from earlier tangles—a trophy of United’s frustration.

He seemed unbothered, almost entertained by their theatrics.

But this wasn’t malice—it was strategy.

United were pushing him into the trenches: waist grabs, elbows brushing ribs, cleats dragging at his stride.

By the 20th minute, three yellow cards—Maguire, Ugarte, and another desperate marker in Dalot—had been flashed by the referee.

“It’s chaos. United are dragging him into the mud, testing his resolve—and onlookers can feel the tension crackling just off-screen.” One of the commentators leaned in tone building.

“Four hundred million won’t buy a clean tackle. They’re committing fouls to stop his rhythm.”

On the sidelines, Arteta stood statuesque, eyes probing the pitch.

Ødegaard jogged over quietly as Izan rose, brushing flecks of turf from his knees.

The referee waved him over—fresh kit at the ready.

The kit manager handed Izan a crisp shirt; he nodded and slipped into the tunnel as the United fans broke into taunts.

“He needs stitches!” “Didn’t see any of that in training!”

The stadium exhaled as Izan vanished, the moment suspended.

Then, a couple of seconds later, he reappeared—shirt pristine and hair band intact.

A collective breath rose in the crowd as if the moment had reset.

United chants faltered, and Arsenal’s adoring chants rippled onward: “IZAN! IZAN!”

Within seconds, Saka threaded a pass through a fractured midfield.

The ball found Izan on the right wing, and tension coiled in the stands.

He nudged it forward, slow at first—but then a spark blossomed as he shifted and surged, a burst of speed tearing turf beneath him.

His body language changed as he was no longer moving the ball, but felt like he was the ball.

Izan’s eyes sharpened.

One fluid touch erased the nearest defender’s marker.

Another flick brought him to the box’s edge.

He shifted left, boot poised as his foot met pressure.

The United midfield cleared as the pitch stretched ahead, with the Arsenal fans rising to their feet.

“He’s slipped past two. It’s three now— and he’s through!”

The ball left his foot with curl, calculated, full of intent, and wrapped in that sweet sting of timing.

It bent wide, then started to come back, tailing in like a hawk.

A breathless second passed—just one—before it kissed the inside of the post and snapped back into the net.

The bar rattled faintly.

The net twitched, and the sound that followed wasn’t a roar.

It was a crack of thunder.

“Oh, my word. What a goal,” one commentator said, nearly out of breath.

“He silences half the stadium—and sparks the other half. This is what he can do”

“Curl, precision, power—and a celebration that says: I hear you. And I’m still here.”

Izan didn’t celebrate right away.

He just turned towards the away end, to the mass of red where United’s travelling fans stood stunned—some already mid-insult, hands raised with fingers extended.

A few had already climbed the railings in rage, held back only by stewards.

Their chants turned sharp, messy, and desperate.

And Izan? He held their stare, one hand lifted briefly to his chest, palm tapping once against the cannon on his shirt, like a heartbeat they couldn’t quiet.

From the touchline, Ruben Amorim stood rigid, arms folded tightly in resignation.

From the other dugout, Arteta clenched both fists but didn’t yell.

The rest of the Arsenal squad rushed to the corner, but Izan didn’t meet them halfway.

He stood still for another second, facing the noise.

Then turned away, jogging back to the centre circle.

One goal. ‘

No fuss.

But the whole stadium—friend or foe—felt it shift.

After waiting for the players to settle, the match official brought his whistle to his mouth and blew to restart the game.

There was still that charge in the air.

That sense that something was coming.

It felt like Izan had taken the match by the throat, and now, no matter what United did, they were the ones on the receiving end of the game.

Arsenal restarted like a team with something simmering.

Rice and Ødegaard worked tight passes in midfield, dragging United’s lines forward.

Martinelli drifted wide, Saka dropped in to collect, and just like that, Arsenal stretched the pitch.

But the ball came back to Izan.

It always did.

He didn’t call for it; he rarely did, but when the ball found him, it always came with a sense of urgency that sent the United fans teetering on the edge of madness.

And when it reached him near the centre circle, with Dalot closing in and Mainoo tracking back, the crowd leaned in.

Because they’d seen this body shape before.

They knew what followed.

Izan let the ball roll past his right foot, then cut left — sharp, deliberate, clean.

Dalot lunged in, too eager to claim the ball, but Izan was gone after he missed the tackle.

Mainoo too tried to recover, but Izan let the ball kiss the inside of his heel and exploded forward.

The acceleration was impossible.

Every step was a warning — and United weren’t reading it.

“Izan on the run again. Magical stuff again from the Spanish prodigy,” the commentator said slowly as if trying not to interrupt the poetry unravelling on the grass.

He reached the box, now surrounded.

Lisandro Martinez closed left, Maguire held the middle, and Ugarte raced back to cut off the drop zone.

Three in front, one behind.

Izan didn’t flinch.

He slowed — invited them forward — then burst through the gap like it didn’t exist.

The outstretched arms of Ruben Amorim cut through the air, shouting instruction after instruction, but even he knew—there was no stopping this when it started.

Izan had now gone past Ugarte again, but the ball still stayed tethered to Izan’s boots like it didn’t know it could belong to anyone else.

Every touch was light but lethal.

United fans were already on their feet.

The ones behind Onana’s goal, screaming before anything had happened.

“Someone bring him down!” a voice cracked in panic, cutting through the buzz.

“TAKE HIM OUT!” another said as the ball rolled ahead of him once again.

Lisandro Martínez lunged as his shoulder met Izan’s, with most fans expecting the latter to buckle, but he didn’t.

He braced, absorbed, and leaned through it before switching the weight of his body to the opposite side, causing Lisandro, who had leaned against Izan in the run, to fall.

“Not again. Not him again!” a supporter bellowed from the second row, fingers white against the rail.

And now Izan was at the edge of the box.

It was like watching a fire pick its path before the blaze came.

He dipped his shoulder right, and Mazrauoi bit to open the gap Izan needed.

“And he’s gone for it–!!” the first commentator roared as Izan’s left foot met the ball.

Andre Onana stepped forward, arms stretched like a man trying to hold back an avalanche.

Izan curled it, the ball bending cruelly around Martínez’s leg, skimmed his boot, and went the other way of Andre Onana’s lunge.

And in that moment—before it rippled the net—the stadium went still.

Then it broke.

AGAIN

The Emirates roared like it hadn’t roared all season.

Fireworks, flares, limbs, and shouts all crashing together into a storm of noise.

The commentator’s voice cracked into the chaos:

“IT’S UNREAL! It’s genius. It’s effortless!”

“Two goals in one half—and he’s barely broken stride! Look at the away end. They are already in pieces. Listen to them boo. Look at them throwing up gestures like they could throw the result away too.”

One man in a black puffer hurled his cap down and slammed both palms against the barrier.

Another tried to hold up two fingers and shout about wages, but his voice was drowned by the chants surrounding him.

Out of his mates, Martinelli was the first to hit him, wrapping his arms around Izan’s shoulders before pulling him back to the ground.

Rice joined from the side, patting his head like they couldn’t believe it either.

Arteta exhaled, shoulders slumping, arms dropping as he could finally relax for the first time since the game started.

He looked at his assistant and smiled for the first time that half.

And just as the away fans were calling for the match to restart, the referee blew for half-time.

A/N: Last of the day. I have an 8 am class, so let’s do the day’s chapter after that. Sorry for any reduction in quality. I’ll try and make up for it, but I’m really held up at the moment. Sorry for this, and I hope you have fun reading it.

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