CHAPTER 654: DOCTRINE OF CHAOS. [GT CHAPTER]

The screen split — the live shot on one side, and on the other, a graphic replaying the arc of Izan’s converted free-kicks from earlier in the season.

And then, a standout clip rolled.

"8 freekick goals this season, and that one there — remember it?" the commentator said with a grin creeping into his voice.

"Valencia in the last game of the league phase of the UCL. From forty metres out, and he still hit it top bin like he was playing five-a-side."

"Pure technique. Pure nerve."

Back on the pitch, the referee was finally satisfied with the wall — four blue shirts standing shoulder to shoulder, with Cucurella dropping on the ground space behind the wall.

The ref jogged backwards, hand still in the air, shouting toward the keeper.

"Don’t move early! Watch the whistle!"

Behind the ball, Izan stood alone now, calm and unflinching.

Skelly had come over at first — said a few words, maybe offering to dummy or feint — but Izan had waved him off.

There was no debate. No trick play.

He was the only option in circumstances like this.

He planted his left leg beside the ball and then took a few steps back before he raised his chin toward the far corner of the net.

Then toggled it.

[Gravity Arc: Level 4.]

The words lit up briefly on the edge of his vision — a soft pulse, felt more than seen and then right beneath it, another flicker.

[Pinpoint Accuracy: Activated.]

"And now," the co-commentator breathed, "every Chelsea player in that wall knows what’s coming... and there’s not a thing they can do about it."

The referee blew the whistle as the crowd leaned forward in anticipation of what was to come.

After the whistle blew, Izan didn’t even move.

He just stood there, as if letting the silence ferment a little longer.

Then, he took a step, followed by a second.

And then third came with a shift of the hips, and his final stride snapped through like a whipcrack as his foot carved through the ball with delicate violence.

It left his boot in silence.

No pop, no thud.

The stadium almost paused with it, as the ball climbed.

And climbed.

And kept climbing.

Too high.

That was the first instinct.

It’s gone over — it had to be.

But it didn’t.

Instead, somewhere above the crossbar, like it had reached the peak of a rollercoaster track, the ball suspended for a second...

...and then dropped.

Sharp and violent like the sky had slapped it down.

And the moment it began to fall, the crowd gasped — a chain reaction of realisation as it plunged downward, dipping inside the far post like it had bent physics to its will.

Robert Sánchez moved but barely.

He shifted a step, knees twitching to dive, but his weight was already wrong.

The ball was already past.

Boom.

Top corner.

And then the noise exploded.

Some from the travelling Arsenal fans.

But most of it — stunned silence.

"Oh my word! He is the gift that keeps on giving."

"OH MY WORD! THE LOUDEST SILENCE"

"What have we just seen?!"

The co-commentator could barely keep his breath.

"FEAST YOUR EYES LONDON, AND FEAST YOUR EYES. THE KING HAS BROUGHT DOWN THE BRIDGE."

On the pitch, Izan turned — not to the Arsenal end — but to the section of Chelsea fans that had been taunting him all night.

He didn’t scream.

Didn’t cup his ears.

He just walked toward them, hand raised calmly...

and then gently pressed a finger to his lips — like a parent silencing a noisy room.

Shhhh.

One motion.

One moment.

And suddenly, the taunts turned to nothing.

Behind him, Martinelli was first to reach — arms flung wide, screaming into the night.

Then Skelly.

Then Rice.

Then the subs. The bench.

Trossard, warming up, sprinted up from his area.

It was a swarm — red shirts piling around Izan as if they’d just won the league, but maybe, just maybe, it might as well have been won by the goal.

"Can you believe this? Arsenal were trailing 1-0 fifteen minutes ago — and now, just like that... they lead 2-1!"

"In a slab of ten minutes, this match has flipped on its head. And who’s at the centre of it all? Izan."

"He’s not just turned the tide — he’s written the tide."

The camera panned back to the Chelsea technical area — faces frozen, heads shaking.

And in the middle of it all, Cole Palmer stood staring back at the penalty arc, still catching his breath.

But Izan wasn’t done.

It wasn’t a buzz anymore.

It was a code red.

Every major club across Europe had expected him to become a problem one day.

But this?

This was worse.

This was now.

.....

Valdebebas, Madrid. Scouting Room.

The projector hummed in the low-lit room, looping the same clip over and over.

Izan — seventeen — gliding through Chelsea’s midfield.

Dropping Palmer to the grass with a feint, skipping past Caicedo, threading the ball across the six-yard box in a sequence that shouldn’t have existed.

Carlos Martínez leaned forward.

"He’s not just playing Premier League football. He’s making it look slow."

Juni Calafat rubbed his forehead.

"Pray, Florentino doesn’t see this tomorrow."

The sporting director, Santiago Solari, shook his head.

"He will tomorrow. We already went through the hustle in January, but he won’t stop at anything to bring that kid here."

Another clip played, this time, of Izan and the dead ball situation.

One of the analysts blinked slowly, almost reverently, as the ball almost flew out of frame and then back.

No one said what they were all thinking.

We should’ve moved sooner. Now it’s damage control.

......

Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, Barcelona.

On the other rival half, the lights were still on.

It was well past midnight, but the top brass were still there — Deco, Bojan, the youth director, even Hansi Flick, pacing like a man possessed.

The table was covered in printouts: Izan’s heat maps, his assist zones, movement tendencies, pressing numbers, vertical progression stats.

None of it was the problem.

The problem was the number in the corner.

Previous Estimated value: €230 million.

Deco sighed.

"We can’t outbid Madrid or PSG. Not financially."

"But we have something they don’t," said Flick, glancing at the photos pinned to the whiteboard.

"Lamine. Pedri. Gavi. Alejandro."

"His brothers," Bojan murmured.

Flick nodded.

"They’ve bonded so well in their time with the national team. If we sell the right story, maybe we don’t have to outbid anyone."

Deco looked cautious.

"And if that doesn’t work?"

Flick didn’t blink. "Then we go grey. Third-party financing, backdoor clauses, future sale percentages — whatever it takes. He’s the next Ballon d’Or. And he’s Spanish. We let him go to Madrid; we lose a generation of kids to them again."

Someone muttered, "UEFA... Tebas too"

Deco silenced them with a wave.

"Let UEFA try to keep up. We’ll figure it out on the backend. As for Tebas, we will leave him to Laporta as he is the only one, aside from Florentino and God, who seems capable of dealing with that devil."

Paris.

Nasser Al-Khelaifi watched in silence as the screen showed the free kick again.

Luis Campos barely looked away. "He’s not normal."

"Forty goals in the Premier League," Nasser whispered.

"At seventeen. We had Mbappé, and even he wasn’t doing this."

Campos nodded. "Arsenal won’t sell. They’ve already buckled up with that generational contract they offered him"

"Then make them uncomfortable. Aside from that, we have the backing of the Sheikhs with us."

Nasser stood. "We have money. We have Paris. We have a project."

Campos smirked faintly. "We just don’t have him."

Nasser’s voice sharpened. "So fix that."

Säbener Straße, Munich.

Vincent Kompany held the remote like a weapon.

He clicked pause.

The image on screen showed Izan mid-run, caught in motion between two defenders, gliding like gravity didn’t apply to him.

"He reads pressure," Kompany said quietly.

"Most kids feel it, and yet, he uses it so well it just comes off as normal, but as one who has played the game and now seen it from the sides, Izan is impossible."

Around him, Bayern’s board sat in tight silence.

They looked again at the stats:

40 league goals — a Premier League record.

19 assists — one short of the all-time record.

19 Champions League goals — a new high.

8 assists in Europe.

8 for Spain.

FA Cup. Carabao. No injuries.

A board member finally spoke.

"He’s Arsenal’s now. Probably for a while."

Kompany didn’t even blink.

"Then we plant the seed now. Long-term strategy. His circle, his agent, his friends. Bayern are always watching. Also, isn’t he with Adidas?"

All around the major cities in the footballing landscape, clubs and fans were realising something.

That he who held Izan over the next couple of decades was sure to dominate.

No, dominate didn’t even begin to cover it.

Something that far exceeded domination.

Something akin to chaos.

Something akin to a harbinger.

An Era was coming.

[Dear readers, please buckle up.]