Chapter 600: Mere Formality

Starting from the first minute, the tone of this game was set by more than just tactics—it was defined by intent.

Arsenal stepped onto Molineux’s half-lit pitch under a grey January sky and took position with the calm assurance of a team that knew exactly what it wanted.

The opening minutes passed in a low hum: Arsenal probing with patient passing, Wolves organized in a compact defensive shell.

Ødegaard retreated to collect the ball; Rice carpeted the midfield with measured control.

Wolves offered no reckless pressing, instead showing their teeth only when Arsenal began to probe deep—yet even then, no mistakes came.

The crowd’s murmur was soft, tentative; the match smelled of potential, but nothing concrete had yet struck a flame.

Arsenal’s players moved across the pitch like a machine returning to its highest calibration.

Arteta stood arms folded by the touchline, face sharp beneath the beanie, while his men settled into formation.

Wolves tried to keep things narrow.

If they pressed high? They risked being sliced open.

If they sat too deep? They would invite destruction.

So they oscillated in structure, looking compact but daring.

And for a few minutes, they kept Arsenal honest.

Until the thirteenth.

It was a corner—won after a long spell of probing possession that bent Wolves’ shape like soft clay.

Rice stood over it, one of the few moments when Izan wasn’t the one behind the ball.

Ødegaard, from the box, ran towards the Englishman and offered a short option while Saka jogged over as a decoy.

But Rice didn’t need help.

He swung it with venom and shape.

Gabriel leapt, got a flick—and behind him like he was floating in a pocket of silence, Izan rose just above his marker, his neck taut, eyes never leaving the ball.

The contact came—clean.

The sound was almost dull, like a boot snapping leather, as the ball fizzled past the outstretched arms of Jose Sa.

The Emirates crowd, even in pockets among the away end, erupted.

“There it is!” Alan Smith shouted.

“Thirty-one! And it’s a header! One in the previous game and another right here at the Molineux. Izan is showing his head game.”

Beside him, Jim Beglin’s voice cracked, “Well, a couple now but I guess Arsenal can count on Izan when he’s taking the setpieces and when he’s on the receiving end too!”

Izan ran back toward the centre circle, pointing two fingers at his head like crosshairs.

A message, like he was saying, They will always aim here, but you still won’t stop me.

The home fans began raining down the boos but it was like music to the ears of Izan.

Wolves restarted, but whatever they’d built before was now dust in their mouths.

Arsenal pressed hard.

White and Zinchenko stepped up, suffocating the flanks.

Ødegaard danced through midfield like a man rewiring the match.

And then came the second.

It started with nothing—a clearance from Wolves intercepted by Rice.

One touch, then another, and he slid the ball to Izan, who didn’t even glance up.

He just knew.

Saka had started his run early.

Izan feathered the pass, threading it behind the back line he had attached a compass to the ball.

The Wolves keeper, José Sá, rushed out, trying to close out the distance between himself, the ball and Saka who was almost at the byline.

The latter had no chance of shooting from the angle he stood and considered driving towards the corner flag to cross but behind him came a blur.

Red and white.

Izan.

Saka, without thinking much, clipped the ball back with the heel of his boot, and Izan, somehow already in stride, stroked it low and first-time past the keeper like he was playing snooker.

“Thirty-two! We are gonna just keep counting. There, is a boy who shows up when you need him! That’s just poor from the Wolverhampton defence.” Alan Smith called as the away end began their chants.

Beglin laughed breathlessly.

“He might break Haaland’s 36 before Valentine’s Day!”

Izan sprinted to the home fans and blew a kiss—mocking, sharp, a dagger made of grace.

The Wolves faithful jeered but it didn’t matter.

They were two down and Arsenal were humming like thunderclouds on the move.

“It’s 2 to the good at the restart for Arsenal and this might just be a very long night for Wolves here at the Molineux”

Wolves tried to push forward.

Sarabia danced inside.

Ait-Nouri launched a run down the left, but White matched him stride for stride.

Still, the push had a cost.

It opened space.

Space that Arsenal knew how to exploit.

In the 43rd minute, the ball pinged back to Izan—again.

He cut through midfield, releasing Ødegaard who slipped Martinelli into space.

The Brazilian’s shot was blocked and Ødegaard recovered, handed it to Rice who passed left to Izan.

He let the ball settle, faking the shot as Mario Lemina jumped in front of him to block the shot.

After the drag back, Izan glanced up a bit, picking his spot before running his leg through the ball but the ball was saved, just.

Jose Sá had stretched full length and spilt the rebound.

It rolled straight to Wolves captain Mario Lemina, who panicked under Saka’s pressure.

A toe-poke to clear—only for it to rebound off Saka’s shin and loop right back into the goal to make it 3–0 for Arsenal on the night.

Jim Beglin could only chuckle.

“That’s football justice. Arsenal have turned up, and Wolves have run out of road.”

Alan Smith’s voice dropped to a reverent hush.

“They’ve played like champions tonight. Unapologetic. Efficient. And that man—well, he’s rewritten the script again.”

Saka turned and pumped his fists in the air as he high-fived his mates, refusing to celebrate excessively.

The referee, judging the scenes around blew his whistle just as Wolves kicked off after the restart and at halftime, the numbers told the story:

74% possession. Eight shots on target. Wolves? Two touches in the Arsenal box.

As the referee blew his whistle, Izan removed his gloves with slow fingers, peeled the tape off his right wrist, and passed them to a kit man.

He nodded at Saka, then Ødegaard, then jogged down the tunnel as the camera followed.

A brace tonight but there was still more to come.

……..

77′

“And now… the fourth official raises the board. It’s the number ten in red. Izan Miura and just listen to the sound. Just listen.”

The Molineux crowd split.

One half stayed rooted, muttering, arms crossed, resigned.

The other half—the pocket of red behind the Arsenal dugout—rose to their feet as one.

Scarves held high, chants rising like smoke.

“Izan Miura—what a performance tonight. Three goals, in three completely different ways. A header. A ghosting run. And a stretch that turned hope into certainty.”

Izan, walked slowly, unbothered but the Wolves players weren’t in a rush either so they just let him walk off, all while applause followed him the whole way down.

He turned briefly toward the away end and raised a hand in the air before waving slightly and then exiting the pitch.

Then came Arteta, stepping forward with his hands out, clapping, the grin breaking through that stone cut focus.

“Well done,” he said, no need for more.

They embraced quickly—professional, proud before Cuesta followed with a clap to the back, murmuring something that made Izan’s shoulders rise in a small laugh before the latter turned towards his mates in the seats.

Gabriel Jesus and a few other players offered a low five as Izan passed behind him, headed for the empty spot at the front of the dugout.

He sat.

Water bottle in hand.

Boots flecked with the mud of three finishes, his eyes glued to the pitch because even though he had done his own, the match wasn’t over.

Back on the pitch, Wolves played like headless chickens, with barely any energy left in them and Arsenal didn’t let it go.

They pressed forward again—tireless.

In the 83rd, a corner swung in, chaos erupting in the box as limbs flailed, bodies tumbled, and ricochets rewrote tactics.

Gabriel Magalhães didn’t care for poetry.

The ball fell near him, and he thumped it—no second thoughts, no elegance.

Just raw intention, snapping the net back farther than it should have normally gone.

4–0.

And with it, came the final punctuation Arsenal wanted.

“Well, there is no doubt that they are nine points clear again now. The noise says it all. Izan gets the headlines, yes. But this is a team locked in. Relentless. Ruthless.”

“And with one match left in January, they’re not slowing down. They’re charging through it.”

A few Wolves fans began heading for the exits as the match was already done.

They had come into the match hoping to provide some sort of contest but they had been outclassed by a team that had shown its quality since the start of the season even in difficult circumstances.

The match soon restarted after Gabriel’s goal but there wasn’t much to watch as Arteta took off all his players, bringing on the substitutes for the remainder of the time and when the clock hit 90, the referee brought his whistle to his mouth and ended the game.

A/N: Last of the previous day. Will see you in the morning with the first of the day so have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.

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