Chapter 635: Next Stop: Europe.

“Demolition. Ruthlessness. Destruction.”

The commentator’s voice rang through the stadium speakers and living room soundbars alike, low and deliberate.

He didn’t raise it. He didn’t need to.

It was the kind of tone that didn’t demand attention—it held it, gripped it by the collar.

“Three words. Pick any of them. All of them fit. Because this hasn’t been a game. It’s been a statement.”

The score still lingered on the screen.

Manchester United 0 – 8 Arsenal.

Even the font looked like it wanted to shrink from the screen.

“And if you’re just joining us, no, that is not a graphic error.”

The camera swept across Old Trafford, now hollowed out by the hour.

What had begun with nearly 70,000 strong had withered to patches of scattered figures—fans too shocked, too angry, or too faithful to leave.

Most seats were empty.

Some supporters still sat, still processing, while others had their hands in their hair.

Others had none left to pull.

“This is United’s house,” the co-commentator murmured. “And they’ve been buried in it.”

Then came the replay montage. Izan’s penalty. Saka’s goal, up to the last blow.

Eight.

Nil.

All of it orchestrated, instigated, or directly finished by Izan Hernandez.

“Manchester City conceded seven,” he continued, voice heavier now.

“Their fans thought that was the worst they’d ever see. But United? Their oldest rivals? They’ve gone one step further.”

“No fight,” his partner added. “No pride. Just humiliation.”

Down by the tunnel, the Arsenal players were finally heading toward the travelling fans, who were still going strong.

Scarves up. Arms out. Chants not of mockery, but of ecstasy.

“North London’s finest.” “Champions in the making.” “Number Ten.”

And when Izan raised one hand toward them—just a small wave—it wasn’t met with a cheer.

It was met with reverence.

He wasn’t the loudest.

He wasn’t the flashiest.

But the scoreboard behind him told the story.

Four goals. One assist.

At seventeen.

“Forty Premier League goals,” the co-commentator said, almost dazed.

“In twenty-eight matches. And now… nineteen assists.”

“No one’s done that before,” Clive confirmed.

“Not in the modern era. Not ever and certainly not at that age.”

The shot lingered on Izan as he took a moment.

Just standing near the tunnel, glancing once toward the away fans.

Then to the sky.

“And what scares you most,” the lead said, his voice dropping to a murmur now, “is that it still didn’t even look like he gave everything tonight.”

The players began moving again, back toward the tunnel.

As Izan followed the rest inside, the stadium sound dipped.

United? Their players had already gone.

They’d disappeared the second the whistle blew.

No waves.

No thank-yous.

Just a slow exit into silence.

And then the broadcast returned—one final time—its tone now carrying something closer to conclusion than commentary.

“Eight-nil. At Old Trafford.”

“This isn’t about Manchester United’s fall,” the co-commentator said. “It’s about Arsenal’s rise.”

“And with Izan in this kind of form,” the co-commentator finished “, you wonder… who can actually stop them?”

…….

“Izan, Press,” one of the clubs, Laison said just as Izan was about to step into the tunnel.

He turned to look at Arteta, hoping for a way out, but the latter just nodded towards him, before stepping away quickly with Cuesta.

Izan, with no choice, entered the tunnel and turned towards the front of the branded interview backdrop.

“Thanks for joining us, Izan,” said the interviewer, Clara Jennings, standing upright with her mic in hand, earpiece tucked behind one ear.

Her tone was even, but behind her professionalism was the unmistakable edge of awe.

“Four goals and an assist. At Old Trafford. That’s a stat line that’s going to be talked about for a long time. How do you even begin to process tonight?”

Izan didn’t hesitate.

“We came to win. That’s what we did.”

Jennings gave a slight smile, gently prodding.

“That simple? You made it look like it. But this was a Manchester United side that looked strong on paper. Your movement, your positioning—United couldn’t seem to pick you up. What were you seeing on the pitch that gave you that kind of edge?”

He tilted his head a little, as if replaying it.

“We expected pressure. But they were stretched early. They wanted to play. We made them chase. And once the first one went in, we just kept going.”

“And you? Personally? Four goals… that’s now 40 in the league. 19 assists. Most productive season by any Premier League player since records began. You’re 17. What’s going through your head right now?”

This time, Izan paused.

He glanced at the match ball under his arm, then back at her.

“There’s still twelve games left. That’s what’s going through my head. Records are nice. But this doesn’t mean anything if we don’t finish the job.”

Jennings looked slightly taken aback.

It wasn’t arrogance.

It was matter-of-fact.

Like he’d said, “pass the salt.”

“So there wasn’t a moment where it hit you? That this was turning into something special?”

That time, Izan gave a little grin. Sharp. Understated.

“Maybe when it was five-nil and I hadn’t broken a sweat yet.”

She let out a short breath of laughter.

“Fair enough. Last one—then I’ll let you get back to your team. Everyone keeps asking—how do you keep this up? The goals, the minutes, the consistency. What’s your answer?”

His eyes stayed on her a moment, focused.

“Discipline. And silence.”

“Meaning?”

“You train. You recover. You block the noise. You don’t get too high. You don’t get too low. The job isn’t done yet. And when it is, you still go again.”

Clara nodded slowly.

“Also, I’m just that good”, Izan added, causing Clara to chuckle.

“Izan Hernandez. A pleasure, as always,” she said, staring.

He nodded once more, turned, and walked off toward the tunnel, match ball still in his arm—no grin, no wave to the camera.

The broadcast returned to the CBS Sports studio where three pundits sat at the desk—former players, now fans like everyone else.

“Demolition. Ruthlessness. Destruction, as Clive said,” the lead host said slowly, enunciating every word.

“That’s not hyperbole. That’s what we just watched.”

A freeze-frame of the scoreboard filled the screen behind them.

Manchester United 0 – 8 Arsenal

Aggregate possession: 64%.

Shots on target: 9. Goals: 8.

“Manchester City caught seven a few weeks ago. That was a statement. But tonight? This… this was more.”

The co-analyst leaned forward.

“Eight-nil. At Old Trafford. Without reply. That’s more than a win. That’s a deconstruction. A sound out to Manchester United about how bad they’ve gotten.”

The third analyst, a former striker, shook his head slowly.

“And let’s not pretend we haven’t seen this coming. Izan doesn’t play like he’s seventeen. He plays like he’s been here ten years. He controls tempo. He scores when he wants. He creates when he needs. And he doesn’t stop.”

Back on the big screen, they ran highlights again—Saka’s curler, Izan’s third, the assist to Havertz, the curled penalty.

The lead host closed it out.

“History made at Old Trafford tonight. Four goals and an assist. Forty goals, nineteen assists on the season. And still twelve games to go.”

He glanced at the camera, voice dropping a notch.

“We’ve seen greats. But this? This feels like something else entirely. I just hope we get to see more of this player in the coming years and what he does…….”

……

Back outside the stadium, the night air hit like a sudden drop in volume.

A breeze brushed his face as he crossed the narrow corridor to the team bus, security escorting a tight path to the vehicle.

But the real moment came just before he boarded.

Voices.

High, loud, not many—but enough.

“IZAN!”

A cluster of fans had lingered at the barricades, mostly Arsenal supporters, some United, all clutching their phones.

A few scarves were waved in the air, and that chant—his name—began again.

He turned.

Raised a hand. Gave them a wave and a small smile.

That was all they needed.

The crowd erupted—not in volume, but in feeling.

People didn’t want more.

They just wanted to be noticed.

And he gave them that.

Then he stepped onto the bus.

Inside, the mood was light but quiet.

Post-match tiredness. Post-victory silence.

Martinelli was already slumped by the window, AirPods in, hood up.

Rice and White were trading jokes a few rows ahead, their laughter dampened by the soft hum of the bus engine.

Saka, seated on the right aisle, gave Izan a knowing look as he passed.

“You broke ’em,” he said under his breath, while showing Izan a clip of a United fan’s stream.

Izan chuckled and dropped into the seat behind Ødegaard.

Window side with the ball still on his lap.

The bus hissed once, shifted, then pulled away from the stadium.

A few of the fans still shouted as it left—but the night, like the scoreline, was already behind them.

Next stop: Colney.

And then, soon… Europe.