God Of football - Chapter 369

Chapter 369: A New Menace [Normal Release]
The moment the ball struck the net, the stadium detonated into a wall of sound. A mixture of pure elation, stunned silence, and frustrated groans filled the air.

Arsenal fans roared, their voices rising in unison, while the United section stood in disbelief, hands on heads, mouths agape.

Izan didn’t even hesitate—he turned sharply, eyes locked onto the sea of red-clad Manchester United fans who had jeered him all night.

With a smirk cutting across his face, he raised a single finger to his lips.

A shush. Cold. Calculated. Ruthless.

The Arsenal fans lost themselves in the moment, laughing, pointing, chanting his name.

“I-ZAN! I-ZAN! I-ZAN!”

United fans? Boos rained down, and curses flew, but Izan stood tall, unfazed.

The commentary followed him as he turned back toward his teammates, who swarmed him in celebration.

“Ohhh, that’s ICE-COLD from Izan!” the main commentator shouted over the chaos.

“He’s been hearing it all night from the United fans, and what does he do? He shuts them up in the most devastating way possible!”

His co-commentator chuckled, still in awe. “You know a goal is special when even opposition fans can’t believe what they just saw. Izan… take a bow.”

Izan’s teammates grabbed him, slapping his back, and ruffling his hair. Saka was grinning ear to ear, shouting something into his face that got lost in the noise.

Odegaard pulled him in, both arms around his shoulders, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe it either.

Arteta, on the touchline, allowed himself the smallest smirk before calling his staff back to focus.

United’s players stood scattered, looking at one another, looking at the scoreboard. 3-2 to Arsenal.

……

United restarted the match quickly, knowing they had little time left to turn the tide.

The energy in the stadium shifted, a new intensity brewing as the United fans roared, urging their team forward.

The red shirts surged like a wave, Rashford leading the charge down the left, his pace forcing White to backpedal.

Bruno Fernandes drifted between the lines, scanning the field, before dropping deep to collect the ball.

His first touch was silky, and with a single turn, he broke past Rice’s challenge. He spotted Højlund making a run and sent a precise, curling pass toward him.

“Bruno Fernandes, unlocking the defense with a beautiful ball here—Højlund’s in position!”

The Danish striker barreled forward, his eyes locked on the goal. Saliba closed in fast, his strides eating up the ground, but Højlund wasn’t hesitating.

He took a sharp touch inside and struck the ball with venom, aiming low toward the far post.

David Raya reacted instantly, diving low, stretching every inch of his frame. The ball skidded off the turf, but Raya’s gloves met it with firm resistance, parrying it away.

“A huge save from Raya! Arsenal hold on by the skin of their teeth!”

The ball ricocheted back into play, bouncing toward Mount, who was already winding up for the volley.

He swung his foot through it with full force, looking to blast it past the recovering Arsenal defenders.

But Declan Rice threw himself into the line of fire, blocking the shot with his chest.

The impact sent him stumbling, but he quickly regained his footing, launching a counterattack with a clever flick toward Izan.

“This is what Arsenal wanted—space on the break! And look who’s on the ball—it’s Izan!”

The moment the ball reached him, United’s midfield scrambled. Casemiro was already closing in, his veteran instincts screaming danger.

Izan felt the pressure but didn’t panic. With one feint, he shifted his weight to the right, making it seem like he was going wide, before dragging the ball to his left and slipping past Casemiro’s outstretched leg.

“He’s gliding through them! Casemiro’s beaten—Arsenal have numbers here!”

The space in front of him opened like a stage. He sprinted forward, head up, analyzing the movements around him.

Saka was making his run, angling toward the right flank, a perfect outlet.

The chemistry between them was almost telepathic. Izan barely needed a second glance.

With a perfectly weighted through ball, he split United’s defensive line.

The pass curled precisely into Saka’s path, bypassing both Maguire and Lisandro Martínez.

“OH, WHAT A PASS! IZAN. That’s a midfield maestro at work!”

Saka controlled it effortlessly, his first touch immaculate as he drove into the box.

His eyes flicked up, locking onto Onana. The angle was tight, but Saka had scored from these positions before.

He slowed down before he powered his shot toward the top corner, his laces slicing through the ball with pure venom.

The stadium watched in anticipation—

Only for Onana to launch himself into the air, his fingertips grazing the ball, redirecting it just past the post.

“A STUNNING SAVE FROM ONANA! HE’S KEPT UNITED ALIVE!”

Saka threw his head back in disbelief. Izan clapped his hands in frustration but quickly jogged over, patting Saka on the back.

“That was inches away,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Saka exhaled, hands on his hips. “Next one goes in.”

Arsenal had a corner. The pressure was mounting.

Izan took his time.

The ball was resting by the corner flag, untouched, as he made his slow approach.

His steps were unhurried, deliberate. He wasn’t just walking to take a corner—he was soaking it all in.

The tension in the air. The weight of the moment. The way the United fans behind the goal had gone from furious jeers to an anxious silence.

He reached the ball and bent down, adjusting it slightly on the white arc, rolling it between his fingers.

The laces of his Adidas boots, red and white with a subtle Japanese touch, gleamed under the floodlights. He took a single deep breath.

The box was filling up. Kiwior was muscling for position with Lisandro Martínez. Saliba, a towering presence, lingered just outside the six-yard area, his eyes fixed on the ball.

Declan Rice stood near the penalty spot, waiting for a second-ball opportunity. Even Ben White had crept forward, nodding as Izan locked eyes with him.

The referee blew his whistle, signaling for the corner to be taken.

Izan took a few steps back, his body still, his mind racing through every possibility. A driven cross?

A looping ball to the back post? Or something unpredictable?

His fingers twitched.

[Pinpoint Accuracy LV4 Activated.]

He stepped forward, striking the ball with the inside of his boot, wrapping his foot around it.

The ball curled wickedly, bending away from Onana’s reach, swinging perfectly toward Kiwior, who had broken free from his marker.

Kiwior rose high, meeting it with a thunderous header—but Onana reacted like lightning.

The United keeper lunged across his goal, fingertips grazing the ball just enough to push it away.

But it wasn’t over.

As the ball bounced out of the six-yard box, Izan was already in motion, lurking at the edge of the area.

The clearance rolled toward him, spinning in his direction.

He took one touch, killing the ball dead.

He glanced up. Just for a split second. Just enough to see the opening.

Then he let it fly.

The stadium held its breath.

Izan’s strike was pure. His foot connected with the ball in perfect sync, sending it slicing through the air with violent precision.

The way it swerved—cutting one way, then dipping at the last moment—made it nearly impossible to judge.

Onana’s feet shuffled. He saw it late, launching himself to his left, stretching out desperately.

But the shot was too fast. Too precise.

The net rippled violently as the ball smashed into the top corner.

For a second, there was nothing. Just silence. Just disbelief.

Then the eruption.

The Arsenal players threw their hands up. The fans in the stands lost their minds. Even those on the bench shot to their feet, shouting.

“WHAT A HIT! WHAT A HIT!”

The commentary was immediate, voices layered with raw excitement.

“IZAN STRIKES FROM RANGE—OH, MY WORD! THAT’S UNREAL!”

“He saw the opportunity, and he took it with absolute conviction! That’s a finish worthy of a superstar!”

The scoreboard flickered: Arsenal 4 – 2 Manchester United

As soon as the ball smashed into the top corner, Izan turned on his heel, head held high, and walked—walked—toward the Manchester United fans.

His smirk widened as he spread his arms out as if embracing their anger. He tilted his head, nodding slowly, his expression dripping with confidence.

Then, just as the boos rained down, he lifted his hand, brought it to his ear, and tapped.

I can’t hear you.

The jeers intensified, furious and unrelenting, but Izan just laughed. He raised both hands now, motioning upward.

Louder.

By the time his teammates reached him, he was grinning, shoulders loose, as if this was nothing new to him. Saka grabbed him first, shaking his head with a chuckle.

“You’re a menace,” he said, half-laughing.

Izan just shrugged. “They asked for it.”

The rest of the team piled in, ruffling his hair, and clapping him on the back. The United fans were still screaming, but Izan didn’t spare them another glance.

He’d already said everything he needed to.