CHAPTER 673: CHASING SHADOWS.

Salah sprinted, arms wide, eyes fierce—he wasn’t just celebrating, he was declaring.

Straight to the corner flag, where he dropped to his knees, fists clenched in triumph.

"Liverpool strike first at Wembley!" Beglin added, breathless. "And it’s the duo of Diaz and Salah combining like lightning and thunder!"

Behind Salah, the bench emptied.

Endo, Curtis Jones, even backup keeper Kelleher—all stormed the edge of the pitch, hugging coaches and back-slapping one another.

Arne Slot, emotionless only seconds before, let out a fist pump and a barked command to the substitutes to sit again.

"I tell you what, Alan... that goal is a punch to the gut for Arsenal. They were controlling tempo just moments ago. And yet—it’s the sheer relentlessness of Diaz, and Salah’s composure, that cracks the door open. You don’t get two chances against this Arsenal side... unless you earn them. And boy, did they just do that."

And then came the scoreboard graphic:

ARSENAL 0 — 1 LIVERPOOL

27’ Mo Salah

The Liverpool fans took it from there, erupting into a fresh chant, loud and tribal and thunderous:

"We are Liverpool, tra-la-la-la-la—!"

And the music of Wembley changed.

Back on the other end of the pitch, though, it was outrage.

Odegaard was the first to storm toward the referee, his face flushed with disbelief, "You said fair and clean! That’s what you said before the match, didn’t you?"

His voice carried through the thick tension as the Norwegian pointed toward Izan, still on the ground near the edge of the Liverpool box.

Rice, Merino, and Gabriel Jesus weren’t far behind, hands outstretched, surrounding the referee — but the official stood firm, waving his hands with conviction.

"Back! Back, all of you! Captain only!" the referee barked, voice sharp and controlled.

"Then talk to me!" Odegaard demanded, still not moving.

"You blew the whistle in the earlier minutes of the game for less than that! He caught him with the shoulder — that’s dangerous play!"

The official didn’t budge.

Instead, he motioned Odegaard forward, like a teacher calling a student out of line.

Gabriel Jesus turned back toward Izan, who was now sitting upright, one gloved hand covering his face.

When he moved it, streaks of red showed faintly under his nose.

The blood wasn’t pouring, but it was enough to stir something more primal in the crowd — a unified chorus of protest from the Arsenal fans erupted across the stadium.

Gabriel, with fire in his eyes, turned and gestured toward the referee, pointing at Izan’s face.

"You want clean? Look at that!" he yelled.

But Izan waved him off.

The 17-year-old pushed himself to his feet.

No protest, no drama.

Just a shake of the head as he jogged slowly toward the sideline where the medics waited.

The camera caught the smudge of crimson wiped across the sleeve of his kit.

Arteta met him halfway, his arms folded but his expression showing more concern than frustration.

"You okay?" the manager asked, voice low but firm.

Izan nodded, spitting into the grass, the blood diluted by water now trickling down his lip.

"I’m good."

Arteta handed him a towel.

"It’s ok to fall back sometimes", he said, then leaned in, gripping his shoulder.

"We’ve got more to fight for than just today. Protect yourself — we don’t need a hero right now, we need a warrior who survives. Understand?"

Izan looked at him for a beat, then smirked faintly as the medic stuffed a small white nose plug into his left nostril.

"Copy that."

Behind them, Odegaard was still in discussion with the referee — but the protest was dying.

The official made it clear with a final gesture: no VAR check, no foul, no reversal. Play on.

The Arsenal fans were still booing, loud and relentless.

"Well, that sequence will sting for Arsenal supporters,"Alan Smith murmured.

"Izan goes down... no whistle... and within twenty seconds, the ball is in their net."

"You can feel the frustration boiling over,"Jim Beglin added. "Odegaard is still trying to get answers, but the referee stands by his decision."

Back on the pitch, Timber was stretching out his shoulder, clearly jarred from the failed block, while Gabriel Magalhães stood with Rice now, the two thinking about the connection between him and the defence.

"The referee is motioning for the restart, and Izan has to get back on the pitch for now." Alan Smith chimed in as Izan stepped back onto the pitch, with a nose plug this time.

Jesus stood over the ball as the referee’s whistle sliced through the thick Wembley air, the Arsenal crowd slowly but surely shedding away the sting of the goal they had conceded to support their player.

"Back underway in this Carabao Cup final," Alan Smith’s voice rode the atmosphere, already alive with sound and tension.

"Arsenal chasing shadows now—trailing, bruised, and desperate for a way back."

The Brazilian stepped forward and tapped it to Declan Rice for the restart, and suddenly the Arsenal machine rumbled forward again.

Rice took a single controlling touch before launching it skyward with his left boot.

William Saliba and Gabriel, the centre-backs, had already pushed up in a high line—more midfielders than defenders now—Arsenal throwing the kitchen sink before the 40th minute mark.

The ball soared like a javelin toward the right, where Martinelli and Robertson both leapt for it, arms tucked, shoulders braced.

The crack of impact echoed—head against shoulder, elbow grazing collarbone—but Robertson got the final say, clattering the ball against Martinelli’s hip and sending it skidding out of bounds.

"Liverpool ball," Alan Smith remarked. "And they’ll want to take their time now because a goal for Arsenal before halftime could switch the momentum, and Arsenal are fuming."

When he hurled it down the flank toward Gravenberch, Robertson barely had his throw-in grip.

The Dutchman turned—only to find Izan Miura already there, in his shadow.

The teenager had materialised like a red blur of a ghost with steel in his boots.

Gravenberch tried to pivot out of the press, to fake inside, then dart outside—but Izan dropped down with him, sprawling across the turf like a slide tackle set to a rhythm.

The ball, bouncing near Gravenberch’s shin, stuck on Izan’s ribcage, cradled like a magnet had caught it.

"Ohhh, that’s brilliant defending from the front!" Alan Smith gasped. "It’s stuck to him!"

Konaté stormed in from behind, shouting and waving for handball as Izan—still on the ground—used his heel to roll the ball backwards to Martinelli. But "Play on!" the referee barked.

Martinelli clipped it first-time back into the zone where Izan was already on his feet.

"Like a cat," Smith said.

Izan had no space, no angle, and no business trying it—but he did anyway.

He caught the return from Martinelli with the ball jammed between his studs and the pitch, dragging it inward in one fluid, defiant curl.

In a single, compact motion, he rolled his left foot across it and shifted his weight backwards, baiting Van Dijk forward just a step.

Then he twisted into a half-spin, before bolting towards the destabilised right side of Van Dijk.

The Dutch captain swung too wide—off-balance, hips turned too late, boots scratching for grip.

Wembley lit up as the crowd lurched to its feet, the noise going jagged and raw with belief.

"There he goes!" Alan Smith barked, voice rising.

"He’s turned him again! He’s gone!"

But Van Dijk wasn’t going to let this boy make him a highlight reel again.

Not this time.

He lunged from behind Izan, his hand reaching out like a claw to grab a hold of Izan’s collar before yanking him back with a heave.

And, just like that, Izan’s momentum was snatched from beneath him like a carpet whipped clean.

He crashed to the turf hard as grass spat upward from his boots.

His shoulder bounced once before he rolled to a halt, body tense and curled.

The whistle sliced through the bedlam—shrill, cutting, furious.

"NO CHOICE!" Alan Smith was almost yelling.

"That’s cynical, but he had to do it or we would be seeing a different view now, maybe one with the ball at the back of Liverpool’s net. That’s a booking, easy."

The referee moved towards Van Dijk and then pulled out a yellow card towards the player who had already accepted his fate.

Boos poured from the Arsenal end like boiling water while cheers rose just as fiercely from the other side.

But none of that mattered to Izan.

He pushed himself up slowly, blades of grass stuck to his arm, jaw clenched like stone.

Odegaard jogged over, hand on his shoulder.

"You good?" the captain asked, voice low as Izan gave a small nod, sucking in air through his nose.

"That won’t be enough to stop me," he muttered before turning towards the ball.

The Arsenal end of Wembley found its voice again.

First one voice.

Then another.

Then a wave.

"Izan! Izan! Izan!"

They were on their feet.

Every single one of them.

Clapping, shouting, chanting.

Like they’d just watched him walk through fire and not burn.

A/ N: Okay, this is the first of the day. I should have added a bit more, but not sleeping wholly for 3 days in a row caught up to me. I woke up at 7 pm after sleeping at 6 a,m and I am feeling good now but I have a class early the next morning so I will sleep and see you after class with the 2 promised Chapters and the last Chapter of the day to close it out