CHAPTER 682: SILVERWARE.

The Arsenal fans lost their minds.

Not celebrated—screamed.

Chairs kicked over, pints flying into the air like geysers, people grabbing strangers and howling into the wind.

Some jumped the rails.

Three, maybe four, dashed past the stewards, running onto the pitch with pure adrenaline in their eyes—no thought, no fear, just glory.

One of them fell, trying to hug Izan but missing, while another chased the shirt as Izan hurled it into the crowd with a spin and a snarl.

Like he had just slain something divine.

And the commentary—

It prayed.

"And now... he runs!"

"From the embers of chaos, from the weight of history, he runs!"

"Six red shirts — defiant, desperate — form a barricade! But this is no boy... this is a storm wearing flesh!"

"He weaves! He dances! He dares!"

"He’s not just playing football — he’s rewriting its rules!"

"Wembley trembles! The grass is hallowed, and it yields to him!"

"It’s as if they whispered from Olympus and said, ’Go.’"

"And he did! And he is!"

"This is not a match. This is a coronation! A child of man, now cloaked in the fury of gods! Izan Miura Hernández... Just... what are you?"

And he was what he was.

For now, he was the godchild of Football.

.....

Wembley wasn’t calming down.

It was still swelling, drowning in noise and disbelief and love that burned like wildfire through the terraces.

Security guards were outnumbered by emotion and the Stewards could only stand and stare as the fans that had already invaded the pitch came back.

Izan was still in the storm of itz

His arms gripped, with hundreds of strangers screaming his name like it was a summoning.

Like he’d pulled a sword from a stone.

And the referee?

He jogged toward the centre-circle, calm, firm, and lifted one hand — a single gesture.

A wide circle with his finger and a jab toward the touchline.

Universal language, that meant: let’s close it out.

The players saw it first.

Gabriel turned, breathless, and shouted, "Yo! Izan! Off, bro! Get your shirt—ref’s calling it in!"

Rice was already waving him back and even Raya, still halfway up the pitch from celebrating, cupped his gloves and bellowed, "GET BACK! YOU GOTTA CHANGE!"

Izan blinked, still catching up, still drinking in the sky and the madness.

A fan tried to hug him again, but security finally swarmed.

A steward grabbed his arm — not to drag him, but to shield him — and escorted him through the tide.

As he broke free, he turned once — just once — to the section where his shirt had vanished like a relic into the sea of hands and pumped his two fists in the air.

He grinned.

Then jogged off.

The referee met him near the edge, already pulling the yellow card from his pocket.

He didn’t lecture and just held it up with a smirk and a shrug, like, "What did you expect?".

Izan gave him a boyish thumbs up, breathless as the ref patted his back — a little harder than usual — and motioned again.

"New shirt," mouthed someone from the bench before the referee could say it.

The kitman was already sprinting over.

And in the booth—

"This... this is mad, Jim," Alan Smith was saying, voice still hoarse with disbelief.

"I mean—Carabao Cup Final or not, this is one of the few moments I’ve seen Wembley erupt like that. This is something else entirely."

"Since it became the Carabao Cup in 2017," Jim replied, half-laughing, half-stunned, "we’ve had some good games. But this? That wasn’t just a final. That was a reckoning."

Down on the pitch, the Liverpool players were slowly returning to formation or were dragging themselves to.

Jones looked up at the scoreboard and let out a long breath.

Mac Allister just stared forward, unmoving, like a man trying to remember how to walk.

Salah wiped his face once, then twice, and turned toward the centre circle, blinking hard.

Van Dijk?

He was doing his best.

Clapping. Shouting.

Trying to sound like the captain.

"Come on, boys! Come on! We’re still here!" he yelled, clapping hard.

"Snap out of it! Heads up!"

But his voice didn’t echo the way it usually did.

And the Liverpool end of Wembley, once roaring, had gone whisper-quiet — like the fans were struggling to climb out of a stunned trance.

"God save the King!"

"God save the King!"

The chant was louder now.

Arsenal’s end was trembling again.

And this time, they didn’t mean royalty.

As Izan returned, a new kit tugged on mid-jog, the roar climbed back into the sky like it was something divine.

The referee looked once to each side, nodded, and pointed to the centre circle.

Whistle to lips and then, Fweeeeeeeee, the sound came.

The second round of whistle Liverpool were expecting however didn’t come.

It was well over the allotted time so they expected the referee to blow his whistle but it wasn’t coming and the referee wasn’t showing any signs of blowing.

Seeing this, Arne Slot motioned.

"Go forward," he roared like a war general and his players heeded.

Curtis Jones stepped into the ball and swept it long.

A desperate diagonal — not a pass, not even a hope, just a plea.

A prayer disguised as a ball that someone could turn it into a dangerous chance.

Salah surged forward again, flinging himself into Arsenal’s box with the look of a man who’d drag the moment back with his bare hands if he could.

The crowd held its breath—not just Liverpool’s end but the neutrals, the stewards, the media box, the gods watching from whatever cloud Izan had just shaken.

The ball soared—

—And just before it reached Salah’s chest, just before it could matter—

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

The whistle came!

It was almost cruel.

It was mocking the futile resistance Liverpool had tried to put up.

Mocked them for thinking there was any more left.

Saliba caught the ball anyway, but not to clear it.

He tucked it under his arm and grinned like one did when they lived to see the end of the war and came out unscathed.

And Wembley exploded.

The bench emptied.

Arteta, suit half-ruined with rain and sweat, charged the pitch with arms open wide.

Raya bolted toward the corner flag like he’d just scored it himself while Jorginho tackled Rice with a hug that nearly broke both of them.

Kiwior ran with his mouth open, screaming nonsense syllables.

Martinelli fell to his knees, then sprang up again, laughing like a child with a secret.

And Izan—

He was still jogging from the sideline when the crowd ruptured again and the realisation hit him like a freight train of gold and sound.

It was over.

They’d done it.

He’d done it.

First trophy of the season — and it had his name carved into it now, invisible but indelible.

Somewhere in the box, Olivia hugged Komi and Hori so tight her knuckles went white.

And in the booth—

Alan Smith’s voice cracked.

"Arsenal... are Carabao Cup champions! And they didn’t just win it, Jim... they stole it from under the gods."

Jim Beglin laughed, almost bitterly amazed.

"This game was about legacy. About belief. And when it looked like Liverpool had it, one teenager just took it back."

"First trophy of the season," Jim murmured. "And something tells me it won’t be his last."

The camera found Izan again.

He stood in the middle of it all — red confetti already starting to fall from above, hands on his hips, staring at the sky.

And for a second, he didn’t move and just existed.

Then he smiled.

And just as he smiled—

SPLASH!

A shriek—not of fear, but shock—ripped out of Izan as freezing water burst over his back and shoulders, soaking him to the bones.

He spun with his mouth wide open, stumbling a step, arms flailing—and there they were.

Martinelli and Nwaneri.

Grinning like hyenas, holding the now-empty ice cooler between them, shoulders bouncing from laughter as the plastic container clattered to the ground.

"You absolute—!" Izan started, but he couldn’t finish.

He was laughing too hard.

His shirt clung to him now, heavy and drenched, but he didn’t care.

He lunged for them, a soggy missile of vengeance, and the three collapsed in a tangle—shoving, rolling, grinning, breathing in the weightless air of victory.

The chants still rolled over the stands like waves crashing back onto shore.

"MIU-RA! MIU-RA! MIU-RA!"

Then—

A stir at the mouth of the tunnel.

Someone noticed.

Then another.

And just like that, it spread like a current through the squad.

Saka.

Bukayo Saka.

Emerging slowly, limping with a crutch under one arm.

His left leg was wrapped, knee to ankle.

A grey tracksuit jacket draped over his shoulders, but there was no hiding the quiet, unmistakable glow in his expression.

He wasn’t alone.

A few club VIPs walked behind him—Edu, Per Mertesacker, even Thierry Henry as well as the families of players.

But it wasn’t them who made the noise swell again.

It was him.

As soon as they saw him, Martinelli turned.

Declan Rice stood up halfway from the grass.

Nwaneri pointed, his mouth dropping while Izan’s head whipped toward the tunnel like something had yanked his attention.

And all at once—they started moving.

Toward him.

A/n: Okay, this is the first of the day. Sorry for it being late. I had to sneak out of class and finish this. I am done now so have fun reading.