Chapter 812: Unluckiest Of Circumstances.[GT Chapter.]
And Izan... Izan didn’t even look back.
It was the indifference of it all, the way he simply carried on, as though tired of swatting flies.
His left leg drew back, muscles flexing with coiled rage, the crowd sensing it before it happened as Drury’s voice cracked with anticipation.
"He’s wound it up—he’s going to hit it—"
And then—
BOOM!
The left foot thundered through the ball, the sound alone like a cannon loosed into the night.
....
[A few moments ago]
From the technical area, Hansi Flick stood in silence, lips slightly parted, eyes tracking every inch of grass that Izan touched.
The ball had been hoisted up clear with Flick looking once at Izan, the ball and then back again, but this time, things weren’t the same.
"Wie hat er(How did he)", he said, but couldn’t finish.
Something in the air shifted, and it was something that Flick had learned to fear during his years on the touchline.
It was that electric pause before a storm, the crowd’s breath hitching in collective premonition.
He’d seen players with pace, with flair, with arrogance.
He’d seen brilliance, trained it, lost to it.
But what he saw now wasn’t brilliance, it was inevitability.
Izan controlled the ball like it was tethered to his soul, and then slipped it between Martinez’s legs before the centreback had even realised what had happened.
"Mein Gott..." he muttered under his breath, eyes widening as Izan kept going.
Cubarsí stepped in, shoulders squared, a perfect defender in perfect position, but Flick’s gut told him it wouldn’t matter.
The collision came, and when it did, Flick saw the other Spaniard’s body buckle, his stance crumble, and for a heartbeat, he thought Izan might actually run through him, through him like a myth given flesh.
By the time Cubarsí hit the turf, Flick was already shaking his head, an involuntary smile forming, part disbelief, part reverence.
He had seen something similar once, in Munich, years ago, when a certain Argentine had run riot across a helpless backline.
But even then, Flick thought, that had been genius.
This... this felt like something beyond that.
Something not meant for tactics or coaching notes.
Something that no amount of preparation could solve.
A play from a player, so teasing it was like the latter had lowered itself to dwell within the mortal playing limits.
And then, before he even realised it, Izan’s body shifted again, the crowd rising, the noise rising with it, his left leg loading up like a turret.
The old coach’s chest tightened as he felt that unmistakable pulse before the strike, the world shrinking into that single motion.
And then—
BOOM.
The sound tore through the air.
The ball left Izan’s foot like it had been fired from the heavens, screaming through the cold night.
.....
Wojciech Szczęsny’s boots scraped across the line as the ball left Izan’s foot.
The keeper had read it early, or so he thought.
He shifted to his right, the faintest hop in that direction, bracing himself for the drive he was sure was coming.
But then, mid-flight, the ball seemed to bend logic itself.
It swerved, almost lazily at first, before veering towards his left, curling away from the keeper’s gloves as if guided by invisible strings, and the sound that followed was clean, sharp, and absolute.
Thud.
The ball smacked into the top right corner, melting into the netting so precisely it might’ve been drawn there.
For a split second, the entire stadium froze, crowd, cameras, and even commentary caught between disbelief and awe.
And then the noise arrived, late to the party but deafening, like thunder chasing lightning.
"Izan Miura Hernández!" Peter Drury roared, voice almost trembling.
"Boy with the world in his tow. He plays like he writes the scripts, and here we are, witnessing a legacy unfold!"
But by then, Izan was already gone.
He tore away from the spot, arms wide, face unbothered, the picture of calm amid chaos.
The grass flew beneath him as he sprinted toward Arsenal’s end, behind the goal and at the corner, then dropped into a long, sliding celebration, legs out, body leaning back until he lay flat, eyes pointed to the night sky.
For a few seconds, he didn’t move, just lay there, chest rising and falling, the floodlights above him flickering across his face like starlight.
He looked less like a boy who’d just scored, and more like someone watching the heavens he’d just stolen from.
The noise around him became a blur, boots pounding, voices shouting, shirts tugging, his teammates crashing into him, piling over him with a mixture of disbelief and joy.
"Trossard’s there, Saka’s there, and look at them!" Tyler’s voice rose again.
"They’re in awe! They can’t believe what they’ve just witnessed!"
Izan just grinned faintly, saying nothing but still catching his breath, his heartbeat steady in contrast to the storm around him as he stood up.
The others formed a huddle, Odegaard with both arms around him, Rice pounding his back, Saka smiling wide, shaking his head.
When the huddle broke, he turned toward the Arsenal section, a red wave roaring back at him and raised both hands slowly, palms open, motioning for them to be louder.
The roar doubled, then tripled, chants cascading through Allianz Arena like a living thing, voices melting into a single, deafening echo of his name.
"IZAN! IZAN! IZAN!"
Drury’s tone softened into reverence.
"He’s seventeen... and yet he commands a crowd like a king."
As the noise swallowed the air, Izan finally turned back toward the halfway line.
His expression was calm again, the fire tucked neatly beneath that cool exterior.
He jogged past the halfway mark where Lamine Yamal stood, hands on his hips, eyes fixed on him.
The fellow Spaniard shook his head slowly, a faint smirk curling his lips, with a hint of irritation in his smile.
"Vamos! Vamos, chicos!" De Jong called as Olmo rolled the ball to Robert Lewandowski at the halfway point.
Lewandowski stood over the ball, motionless for a moment, just long enough to let the wave of sound roll past him, before tapping it back to Pedri, and the match resumed.
And immediately it did, Arsenal came charging forward again, every line snapping into motion, driven by the goal that still trembled in the net behind Szczęsny.
"They’re pressing like men possessed!" Tyler exclaimed. "It’s like blood in the water now, look at them go!"
Drury followed in awe.
"The scent of belief, the rush of momentum, Arsenal are charging, wild and unrestrained, like a bull that’s seen red!"
Barcelona, shaken but not shattered, began to pull the ball around with quick, clipped passes.
Olmo dropped deep, playing almost alongside De Jong and Pedri in the pocket, but still, the red and white shirts came flooding forward, snapping at ankles, suffocating the space.
The tension spiked as Koundé, under pressure from Trossard, hooked the ball upfield, a desperate clearance that spiralled high into the London night.
And there, just beneath the falling sphere, stood Saliba and Lewandowski.
The Frenchman planted his feet, muscles coiled, eyes fixed upward, and Lewandowski mirrored him, reading the drop, both bodies ready to explode into the same space.
"Two titans in one collision course!" Tyler called out as the ball dropped, bouncing awkwardly between them as their shoulders crashed.
Both men stumbled, tangled, neither claiming it cleanly.
For a fraction of a second, the ball rolled freely between them, and more towards the Arsenal goal in a heartbeat of vulnerability.
Raya hesitated, watching it skid toward the edge of his box.
His mind flickered, out or stay?
But the hesitation cost him a step.
Gabriel was too far, and while Saliba was recovering fast, he was coming with Lewandowski.
And then, "Olmo! He’s in!" Drury’s voice suddenly spiked.
"He’s come from nowhere!"
Indeed, Dani Olmo had ghosted into view, bursting out from behind Lewandowski’s shoulder like a shadow reborn.
His run had been hidden, clever, silent as he rushed towards the ball.
Raya, finally out of his stupor, chased after the ball, body angled as he tried to cover any angle Olmo might poke the ball through.
The crowd gasped as the former Leipzig man lunged first, toeing the ball forward, past the stretching Raya.
And then, the collision came a split second later as bone and cloth mangled, bodies thudding into each other, but the ball was free, spinning loose toward the right side of the box.
And out of the corner of everyone’s eyes, movement.
Blue and red flashing forward.
The number 19.
Lamine Yamal.
"He’s there!" Tyler shouted, half in disbelief, as Yamal took hold of the ball with his first touch.
The second, however, was merciless, a tap into the yawning, empty net.
"LAMINE YAMAL!" Drury’s voice burst through, a mix of shock and poetic tragedy.
"Seventeen years old, not the youngest on the night but he has just ripped the joy straight out of Arsenal hearts!"
The Barcelona bench erupted, players streaming toward the corner as Munich blue half convulsed with sound.
"Two-one!" Tyler barked, voice straining to be heard above the roar.
"They’ve hit straight back, straight from kickoff in somewhat the unluckiest of circumstances for Arsenal!"