God Of football - Chapter 755

Chapter 755: No Stopping Him.

“Well, there’s the first duel won, not cleanly, but Hakimi was never going to let Izan glide past him on that occasion,” Darren Fletcher roared as Izan pushed himself back to his feet, brushing the pellets of grass off his shirt with a casual swipe.

His eyes didn’t linger on Hakimi, nor the referee, but on the ball, already waiting to be placed.

The crowd might have cheered the foul, but the brief look on Izan’s face said enough: My Battle Isn’t with just you.

With the ball set in place, Izan stood over it, calm, almost casual, before smacking it cleanly across the pitch.

The pass arced towards the far right, where Saka cushioned it with his instep like it was nothing, drawing a soft cheer from the away section.

The winger barely lingered, rolling it back for Timber, who had burst forward in support.

And once the ball touched his feet, Timber didn’t think twice.

He struck through it diagonally, whipping it back into the middle where it had come from.

There Rice timed his leap to perfection.

The Englishman rose above his marker, craning his neck, and nudged the ball further on with a precise header.

And then, as though he had known it all along, Izan was there, sliding into stride before anyone else had read the bounce.

He didn’t wait.

The ball clung to his boot as he turned into space, body angled toward Vitinha as the latter lunged to close the lane, but he was already baited.

One drag, one faint shift of Izan’s hips, and the Portuguese was sucked into the trap.

Before he could reset, the ball zipped right between his legs.

“Oh, that’s cheeky!” the commentator snapped in delight as Vitinha spun helplessly, scrambling after the teenager.

Izan didn’t even glance back as Vitinha clung to his arm, desperate, but he shrugged him off with a snap of his shoulder and accelerated forward.

And then came the 2nd duel.

Hakimi.

The Moroccan had been waiting, crouched like a sprinter at the blocks, and as Izan bore down, the stadium rose with a single swell of noise.

A hush of anticipation, as if every throat was waiting to explode at the outcome, but it was almost a no-contest between the two.

Stepovers.

Rapid, relentless, left, right, left again.

Izan’s boots blurred, the ball flashing like it was tied to his foot as his body twisted, feinting inside, teasing the byline, drawing Hakimi into the coil of uncertainty.

Hakimi didn’t bite at first.

He shifted with him, light on his feet.

But then Izan nudged it right, a sharp dart and the Moroccan pivoted hard to cover, only for Izan to cut back again with a whip of his heel.

Hakimi froze, weight caught mid-turn, stranded between two decisions, but Izan only had one: space!

“And there it is!” the co-commentator burst. “Round two, and Izan Miura takes it cleanly. That is outrageous footwork!”

The teenager didn’t pause to celebrate.

He was already driving forward, gliding like a knife through cloth toward the box.

Havertz waved frantically in the middle, his voice cutting across the air, but Izan’s head had already tilted, eyes locked on the far post, where Saka was ghosting into space.

He slipped the pass, and it came at the perfect angle, threading through the legs of a desperate defender.

Saka took it in stride, barely a touch needed before he coiled his body, the motion pure muscle memory.

Left foot, curling it toward the far post, a strike meant to be written about.

“Sakaaa—!” The commentators roared in unison —

But Donnarumma wasn’t beaten yet.

The Italian launched himself, an enormous frame, hurling sideways like a god breaking from one of those Roman marbles.

One hand punched the ball clear, the impact echoing as it spun loose into the space on the byline where Pacho lunged in desperation, thumping it away before Arsenal shirts could pounce.

The home crowd erupted, a cocktail of groans and relief, thousands of voices sagging into one exhale.

Saka dropped to his knees, hands clutching his head in disbelief, and when he turned, Izan was already laughing, a big grin plastered across his face, as if to say, How did you miss that?

“Saka might have wasted the finish, but look at that, Izan finds humour even in the miss. That’s the difference in confidence. That’s the swagger.”

Arsenal didn’t dwell.

A throw-in restarted play, the tempo unbroken, the game still pulsing with energy.

And in the stands, the away section buzzed.

Fans were on their feet, talking over each other, voices rising with disbelief.

“Did you see that run? My God—”

“He spun Hakimi inside out! That’s Messi-like, I swear—”

“No, no, it’s different. It’s got that Neymar flair, that Ronaldinho swagger. But quicker. Sharper.”

Hands waved, phones shot skyward to capture replays, but nothing on the screen could match the electricity of having seen it live.

The name Izan rippled through the Arsenal crowd, each syllable spoken with awe, like they knew they were watching something special unfold before their eyes.

“Paris, win the ball back after the throw, and they are now coming forward now,” Darren Fletcher’s voice cut through, the sound of the Parc des Princes swelling around it.

“Desire Doué now with the ball, he’s not going to be left in the shadows tonight!”

The young Frenchman skipped past Timber with a flash of pace, Timber’s boots scraping in vain as he tried to hook him back, but Doué didn’t stop.

He lowered his shoulder, tore down the flank, and snapped a low ball into the box.

“Danger here!” Ally McCoist shouted.

But Saliba read it.

The defender stretched, a telescopic leg flicking the cross away just as Kvaratskhelia came surging in behind.

For a heartbeat, the Georgian was ready to pounce, but Raya was quicker.

The keeper darted forward, smothered the loose ball with iron hands, and sprang back to his feet.

Without hesitation, Raya launched it long, his left boot arcing the ball upfield into the Paris half.

It spun, skidding down the wing, bouncing on the slick turf.

The crowd stirred instantly.

Because everyone could see what was coming.

Hakimi was already there, sprinting from deep with his long strides, eating ground like a greyhound and following closely was, Izan, still a step behind, but he exploded forward, like he had been shot out of a cannon.

“You know what this is,” Fletcher said, his voice tightening with excitement.

“Hakimi versus Izan in a foot race! Who’s quicker?”

The roar of the crowd matched the rising tempo as tens of thousands stood, sensing the moment.

Hakimi had the head start, muscles straining, eyes fixed on the dropping ball.

But behind him, Izan moved like something unleashed.

His strides lengthened, his arms driving, speed climbing not in bursts but like a force of nature accelerating downhill.

“Look at him go!” McCoist’s voice cracked. “He’s eating the ground up!”

Every step closed the gap.

Five yards.

Four.

Three.

Hakimi glanced over his shoulder, the mistake of a man who suddenly felt breath on his neck.

Izan’s face was set, eyes sharp, the bun at the back of his head whipping with each stride.

The ball bounced high once, twice, waiting for its master.

And then Izan was level.

No, he was past.

Despite the head start, despite the early reaction of Hakimi, he surged ahead, body dipping into the sprint like a panther breaking clear, and the Arsenal crowd roared.

“He’s got him!” Fletcher’s voice hit its peak. “Izan Miura outpaces Hakimi!”

Izan touched the ball first, cushioning it in stride, but Hakimi didn’t quit; he leaned his shoulder in, trying to muscle him off balance.

But Izan chopped the ball back with one flick of his boot, forcing Hakimi to overcommit.

He spun inside, legs flashing, and the Moroccan lunged with a desperate tackle.

For an instant, it looked like he had clipped him, but Izan thrust his hands against the grass, springing off the turf like a gymnast, refusing to fall.

He kept moving, twisting his body inside the challenge.

And then, he straightened, cutting infield now.

Pacho stepped across, bracing himself, but Izan feinted the shot.

The Ecuadorian, expecting the shot, bit, lunging with both feet, only for Izan to pull the ball onto his right with a sly shift.

Marquinhos was next, sliding across with the experience of a captain, but again, while Izan’s hips told one story, the ball told another.

And then something deeper stirred.

“Oh, he’s gone past another,” Ally McCoist spat, bracing himself for a shot he wondered would ever come.

Izan, with Marquinhos out of the way, had only one thought.

[Rocket, Lv 3, online]

The words weren’t audible, not to anyone else, only to him.

He felt it in his veins heat up, a sharpening of instinct as the ball at his feet seemed lighter.

From the stands, all they saw was a teenager, dancing past defenders like they were shadows.

Until Izan slowed, weighing his leg like he was about to murder the ball, and he did, because the moment the ball left his leg, there was no stopping it.

“IZAAAANNN!!-”

This is the last of the day. I said I might do a bit of a mass release today, so let’s hope nothing clashes with it today. Have fun reading, and I will see you in a bit with the first of the day.