God Of football-Chapter 497: Dominion.

Chapter 497: Dominion.

The whistle rang through the Emirates for the second half.

The players scattered across the pitch like pieces on a chessboard, each slipping into position with purpose.

Darren Fletcher’s voice rejoined the broadcast as the camera zoomed across the field.

“Second half underway. Arsenal 1, PSG 1 — and what a first half we had.”

“And now all eyes are back on Izan Hernandez,” said Clive Tyldesley.

“He was nothing short of a menace before the break. That free-kick? You knew it was coming. Everyone in the Emirates knew it was coming. And yet… boom. Back of the net.”

As the ball rolled from PSG’s kickoff, the visitors tried to reassert themselves.

Lee Kang-In and Vitinha exchanged quick passes on the left flank before trying to feed Barcola, but Saliba stepped in with precision, snuffing the threat.

Raya was quick to claim, and with a smooth punt forward, Arsenal began to build.

And Izan began to dance.

The ball snapped into his feet like it was called home by instinct.

One touch to kill the momentum. Another to pivot.

Then came the explosion.

A step over to fake out João Neves, who bit, followed by a roulette past Zaïre-Emery as the Emirates rose in cheers.

“He’s off again!” Tyldesley shouted, excitement rising.

“It’s like Messi at the Camp Nou — every time he gets the ball, he bends gravity around him!”

Izan skipped forward and lashed a diagonal pass to Martinelli on the left.

The Brazilian beat Hakimi with a neat turn and drilled a low cross, but Donnarumma, again, stood tall.

The crowd applauded the movement, rising now with every Arsenal touch.

No longer were the Gunners disjointed.

They moved like a living, breathing organism.

Odegaard’s absence no longer felt glaring.

Rice commanded with poise, and Partey swept behind him with authority.

And at the heart of it all was Izan.

In the 52nd minute, he received a bouncing ball near the center circle.

Doué charged at him — too eagerly.

One drag-back to boot and then a la croqueta — that graceful sideways flick between lunging legs.

Izan ghosted by and sent PSG’s midfield into a frantic scramble.

“Stop him!” came a shout from the PSG technical area.

But they couldn’t.

Saka was fed on the overlap.

The Englishman cut inside and tried to curl it low but once again, Donnarumma proved why he was one of the top in his position clearing the ball out of the way.

Another stop in play, but all in the stadium could see that the momentum was one-sided.

“Don’t stretch too much. Keep him at an Arm’s length when you challenge for the ball,” Luis Enrique shouted from the bench, but his men were too distracted to pay any heed.

He turned towards Marquinhos, meeting the latter’s sight almost instantly, and just nodded.

Play resumed, and Izan, still gleaming with intent, pulled left and dropped deep.

He wanted the ball constantly, demanded it.

It came from Timber, through a narrow line — and as Izan turned, a shadow loomed over him.

Marquinhos was closer now.

Now within two strides.

Every time Izan turned, someone else arrived.

A shoulder here. A tug there.

Subtle but smart pressure.

“PSG is clearly adjusting now,” Fletcher observed.

“Marquinhos has been told to stay glued to Izan.”

“It’s not quite man-marking,” Tyldesley added, “but it’s something close to what they did to Messi back in the day. And it’s working — a little.”

Indeed, Izan’s progression slowed.

The magic was there, but the time to cast spells was reduced.

Still, he persisted.

Then came the moment that almost undid it all.

In the 64th minute, Declan Rice intercepted a poor pass from Vitinha and poked it to Izan near the center circle.

The Emirates buzzed again.

But PSG had numbers behind, and to the fans looking on, it looked somehow like that wasn’t enough.

Izan dipped a shoulder and spun from Vitinha, pirouetting around the latter.

One stride, and he flicked it past Marquinhos, who had left his line with a nutmeg.

Zaïre-Emery slid in with desperation, but Izan dragged it wide, letting the latter slide past him before surging forward.

“He’s done it again!” Tyldesley yelled, nearly out of breath.

“That’s sorcery!”

But as Izan surged forward toward the box, with only Hakimi ahead, Vitinha lunged from behind and scythed him down.

A gasp swept the stadium.

Izan hit the turf hard, rolling, one arm clutching his lower back.

Boos rained from every corner as Saka ran over, shoving Vitinha.

Timber joined, shouting into the PSG midfielder’s face, so the PSG players rushed in.

Hakimi pushed Saka back as Rice dragged Timber away before it could erupt.

“Tempers boiling here,” Fletcher muttered.

“That foul had venom. Izan’s had enough of those tonight.”

Carlos Cuesta leaned into Arteta on the touchline, voice urgent.

“Mikel,” he said. “If this keeps up, we might need to take him off. They’re going to hack him out of this game.”

Arteta didn’t respond immediately. His jaw was tight, eyes glued to Izan, who was still on the ground as the medical staff sprinted over.

Behind them, the Emirates roared — half in fury, half in adoration.

“It has been a while since I’ve seen a player dominate the pitch and the narrative like this.”

Fletcher said. “Every move, every touch, every foul — it’s all about Izan.”

[Maybe because he’s the MC, but who am I to talk? I’m just a writer. Okay, moving on.]

The referee pulled Vitinha aside and flashed a yellow, but that did nothing to appease the fans.

On the pitch, Izan sat up slowly, wincing.

He waved the medics off and got to his feet.

His knees were stained green.

His lip was bloodied from where he’d bitten it on the fall. freewebnσvel.cѳm

The camera caught Arteta now, calling over two players on the touchline as the referee pointed to the spot for the foul.

“Nwaneri,” he barked. “Gabby. Warm up.”

After the scuffle and Arteta’s sideline orders, play resumed like a storm waiting to crack.

The ball spun between white boots and red shirts, but always — always — it found its way to Izan.

He was the compass.

Every Arsenal movement orientated around him.

In the 69th minute, Rice won a second ball in midfield, chesting it down and swinging a pass out to the right.

Saka collected, shimmying past Mendes before halting his run.

He glanced inside — and there he was.

Number 10.

Floating into the half-space, light on his feet, the mood shifting around him.

Saka’s pass was subtle, but perfectly timed.

The ball glided toward Izan like it knew it had no other place to be.

The crowd rose.

“He’s on again,” Darren Fletcher murmured, hushed.

“Oh, you feel it coming…”

Tyldesley’s voice rose an octave.

“He’s in the mood. He wants another. And I don’t think Paris can do a damn thing about it.”

Izan caught the ball with his instep and accelerated without needing a second touch.

It was unnatural how fluid it looked.

The grass barely bent under his boots as he turned his body slightly, feigning a drive inside before drifting toward the right channel, forcing Marquinhos and Pacho to pivot sharply.

The sound from the stands grew louder, a rolling thunder of anticipation. Phones flashed as a thousand lungs held in suspension.

Zaïre-Emery approached, sticking a foot out, but Izan chopped inside with his right, then slid the ball through with a deft roll of his sole—a la croqueta again.

It was surgical, and the Frenchman overran.

Marquinhos stepped too late.

“He’s slicing through them!” Tyldesley exclaimed, breath catching.

“One, two, three—gone! It’s déjà vu!”

Izan drifted back toward the center, shifting the angle slightly.

Thirty yards from goal.

The PSG players hesitated — step out or drop in?

He had them on strings.

Hakimi screamed for someone to close the space, but no one moved.

Then, Izan saw it.

Donnarumma, a step — just a step—off his line.

The smallest margin.

But for a player like Izan, it might as well have been a gift-wrapped invitation.

He didn’t look at the keeper again.

His eyes locked on the far post.

A flicker of muscle tension rolled down his leg. And then—

“[Gravity Arc LV4, Activated]”

He struck.

The ball rose in an almost impossible trajectory, bending outward first like a comet pulled by a second sun.

Then it dipped violently, late, spiteful, and spinning so viciously it seemed to hiss as it cut the air.

“HE’S DONE IT AGAIN—” Fletcher exploded. “OH MY WORD!”

The net bulged violently in the top corner before Donnarumma could even lift his arms.

Silence.

And then the Emirates erupted.

The stadium came undone in noise, not just celebration, but disbelief.

People grabbed their heads, beer being flung into the air.

Two elderly fans screamed and hugged like children.

Others just stood frozen, hands over their mouths.

“He’s not human,” Tyldesley gasped.

“He’s not real. You do not score goals like that twice in one night — and yet he has!”

Izan turned slowly, hands spreading like wings, a smirk curling at his lips.

He walked toward the fans this time — toward the Clock End, where red flares lit the backdrop of the night sky.

He pointed into the crowd with both hands and shouted something no one could hear over the roar.

Dozens surged forward, desperate to get closer.

“Are you watching, Madrid? Are you watching, Bayern?!” Fletcher shouted.

“This is his night! Izan Hernandez with a second wonder goal, and Arsenal lead 2–1!”

As Izan neared the hoardings, his teammates finally reached him.

Saka first — arms around his neck. Then Rice and Partey shouting into his ear.

But his eyes stayed locked on the stands, on those wide-eyed believers in red and white who sang his name before he even touched the ball.

And in that moment, the air in North London shimmered with belief.

The kind of belief you only get when witnessing something otherworldly, yet unmistakably real.

Izan had done it again.

A/N: First of the day. My eyes hurt so migth have to stop for now. Have fun reading and I’ll see you with another in the afternoon.

Creation is hard, cheer me up!

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