God Of football - Chapter 516

Chapter 516: Almost Unthinkable [GT Chapter]
[CLOSE CONTROL LV 2 Activated]

The ball snapped through the defender’s legs, leaving only a puff of mist and gasps in its wake.

The home crowd was now on their feet.

The fans of both teams seemed to have forgotten their seats.

Phone screens lowered as they held their breaths in anticipation of what was to come next and it might have been uncanny, but they all seemed to thinking the same thing.

“A goal,” one of the fans in the stands muttered as another Shakhtar player charged towards Izan.

The corner of the box came closer, and Izan was at its edge now.

One last man to beat. His mates near the box kept calling for the past, but they wouldn’t be able to see the scene Izan was looking at now.

He raised his foot, winding his body as if for a pass or shot, and the third defender bit—too soon.

He dove in desperation, thinking he’d blocked the path.

But the shot never came.

Izan paused, let the slide go past, then peeled the ball away from his own planted foot, opened his hips—

—and shaped the ball with his right foot.

[Gravity Arc LV 4]

It curled high.

Almost too high from the view of the fans watching, but no!

No.

It dipped sharply, cruelly, beautifully, and caught the top right post—

—and clanged in.

Net.

Chaos.

And the Emirates in shambles.

“Oh my goodness…” the commentary crackled to life as Izan turned away from the mess he had made.

“Izan…”

“That—” The second commentator stumbled. “That was unreal.”

He ran toward the corner flag, arms wide, not smiling, not screaming—just cool as his teammates chased from behind.

He stopped.

Then pointed to his wrist.

Just like Dani Olmo.

“Right on time,” said the first commentator.

Merino caught up, jumping on his back while Saka, Havertz, and Rice joined in the huddle.

“This isn’t even fair at this point,” said the first commentator.

“This is becoming, unbecoming. How do you stop this boy?”

The camera caught a shot of a fan in the crowd, hands in his hair, mouth open.

Another was already shouting into his phone, barely comprehensible: “I told you! I told you he was different! Izan is out to get that Ballon d’Or.”

On the Shakhtar bench, a coach sat with his hands over his mouth.

They’d come in with a plan. They’d executed it.

And then Izan had walked in and set fire to the script.

The match was level now. Arsenal 1. Shakhtar 1.

Restart coming. But everyone was still catching their breath.

The camera zoomed in on Izan, trotting back toward the center circle, sweat clinging to his jawline, calm in the chaos.

……..

In Barcelona, far from the raucous cheer echoing through the Emirates, a different kind of noise filtered through the training complex of the Catalan giants.

Lamine Yamal sat cross-legged on the floor of the players’ lounge, his back against the couch, while Alejandro Balde sprawled over it, one leg dangling lazily off the side.

A tablet rested on a low table, propped against a water bottle, playing the Arsenal–Shakhtar match.

The room echoed with cheers just as the net rippled from Izan’s curling strike.

“¡Dios mío!” Lamine shouted, throwing his hands up.

Balde lifted his head. “What?”

“He scored. Bro, he actually did it.” Lamine jabbed a finger at the screen.

“Look at that!”

On the tablet, Izan pointed to his wrists, a familiar celebration.

“Wait—” Lamine grinned and turned to the hallway. “Olmo! Dani! Come here, bro!”

Dani Olmo wandered in seconds later, wiping sweat from his temple with a training bib.

“What?”

“You won’t believe what this guy just did,” Lamine said, dragging him forward.

“He just scored and did your celebration.”

Olmo leaned in, squinting at the screen as the replays rolled.

“Qué cabrón…” he muttered, then laughed.

“He’s a copycat. Straight up.”

“Imitation is flattery, no?” Balde said, chuckling.

Just then, Ferran Torres strode in, catching only the tail end of the celebration replay.

“Who’s flattering whom?” he asked.

“Izan just pointed to his wrist after scoring,” Olmo said.

Ferran raised an eyebrow. “What time is he pointing to?”

“His time,” Lamine said, smirking.

They laughed, still watching the highlights play on loop, until the sound of deliberate footsteps silenced the room like a flick of a switch.

Hansi Flick had entered.

Arms folded, jaw tight, the Barcelona boss said nothing for a long moment.

. His gaze flicked between the players and the screen.

“I see we’re all very focused on our preparation for tomorrow,” he said evenly, his German accent making the sarcasm unmistakable.

Lamine straightened up instantly.

“Mister, we were studying the opponent.”

“Really?” Flick arched an eyebrow.

“And since when is Arsenal our opponent? Am I the only one who thinks we are playing Bayern tomorrow, or did the schedule change?”

“They might be,” Balde offered quickly.

“If we reach the semis. Or the final.”

Flick tilted his head. “You think I meant that opponent when I said watch footage?”

Lamine gave a sheepish shrug.

“There’s… crossover?”

Flick stared for a moment longer, then stepped forward and plucked the tablet from the table.

“No more crossover,” he said flatly.

“Recovery now. Stretch, sauna, ice bath. I want you fresh.”

He turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. “And Lamine…”

Lamine blinked.

“I’m hoping you can do a little bit of what your little friend there is doing tomorrow.”

The door swung closed behind him.

Ferran grinned. “You’re walking a thin line, hermano.”

Lamine exhaled with a grin. “Yeah, but come on… did you see that Elastico?”

“Yeah,” Balde said, slapping Lamine on the shoulder as they got up.

“We saw it. Now go recover before Flick makes you run recovery drills barefoot.”

….

Shakhtar had barely finished shaking the sting of Arsenal’s goal, but that didn’t stop the Gunners from gunning for another goal right off the bat.

After the Ukrainian side kicked off, the Arsenal players surged into a terrifying press, quickly winning the ball back before turning their daggers towards them.

Rice collected the ball near the halfway line, shaping his body before threading a line-breaking pass through to Merino.

The Spaniard took a sharp touch forward and shifted it left, looking for Izan.

With bodies surging forward, Arsenal pushed higher.

Havertz dragged defenders with a clever diagonal run, opening a channel in the middle.

Merino turned and pulled it back to Rice after seeing Izan in an uncomfortable mark.

The Englishman sent a floated ball toward the box that Bondar barely managed to head behind.

Corner to Arsenal.

There was no urgency in their jog to the flag.

Rice placed the ball carefully, hands on his hips, as Izan jogged over, offering the short option, but Rice waved him off.

Inside the box, Gabriel jostled with Bondar.

Havertz stood between the penalty spot and the six-yard line, eyeing the flight path, and Izan, now hovered just outside the area, pacing lightly.

Rice whipped it near-post—too quick, too flat—but it forced a panicked clearance off a Shakhtar head.

The ball flew out toward the right sideline.

Izan was already moving before the ball even dropped.

He tracked it, chesting it down softly before flicking it past the onrushing Kryskiv with a flick that drew gasps from the stands.

With his marker out of the way, Izan whipped another ball from the right flank into the box.

Havertz, who stood closest to where the ball was aimed for lunged and got a decent touch to it but the Shakter keeper, Dmytro Riznyk threw himself at it and pushed the ball out for another corner.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE HAVE TWO ADDITIONAL MINUTES FROM THE FOURTH OFFICIAL, ” the announcer echoed around the whole stadium.

Izan jogged towards the corner flag, taking the ball from Rice who threw at him after seeing him walking to take it.

Izan placed the ball down like he was setting a fuse.

All around him, the pitch hummed with tension—too quiet to be calm, too loud to think.

A wall of noise pressed in from the stands, and yet inside that moment, it was as if the world had narrowed to a single point: ball to the boot and then hoping that someone could head it in.

The floodlights cast everything in harsh, cinematic whites.

In the box, bodies jostled and shoved, every defender screaming instructions, eyes darting, hearts thudding like war drums.

The Shakhtar keeper crouched low, muscles loaded.

He looked more like a sprinter at the blocks than a man guarding a goal—his whole body vibrating, locked in anticipation.

He knew that one wrong move and it would be done.

Izan glanced up.

The LED board flashed: 1:47.

Thirteen seconds left in the half.

The keeper took a half-step forward, and Izan, snapping his head back, saw it.

The temptation.

And then—he nodded.

As if the idea had struck with divine clarity.

He stepped back.

Three strides.

Commentator, voice rising but reverent, caught in the pull of destiny:

“This… this would be unthinkable. From that angle? In this moment? Izan doesn’t look like he’s sending the ball in for a head. He looks like a man who understands it now.”

Izan moved.

[Pinpoint Accuracy LV3 and Gravity Arc LV4 activated simultaneously.]

[System detects two traits in use. Engaging UNION protocol.]

His body uncoiled into motion, striking the ball with venom and beauty in equal measure.

It tore through the air, almost moving out of the box before bending back in.

The goalkeeper started his little chase as he went after the ball, which streaked towards the far post before lunging at the last second, but the ball clipped his figure and hit the post.

“UUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH” rang through the crowd in the stadium after the ball went out after hitting the post.

“I’m speechless. How did that not go in?” one of the commentators said.

On the touchline, Mikel Arteta was now on his knees. He, like the rest of the crowd thought that Izan had done the unthinkable but it was not to be.

The referee put his whistle to his mouth and then sounded it, ending the half in a draw as Izan stood near the corner, hands on his head.

A/N: Okay guys, here’s the golden ticket chapter. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the next chapter. Also , be sure to check out the Novel, Harbinger Of Glory. Thank You.