Chapter 671: Paragraph Of Chaos.

“DAVID RAYA HOLDS!” Alan Smith roared, voice spiking through the cold tension of Wembley.

“It could’ve been curtains. It could’ve been a Liverpool lead. But Arsenal survive — by inches, by nerves, by sheer bloody will!”

The Arsenal end erupted — not in celebration, but in relief.

“You can see the look on Raya’s face. Even he thought that was in, and his manager isn’t happy,” Alan said as the camera cut to Arteta, who was looking calm, if calm meant flailing his arms around to convey what he wanted.

Raya rose to his feet with the ball hugged tight to his chest, taking his time as his lungs heaved.

Then, with a sharp breath and a glance upfield, he yelled loud enough to cut through the roar.

“Spread out! Go! Wide!”

His voice cracked through the defensive line like a slap of urgency.

Lewis-Skelly peeled away toward the left while Timber tucked closer to Saliba, and Rice dropped into the right pocket.

But Liverpool weren’t following men anymore — they were haunting spaces.

Gakpo hovered between Saliba and Timber.

Mac Allister shifted with calculated patience.

Even Trent had stepped into an unnatural central zone, cutting off the angle to Trossard.

They weren’t pressing players.

They were pressing air. Phantom lanes. Routes not yet taken.

Raya squinted, trying to find space, but he didn’t like it.

High up in the Wembley gantry, Jim Beglin gave a knowing chuckle as the camera panned wide.

“You know what, it’s peculiar. It really is. But that’s Slot-ball for you. You need weird to combat weird. And Arsenal have Izan — that boy’s wired differently from everyone else out there.”

He paused as the replay flashed: the frozen still of Liverpool’s shape.

. Three red shirts forming a triangle around the empty turf.

Then he went on.

“Most teams mark the threat. Liverpool are marking potential. It’s… odd. But it’s working. They’ve turned Arsenal’s structure into a guessing game.”

Alan Smith chimed in quietly, almost like he was reading a warning.

“Slot’s taken the blueprint and flipped it. No man-marking, just… prediction. It’s chess with ghosts.”

Down below, Raya dropped the ball and pinged it to Saliba — only for Mac Allister to cut halfway across before he’d even made contact, blocking the lane.

Saliba had to twist and go back to Timber.

The latter shifted inside, but Diaz stepped into that corridor too, looking to be a bother.

“They’re suffocating the pitch,” Beglin muttered.

“And look at Izan — even he’s drifting deeper, trying to find air to breathe. But if there’s anyone who thrives in chaos…”

Because chaos was coming, or it would come soon.

But after 25 minutes, at the Wembley, it still wasn’t coming.

The crowd was restless.

Not angry — not yet — but shifting in their seats like they could feel something wasn’t quite right.

The pitch was tense, coiled like a spring, but the spark hadn’t gone off.

Not yet.

From the Liverpool end, a chorus rose, cheeky and guttural, echoing through the cold evening air like a child’s rhyme turned tribal.

“Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall… Humpty Dumpty had a great fall…”

They sang it in that rising Anfield cadence, a mix of mockery and pride. Humpty Dumpty — Arne Slot’s unfortunate nickname ever since a meme gone viral weeks before.

He hadn’t minded.

If anything, he’d leaned into it, and now his tactical eggshells were driving Arsenal insane.

The broadcast feed flickered, and on-screen, a blue-and-white lower third appeared beneath the live shot of a pensive Izan:

“POOR DAY AT THE OFFICE?”

Underneath, cold numbers glowed:

Dribbles Completed – 3 | Pass Accuracy – 87% | Shots – 0 | Key Passes – 1

Jim Beglin’s voice came in just above the drums and chants.

“Now, this… this graphic here — it might look like a dig, but it’s really a compliment in disguise.”

Alan stayed quiet.

He knew Jim was winding up for a point.

“I mean, look — any other 17-year-old or any other player for that matter, with those numbers after 25 minutes of a final at Wembley? They’d be applauded. They’d be called ‘tidy,’ ‘clean,’ ‘safe.’ But for Izan? We’re asking why he hasn’t turned into a fireball yet. That’s the standard he’s set for himself. He’s that good.”

And right on cue, like the universe had decided to press play, Odegaard angled a simple pass left.

Izan received it just inside the final third — that strange pocket near the touchline where magic feels both impossible and inevitable.

He slowed.

One touch with the sole of his boot.

Another, lighter, more teasing, almost playful, like he was luring something out.

Trent squared up.

Arms out in a Low stance.

You could feel it in his calves, the micro-adjustments in his posture.

He was waiting for the burst, the flick, the turn. Everyone was.

“Wait for Konate!!” Van Dijk called out to Trent, but Izan was too close for comfort or waiting for that matter.

And, Izan gave him none of those — at least not yet.

He dragged the ball back with his left, pivoted on his right, dipped his shoulder and fainted outside.

Then inside.

Then outside again.

Trent moved each time, half-steps, adjustments, biting at every feint like a boxer trying to read a jab that hadn’t come yet.

And then — snap.

In a blink, Izan was gone.

He burst forward — not straight, but diagonally — slicing into the half-space with the precision of a scalpel and the speed of a dropped curtain at an Opera.

The crowd shifted tone instantly.

Gasps rolled like a tide as Van Dijk came to meet Izan.

It wasn’t a sprint from the defender; it was a striding shutdown, a wall of calm wrapped in muscle and instinct.

He stepped into the channel, timing perfect — too perfect.

But Izan saw it a beat earlier.

With the ball barely a foot in front of him, he rolled it through — through — the narrowest seam between Van Dijk’s legs.

Not a nutmeg for showboating.

It was the best possible option he could come up with at that moment.

Van Dijk spun, realising too late.

Now the angle was sharp. The goal was far, and Konate was moving to Cover.

But Izan was already curling it — before anyone else in the stadium thought a shot was on.

It wasn’t power. It was artistry. The ball bent low and vicious, a lazy arc that hugged the pitch like it was drawn by wire.

Towards the far bottom corner, slow enough to dream about, fast enough to scream.

But Alisson got there.

Not comfortably. Not convincingly.

He scrambled, a full dive at stretch, left hand just reaching, fingertips brushing — then slapping.

The crowd didn’t react right away.

There was a pause — that heart-stopping moment where no one knew if it had gone in.

Then, there was a collective groan as the ball smacked the post and bounced back.

Robertson didn’t wait.

He bolted across, sweeping the rebound out of bounds, gasping for breath as he rose.

Throw-in, Arsenal.

“That’s it. That’s what he does. He takes half a yard and turns it into a paragraph of chaos. One touch, and all your structure collapses. And still… still it’s not a goal. But you see it now. You feel it, don’t you? He’s coming.” Beglin exhaled like he’d forgotten to breathe.

“A quiet day… but not a silent one. Not anymore.” Alan Smith, hushed now, whispered like it was gospel.

……..

[Up in the stands]

Hori shot out of her seat like she’d been jolted by lightning, hands clutching the front of her red Arsenal hoodie as a breathless squeal slipped from her lips.

“That was in! That had to be in!”

The VIP section below the Royal Box was already abuzz, a wave of gasps, half-laughter, and heads shaking in disbelief spreading through the rows like wildfire.

But none were more animated than the little family block wrapped in red and white.

Beside her, Komi clutched her scarf to her chest and muttered something in Spanish under her breath.

Her legs were trembling beneath her long coat, and she sat half-forward, half-up.

“My heart,” she said, patting her chest. “Izan’s matches are going to make me collapse one of these days—”

“Sit down, Komi,” Miranda hissed, dragging her gently but firmly by the wrist.

“You watched him win the Euros, remember? The Euros. Against England. This is just the Carabao Cup.”

“I didn’t really understand how big it was until after the game; otherwise, I would have collapsed!” Komi protested, still clutching the scarf like it was a stress ball.

“Which is why you’re alive to tell the tale,” Miranda muttered, flashing an apologetic smile to the couple behind them who had just gotten a faceful of Komi’s flailing hands.

“I’m really sorry,” she added in a low voice, before turning back to the pitch, voice clipped.

“Now sit, breathe, and let your genius child work.”

A/N: Okay. First of the day. I am still working on the new novel where I said the stakes would be raised. If you haven’t been able to check it out, here is the snippet I posted a few days ago. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit or later in the day.

……

[New Novel Snippet Here!]

“War didn’t end. It just changed kits.”

In the world after collapse, nothing rebuilt civilization like football. Not politics. Not weapons. Not peace talks.

Just eleven players… and a ball.

Football became the backbone of the global economy. Clubs became kingdoms. Players became demigods. They don’t just earn millions.They move markets, reshape cities, and decide which nations thrive.

Every child enters a Camp—a football development school. It’s mandatory. If your OVR isn’t high enough, you’re sent back to the civilian track, watching your dreams die on a dusty pitch.

But if you pass the tests…If the AI grades you 75 or higher…You ascend.

Everyone carries a Status Screen. A live reading of your OVR Rating—your value to the world. A system so precise, so unforgiving, not even world governments have breached it.

Some whisper of Potential Ratings—hidden figures only the brave reveal. A 17-year-old with a 78 is a once-in-a-decade prodigy. A 91 Potential? That’s enough to trigger war between clubs.

At the top, there are upgrades—black market enhancements, legal bio-rigs, strategic augments. One minor boost costs $10 billion.

But at that level, a single percentage decides a final.A title.A nation’s future.

Matches aren’t just games. They’re rituals. Battles. Global events.The crowds scream. The earth trembles. And when the whistle blows, the world holds its breath.

This is no longer sport.This is no longer fantasy.

This is ASCENSION.

And the next era begins with one boy…

…whose rating will change everything.

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!

Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.