Chapter 593: The Reply

In the stands, fans roared—not just for the goal, but for the unity it represented: a teenager with ice in his veins and the wisdom to share the spotlight.

On the pitch, the match resumed.

Arsenal held the edge, riding on that first goal’s energy.

And now, with the game humming ahead, the question on everyone’s lips was obvious: what would come next?

And what came next?

Rampant.

Ruthless and Relentless.

The game had barely resumed, the Villa players still gathering themselves, when the ball dropped into Izan’s orbit again.

One heavy touch from a Villa midfielder sent it loose near the halfway line—and in a blur of red and silver studs, Izan was there.

“Look at him—look at the reaction!” the commentator barked as the teenager surged forward.

A chasing leg tried to hook him down while another midfielder tried to body him off balance.

But Izan—built like silk over steel—shrugged him aside.

The referee’s whistle twitched to his lips… then hesitated.

He saw what was coming and stretched his arms out, waved advantage, and the pitch tilted forward.

“Let it go!” the other commentator urged.

“He’s moving like something possessed!”

Izan kept the ball at a sprint, keeping it tethered with deft flicks of his boots, slicing diagonally across the box.

Two defenders stepped.

One tried to lunge low—too late.

Izan slipped between them like he belonged to another time.

Another rhythm.

The roar of the home crowd rose in waves, louder with every yard gained.

“He’s weaving through bodies like shadows! Listen to that stadium!” came the breathless voice in the box.

Now at the edge of the box, his right foot planted and the crowd was already standing.

A fan behind the goal shouted “GOAL!” before the shot had even come.

And when it did, it came like the whip of a strike that it was—snatched off the outside of his left boot.

The kind of connection that only one player in the league had been pulling off with this kind of consistency.

The ball bent, curled, and shimmered through the misted air.

Off the post and In.

The sound was like a thunderclap cracking through the Emirates.

A howl ripped from every row, every seat—because they recognised the beauty and difficulty of what they had done.

“That,” the commentator shouted, rising from his seat, “is genius on demand! Izan Miura Hernandez with a strike that bends time and air!”

“No angle! No space! And still—he finds a way. 2–0 Arsenal!”

Izan, jogged calmly toward the corner flag, chest heaving from the run, face almost unreadable… until he stopped.

Then, slow and deliberate, he placed his hand to his chest.

Held it there and then turned.

With the cameras flashing and fans still screaming, he raised that hand again—this time to the back of his shirt.

He pointed to the name:

IZAN.

And the Emirates echoed it back like gospel.

……….

The roar from the second goal hadn’t even settled when it started again.

In the Emirates’ VIP box, Komi had barely reclaimed her seat.

She was still patting Hori’s back—half in reassurance, half in astonishment—as the replay of Izan’s second curled stunner played for the third time on the screen.

“I might have to ask my mother if we had an ancestor who was an artist,” Komi murmured, breath catching again.

“It’s like he painted it.”

Hori grinned, teeth flashing as she tucked her hands behind her head, watching the highlight like she’d already memorized it.

“Wanna bet they replay this one in a museum someday?”

Olivia leaned forward, elbows on knees smiling but a bit calm.

“I’ve seen better from him so maybe those?”

Then the crowd shifted again.

Below them, Arsenal were closing in.

On the Pitch

The match restarted at full tempo—no breath, no pause, no waiting for rhythm.

Just Arsenal—pressing, snapping, hunting like a side that smelled blood.

“Look at them go,” the lead commentator muttered, half in awe.

“No retreat. No reset. This is straight from the whistle—relentless.”

Aston Villa barely managed two passes before the pressure overwhelmed them.

Ødegaard and Rice closed off the midfield angles while Jesus angled the press higher.

And when Kamara, desperate for air, tried to ping it long?

It landed right at the feet of the last player Villa wanted.

Izan.

He let the ball kiss his laces once before nestling it under control, his gaze lifting immediately.

The Emirates crowd shifted as one, the lower tiers rising out of instinct. He didn’t even need to be near the box anymore to make people stand.

He darted forward, shifting left toward the touchline where the red-and-white faithful crowded closest to the pitch.

As he approached the corner of the final third, he slowed—just enough to force the duel and Lucas Digne squared up.

One-on-one.

Izan danced on the ball once.

Leg hovering over the ball in a half arc as he tried to throw the left back away with his stepovers and Digne bit—half a step, and that was all it took.

But Izan didn’t go around.

Instead, he rolled the ball with his instep back toward the centre—drawing Digne across him—and slipped a sharp pass to Saka, who had peeled off to the right.

That could’ve been the end of it.

A reset.

But Izan didn’t stop.

He bolted.

The pass was only a decoy—a slingshot in motion—and the second it left his foot, he peeled into the inside channel like it was scripted, ghosting behind Amadou Onana and into the space Digne had just left behind.

Saka saw it early, took the touch and then the return ball.

A threaded pass with the perfect weight and curve to meet Izan on the turn.

“Saka with the return ball to Izan. What’s he thinkin-?” the commentator rattled off as Izan turned to let the ball pass him.

He didn’t take a touch.

He didn’t need one.

His left boot was already locked.

Izan curled it early—before anyone expected it before the defenders could even shout for cover.

A silent blitz.

A tracer bullet that bent away from Emi Martinez’s outstretched hand and curled home just inside the far post.

It never dipped.

It just bent.

3–0 Arsenal.

And this time?

The Emirates didn’t just erupt.

It breathed out.

A kind of holy silence—just for a second—before the celebration hit full volume.

“This is his answer to your questions,” the co-commentator said.

“People were wondering—’Has it caught up with him?’ One game without a goal, and the critics came crawling.”

“Well, here’s your reply,” the lead added.

“A goal straight out of town. Two already today. And a performance that says— everything but nothing about him slowing down. Izan’s just getting comfortable.”

……….

“Half time here at the Emirates and what a performance from Izan and Arsenal.”

The whistle cut through the air like a clean tear in silk.

Aston Villa didn’t just retreat—they exhaled.

Like they’d been holding their breath for the last twenty minutes.

The half had ended 3–0, but it felt heavier than that.

Quick-fire brilliance had pushed Unai Emery and his men into a bunker mentality.

Their final ten minutes saw the entire squad, Watkins included, locked behind the ball.

The furthest he’d managed was a lonely shuffle toward the halfway line—and even that was only to watch the ball fly the other way again.

“Villa started this with a plan. But they’ve ended the half in retreat.”

“That’s not a defensive block anymore—it’s a white flag. And still… Izan’s finding space.”

“Three goals. Three different signatures. But the name written on all of them? Izan Miura. A brace from Izan and a penalty won by himself but given to Jesus to give Arsenal the lead at back in the first minute.”

On the pitch, Arsenal’s players regrouped in small circles—claps on the back, palms outstretched to the crowd.

Izan tugged one glove off slowly, shaking sweat from his fingers.

Then the other.

The tape around his right wrist was tight, layered from the morning’s prep.

He began to undo it with practised flicks, each turn loosening the edge of adrenaline that still buzzed under his skin.

The crowd didn’t let up, they were rising now.

“IZAN—! IZAN!”

“Look at this,” the commentator said, softer now.

“Every player’s off the pitch… but the fans are still standing.”

“You don’t sit down when the conductor’s still holding the baton,” the other replied. “Because you never know if one more note is coming.”

As Izan disappeared into the tunnel, the camera caught the scoreboard again—its glow almost gentle in the winter dusk.

ARSENAL 3 – ASTON VILLA 0

A/N: Sorry for the late release and low rate. Haven’t gotten much time for things like this that’s why this week was so slow. I’ll try and fulfill all the bonus chapters so don’t worry. It’s the weekend and I’ll have a bit more time to myself so have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the Golden ticket chapter and the last chapter of the day to get us right back in schedule.

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