God Of football - Chapter 368

Chapter 368: A Real Red Devil [Golden Gacha Pistacho_031_3]
The moment Izan’s studs touched the pitch, the match changed.

The tempo shifted violently as if a dormant force had been unleashed into the game.

The ball moved faster, sharper—like Arsenal had flicked a switch and gone into overdrive.

His first involvement was instant. Arsenal played out from the back, Rice rolling the ball toward him in midfield.

Izan let it come to him, sensing the pressure from Bruno Fernandes behind him.

Instead of taking a touch, he dummied, letting the ball roll through his legs before swiveling on his back foot.

Bruno bit on the feint, lunging in the wrong direction, while Izan pivoted fluidly and was already moving.

“That’s disgusting!” the commentator burst out.

Before United could reset, he drove forward, the ball glued to his feet. Casemiro stepped up, but Izan flicked it left to Ødegaard, who instantly sent it back with a delicate return pass.

Izan was through, angling toward the box. He spotted Trossard peeling away from Martinez and threaded the ball through a gap that seemed almost nonexistent.

Trossard met it—one touch, then a shot!

But the shot was Blocked!

The ball pinballed off a desperate challenge from Maguire and spun back toward the edge of the area.

Izan sprinted after it, barely getting there before Dalot, flicking a quick pass toward Rice.

United’s lines were breaking apart and the opposing movement was relentless. Rice clipped the ball out wide to Martinelli—

Martinelli versus Mazroui, One-on-one.

The crowd buzzed.

Martinelli feinted inside, then outside—then exploded down the line.

He whipped in a cross, and Izan ghosted into the penalty area, getting away from Casemiro.

The ball was coming right to him—

A glancing header!

The ball looped toward the far post. The Metlife held its breath but Andre Onana, at full stretch, pushed it wide!

“OH MY WORD, HE ALMOST SCORED WITH HIS FIRST SHOT AT GOAL!”

Izan landed on his feet, eyes burning. He wanted that one. But Arsenal weren’t done.

They were suffocating United, trapping them inside their half. The next attack came seconds later.

Saka danced inside from the right, skipping past Shaw. Izan made the run in behind, but Saka used him as a decoy, instead slipping a pass to Ødegaard at the top of the box.

Ødegaard chopped inside and squared it—Izan was there again!

First-time shot!

Blocked! The ball cannoned off Martinez, spinning backward toward the goal. Onana dived but couldn’t hold it—

Chaos in the box!

Rice lunged for it, legs flying towards the ball like a missile until Casemiro cleared but Arsenal still had it.

Calafiori, still in the game picked up the ball near the halfway line and instead of resetting, he immediately chipped it toward Izan, who was standing in a pocket of space just outside the penalty area.

Izan caught the ball on his chest, and let it drop before turning around and rifling a half-volley!

The ball screamed toward the top corner, destined for it almost but then,

CLUNG!!!

The stadium roared in frustration as the ball rebounded off the woodwork.

“IT’S COMING! ARSENAL ARE TEARING THEM APART!”

But United still had life. The ball bounced out toward Mount, who tried to launch a counter, but as soon as he turned, Izan was on him.

A blur of red and white. The moment Mount hesitated, Izan lunged, winning the ball back with a crunching challenge.

He rolled away with it, the Arsenal crowd exploding.

“HE’S EVERYWHERE!” one Arsenal fan screamed.

Another attack.

Another sequence of Arsenal slicing through United with a dizzying, suffocating press.

Ødegaard combined with Izan, who played a first-time flick into Rice. Rice spread it wide to Martinelli—United were scrambling!

Martinelli cut inside, saw Izan making the late run, and lifted a delicate chipped pass over Maguire.

Izan leaped—acrobatic volley!

The fans leapt with him!

“WHAT A GO—NO! BLOCKED AGAIN!”

The kind of highlights Izan was putting together in these minutes was enough for a ten-minute compilation video.

United were getting torn apart, but the finishing touch refused to arrive.

Then, a rare moment of breathing room. United finally escaped their half.

Arsenal’s attack had been so relentless that their entire team was positioned high up the pitch.

Raya shouted for them to be careful but then Fernandes picked up the ball in midfield, saw Rashford peeling away from White, and launched a quick pass forward.

Suddenly—danger.

Rashford was gone.

He sprinted into open space, a one-on-one with Saliba. The Arsenal defender was quick, but Rashford had momentum. He nudged it forward—

Then stopped.

He saw something. A switch of play. A chance.

On the far side of the pitch, Antony was wide open.

Rashford curved a cross toward him.

“Oh no, oh no—”

Antony struck first-time.

It was curling, fast, deadly. The kind of strike that could kill a game.

Raya dived!

TIPPED BEHIND FOR A CORNER!

The stadium let out a collective exhale.

Arsenal’s entire squad regrouped, breathing heavily. Izan wiped his face, looking at Ødegaard.

“Again,” he muttered.

Ødegaard nodded. No words needed.

And then—Ramsdale restarted quickly.

A quick throw. To Rice. To Ødegaard. To Izan.

United were still jogging back into position, but Arsenal?

They were already in full sprint.

Izan turned and flicked it first-time to Ben white, who sent it to Saka.

United’s defense twisted back into panic mode.

Saka darted down the line, then cut inside—through ball!

Ødegaard was clear!

But the moment the Norwegian took his first touch—Casemiro came flying in.

A crunching, brutal tackle. The ball spilled loose, rolling perfectly into Izan’s path—

He was gone.

The Japanese-Spanish prodigy burst forward, a flash of speed and precision, breaking through United’s lines. His eyes locked onto the goal.

And then—

BOOM.

Casemiro took him out again.

A full-bodied, ruthless, vintage Casemiro challenge that sent Izan tumbling.

The Arsenal bench erupted.

The players swarmed the referee. The fans were livid.

Izan sat up, staring at Casemiro. The Brazilian gave him a simple nod—nothing personal, just business.

But Izan?

He was already smiling.

The referee didn’t hesitate. He reached into his pocket and flashed the yellow card at Casemiro.

The United midfielder barely reacted, just offering a small nod before stepping back, unfazed.

He’d done his job—stopped the break, slowed the momentum—but Arsenal weren’t letting this moment slip.

Izan was already on his feet. He didn’t argue, didn’t protest. He just walked straight to where the ball had stopped rolling and picked it up.

The stadium crackled with anticipation.

This was dangerous territory—just outside the penalty area, slightly to the left of center.

A position that screamed for a right-footer to bend it over the wall, or a left-footer to drill it low and hard.

United’s wall was already forming, Onana barking instructions, directing his defenders into position.

Izan placed the ball down, stepping back, and rolling his shoulders.

His teammates gathered around him.

Ødegaard was the first to step up. “If you want, I can—”

“No,” Izan said, firm but respectful.

Rice was there too. “We’ve got some routines we’ve been working on in training. Maybe a short pass, then—”

“No.” Izan shook his head. “I got this.”

He wasn’t being arrogant. He wasn’t dismissing them. But he hadn’t come to Arsenal to be a passenger, to be a secondary option.

He had come here to become the main man. This was his moment.

Saka grinned. “Alright then. Show us.”

Izan nodded, exhaling slowly as he stepped back. His eyes locked on the goal. Onana crouched slightly, shifting his weight, ready to react.

The United wall was solid—tall, experienced, full of veterans who had seen these situations a thousand times before.

But Izan?

He had visualized this exact moment since the day he signed.

He exhaled slowly, his heartbeat steady despite the roar of the crowd.

Then, he toggled his system on.

The world sharpened instantly. The outlines of players became clearer, every movement more pronounced.

The wind direction, ball trajectory, and the tiniest shifts in United’s defensive wall all slotted into place in his vision, like a puzzle assembling itself.

[Pinpoint Accuracy – LV 3 Activated]

His mind processed the angles with machine-like precision.

The exact space between the leaping defenders, the millimeters of room Onana had left exposed at the near post—it was all crystal clear.

Then, another freekick trait flared to life.

[Gravity Arc – LV 4 Activated]

A newly evolved version of his curling trait. The ball wouldn’t just bend; it would snap.

It would start wide, almost tricking the goalkeeper into thinking it was missing—then at the last moment, whip violently into the target.

Izan subtly adjusted his stance. It was a micro-shift, barely noticeable, but it would allow him to maximize the full potential of the curve.

Behind him, Ødegaard and Rice had initially gathered near the ball, as if discussing a play.

But they stepped away, giving him the stage. Giving him the responsibility.

The United players braced.

Bruno Fernandes was shouting something to the wall. Onana’s knees were bent, weight on his toes, ready to explode.

Casemiro, the one who had brought Izan down, was standing slightly off-center in the wall, trying to read his body language.

The tension in the air was suffocating.

Izan took one deep breath—then exploded forward.

His left foot planted, his right foot swung through. Perfect contact.

The ball shot off his boot with frightening speed, rising fast before—

SNAP.

It whipped into the Gravity Arc.

A violent bend. The ball initially looked like it was curling wide toward the right post—too wide.

Onana saw it. He hesitated for half a second, thinking it would miss.

But Izan’s Gravity Arc was different. The ball suddenly started moving like it was being attracted to the goal.

It suddenly cut back inward, like a whip cracking through the air.

Onana’s eyes widened and dived immediately, yet he was too late.

He lunged, fingertips stretching—but it was useless.

The ball slammed into the top corner.

The net bulged.