Chapter 622: At The King Power Stadium

[Colney – Training Ground]

It wasn’t a tackle.

Not really.

Just a challenge—routine, shoulder-to-shoulder body check.

Partey stepped in, not even hard, just firm.

A midfielder’s nudge to disrupt the rhythm, with Izan’s knees buckling and his balance gone.

One second upright, the next on one hand, one knee, head dipped, breathing through clenched teeth.

Rice turned first.

Saka halted mid-pass as Arteta’s whistle pierced the session.

“Hold it!”

The pitch stilled.

Izan stood slowly, brushing his palm against his shorts.

The stiffness was there, not obvious, but real.

Like someone trying to stand without showing the strain in his spine.

Arteta walked over, nodding for Nwaneri to take Izan’s place.

“Out,” he said, not loud but firm.

Izan didn’t argue.

He jogged over, slower than usual.

The duo soon stood near the advertising board, just outside the cone markers, as the sound of boots and whistles picked up behind them as the drill resumed.

“How many hours since the first dose?”

“Not even twenty-four,” Izan said, hands on hips, posture tall despite the weight dragging behind his ribs.

Arteta looked him over.

Eyes sharp.

“You’re hiding it well.”

“Trying.”

“Well, don’t. We need to be able to see any problem you might have, so don’t. It wouldn’t help.”

Izan let out a breath, short and tight.

“It’s manageable. Just… the usual. Pressure in the back. Bit of a slow reaction window.”

Arteta nodded slowly. Then crossed his arms.

“You’re not breaking. Yet. But this is new territory for all of us, so we’re not gambling.”

“You’re not pulling me from Leicester.”

“No,” Arteta said.

“But you’re getting sixty.”

“If we’re up early, I don’t finish the half,” Izan finished for him.

“Exactly.”

Arteta lowered his voice, more tired than stern now.

“You’ve got a kid relying on you. And a league title on your back. Don’t make me pick one.”

Izan bent slightly, hands on knees—not out of pain, but to mask the flare deep in his spine.

Arteta noticed anyway.

“Bone pain?”

“Yeah,” Izan muttered. “Like someone parked a small truck on my lower back.”

Arteta raised a brow. “That’s… graphic.”

“It’s a creative week,” Izan said with a chuckle, but Arteta didn’t smile.

He just tapped his own chest lightly and then turned back to the pitch.

….

[Hampstead – Evening]

“Not this again,” Hori groaned as the plates clinked softly.

The kitchen smelled of stir-fry, Komi’s soy-glazed salmon still steaming at the centre of the table.

Everyone was halfway through their meals when Hori picked up a piece of ginger with her chopsticks and scrunched her nose.

“Okay, be honest,” she said.

“Does anyone actually eat this part, or are we all just moving it around like it’s an art project?”

Olivia looked up. “I eat it.”

“You also eat pickled onions straight from the jar,” Miranda added, not looking up from her bowl.

“They slap,” Olivia said, unfazed, while Komi smiled as she poured water into a glass.

“Ginger is good for your digestion.”

“It tastes like soap’s evil cousin,” Hori muttered, nudging the piece aside.

Izan reached over, stole it with his chopsticks, and popped it into his mouth without flinching.

“Ugh, traitor,” Hori groaned.

“You weren’t gonna eat it.”

“That’s not the point.”

Olivia leaned on her elbow. “What is the point?”

“That I should be allowed to complain freely,” Hori said.

“This is a democratic table.”

Miranda blinked. “No, it’s not.”

“It’s a gentle dictatorship,” Komi offered, placing another napkin beside Hori’s elbow.

“And your shirt is slipping again.”

“It’s the uniform,” Hori muttered, pulling at the collar.

“It’s trying to strangle me. Like academically and fashionably.”

“You wore that skirt in a TikTok once,” Olivia pointed out.

“Yeah, but back then I had freedom. This is institutionalised fashion,” she retorted as Izan snorted into his rice.

“Stop laughing. You haven’t worn a uniform in a year.”

Komi laughed under her breath.

“We should take a picture,” she suddenly said, making Hori cross both arms.

“Nope,” she added instantly.

“You’ll send it to Grandma, and she’ll print it and frame it like I graduated med school.”

“I’ll take one,” Miranda offered, lifting her phone.

The table eased into the usual rhythm—everyone talking, but no one really knowing what they were saying.

“You’re not doing dishes, are you?” Miranda suddenly asked after seeing Izan, who was already standing.

“Shower.”

“Coward.”

“Strategist,” he said, stepping out of the room with a lazy salute and then climbing up the stairs.

……

“Max, Inventory”, Izan said as the door clicked shut behind him with a soft seal, muting the distant hum of after-dinner chatter downstairs.

His reflection stared back at him — not drained, not broken — just… dulled.

A little slower in the eyes.

A little stiffer in the jaw.

The way someone looks when their body’s working overtime in quiet rebellion.

He exhaled through his nose and pressed one hand to the cool marble counter.

[System: Inventory Accessed]

The air shimmered faintly.

From nothing, the vial appeared — small, capped, filled with that thick, faintly golden liquid.

It almost pulsed in the soft bathroom light.

[Conditioning Fluid: Type 3 — Body Reinforcement Active]

Note: This will not eliminate the side effects of Filgrastim. It will reduce systemic fatigue, muscular inflammation, and marrow-related pain temporarily. Full suppression is not possible. Proceed?

Izan stared at the text for a second.

Then gave a short nod.

“Proceed.”

He twisted the cap, brought the vial to his lips, and drank it down in one smooth tilt.

The effect was immediate, and the vial vanished with it.

Warmth bloomed low in his back and radiated outward — down his thighs, through his spine, into his chest.

The aches began to dull, like background noise slowly being turned down.

The stiffness faded from his shoulders like an old weight shrugging off.

But the fatigue?

It was still there.

Like something coiled behind his ribs, waiting for a moment to release itself.

He gripped the counter tighter.

[Effect: 57% reduction of active discomfort. 20% improvement in neuromuscular response. Duration: 12 hours.]

He rolled his neck.

Still a bit tight, but not unbearable.

He could train tomorrow.

Maybe even dominate.

Just not for free.

Then—

“Izan?”

“You alright in there?” Olivia’s voice carried through the wood.

“You’ve been gone forever. Or did you fall asleep moisturising again?”

He smirked. “I don’t moisturise.”

“Tragic. Explains your personality.”

He turned on the tap, rinsed his face for good measure, and splashed cold water over his neck.

“Be out in a sec.”

She stepped away, her footsteps fading as Izan looked at himself one last time.

The colour had returned slightly to his cheeks.

The bags under his eyes were a shade lighter.

But he knew the limits.

The System gave him an edge.

Not a shield.

He wiped his hands dry, grabbed the towel off the rack, and stepped back into the hallway like nothing had ever happened.

…..

[Days later]

[ King Power Stadium – Leicester City vs. Arsenal]

The crowd was alive well before the cameras started rolling.

Blue and white banners waved behind the goalpost as drums thudded somewhere near the south stand, and the chants—raw, repetitive—spilt out from every corner of the King Power.

The camera moved across the pitch now, players in the tunnel doing their final checks—laces, shin pads and armband taps.

And then the commentary came in.

“Evening from Leicester, where Arsenal’s visit feels less like a match and more like a test of survival,” the lead voice began, tone even, pace slow.

“One week on from their demolition of Manchester City, and all eyes are on whether they can keep up that pace—or if newly-promoted Leicester can find a way to stop them.”

A pause rang as the players emerged.

The fans applauded both teams, but Leicester City seemed to show a bit of hostility early on.

And it was all because of who was in that lineup.

“And speaking of pace,” the second voice chimed in—this one, a former pro, smoother, more casual—”Izan Hernandez. Thirty-five Premier League goals. One more and he ties Haaland. Two and he’s on his own at the top.”

“Seventeen years old,” the first added. “And already on the edge of history.”

The camera cut to Izan, pulling his socks higher as he walked past the Leicester mascot, but that was it.

“You’d expect nerves,” the former player said, watching him.

“But he doesn’t show them. Honestly, I don’t think he has them. And that’s not praise. It’s almost unsettling.”

As the teams spread out across the pitch, Leicester captain and Cult hero, Jamie Vardy, jogged to the touchline for one last quick word with manager, Van Nistelrooy, while Odegaard gestured towards space in front of Saka, prompting the Englishman to move there.

“And we’re about ready here in Leicester,” the lead voice said.

“It’s the fight between title ambitions and relegation survival. It’s Arsenal, facing Leicester City, here at the King Power Stadium.”

Then came the whistle, and the game began.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you during the day with the GT chapter. Damn I’m tired.

Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.