CHAPTER 688: WHITE ANGELS.

The host paused, then tapped the desk once with his pen, as if to re-centre the room.

"And yet, there’s no time to dwell. Because Arsenal’s next match?" He looked directly into the camera.

"Isn’t against a team from Merseyside. It’s against Real Madrid. At the Emirates. Quarter-final. Champions League first leg with everything on the line because if they don’t get something at the Emirates, it will be very hard for them to go and take something from the Bernabeu."

Valdebebas – Real Madrid Training Complex

The quiet hum of the air conditioning was the only sound inside the video analysis room at Valdebebas.

The chairs were filled, white polos and grey tracksuits scattered across the rows like soldiers awaiting a war briefing.

A few players whispered among themselves, the soft shuffling of trainers and slides against the floor hinting at nerves, or worse — boredom.

Then the door opened.

Carlo Ancelotti walked in, slower than usual.

Not tired — no, Carlo never showed that — but deliberate.

His hands were behind his back, posture straight, but something in his eyes was different.

A man who had seen everything in football, and yet, right now, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

He stood in silence for a second at the front of the room, letting the projector screen glow behind him, a blank canvas waiting for blood and numbers.

The players fell silent too, sensing the weight in the air.

Nobody wanted to be the subject of attention for the Don, who was going through a bit of a rough patch in his illustrious career.

"It’s been..." he began, voice low, almost casual, "a long season."

He gave a small, humourless smile.

"Not the one I imagined and not one you guys thought would happen"

No one laughed.

They knew what he meant.

A distant second in La Liga, the title already slipping into Catalan hands with two Clásico defeats, one in the league, the other in the SuperCopa final that still burned like acid.

An unconvincing league phase performance in the Champions League, scraping through games they were supposed to dominate.

The media whispering, then shouting.

Questions about hunger, about age, about transition.

Carlo didn’t dwell on any of that, but he let the silence acknowledge it.

"And now," he said, glancing at the screen behind him, "we face a teenager."

He paused, looking at each player.

"A teenager who’s made the world sit up. Who’s made us sit up before! Who We’ve faced three times before — back when he was just some new name at Valencia, still wet behind the ears."

"But even then, we were not let off."

He turned and gestured toward one of his assistants after he finished his words.

The Assistant picked up a remote and then pressed a few keys as the projector blinked to life, and a stat-packed slide filled the screen:

Izan Miura Hernández – Performance vs Real Madrid (2023/24).

3 games.

2 wins.

1 draw.

4 goals.

2 assists.

1 hat-trick in the Bernabéu.

"Not once," Carlo said, voice calm but clear, "did we beat him."

More slides flicked by.

Heat maps.

Sprint charts.

Passing webs.

Expected chances metrics.

Some of the players squinted, some nodded while others just stared blankly at the data — the way Carlo himself did sometimes.

"I won’t pretend I understand half of these numbers," he muttered.

"But I understand one thing — that kid’s a storm. And if we don’t build a roof before he hits, we’re going to drown, again," he stretched the last part a little bit longer than the rest of his words.

He took a step to the side and let the footage roll: Izan, in a Valencia kit, weaving past Modrić and Kroos, back when he was still at the club, like a ghost through a crowd before slipping past Camavinga next.

Izan curling a left-footer past Courtois.

Izan screaming toward the away fans at Mestalla, the world was only just starting to whisper his name back then.

That was the past.

Now the kid was at Arsenal.

Now he was one of the best in Europe.

The best to some.

Now he came with a spotlight so bright it could melt silverware.

"And yet..." Carlo said, looking back at them, "We’re Real Madrid."

The way he said it — slow, grounded, firm — made a few backs straighten, not with arrogance but with memory.

"We’ve pulled the impossible out of fire. We’ve done it too many times to count. Ronaldinho. Rivaldo, our own Ronaldo, back when he was at Barca, and that stubborn Argentine. They’ve all been dealt with before. And if ever there was a time to do it again... It’s this."

The video froze on a frame — Izan, fists clenched, celebrating his third goal at the Bernabéu.

Carlo turned fully to his players, the fire now lit in his voice.

"No fear. No idols. Let’s start."

On the other side of the coin, in the stillness of London Colney, the post had become a drum.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

It rang out every ten, maybe fifteen seconds,

The sound of a clean strike of ball meeting metal with the sound skimming through the cool afternoon air like a metronome.

Out on the far pitch, alone at the edge of the box, Izan stood with a small rack of balls behind him and a net that hadn’t rippled once in fifteen minutes.

Because he wasn’t aiming for the net.

Another free kick came through, this time, with his right foot and,

Clang was the sound that came next.

Off the bar this time.

From just outside the gym doors, Martinelli squinted, arms folded over his chest, watching as Izan calmly walked back to the rack and rolled another ball into place.

Beside him, Ødegaard leaned in, sipping from a water bottle, his forehead slightly creased in something between awe and confusion.

"How long’s he been doing this?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the routine.

Martinelli shrugged. "Longer than I’ve been out here."

MartinØ degaard gave a low whistle after another shot hit the left post.

"That’s... obsession."

"Or that might just be him," Martinelli replied.

Another strike came.

This one clipped the inside of the post so sharply that it rebounded straight back toward Izan, who stopped it with his heel, didn’t even look down, and just repositioned before firing away back at the crossbar.

A few feet behind them, someone joined in with a light laugh.

"He does this before all the big ones," said a voice in Spanish-accented English.

Mikel Merino.

Still in his trainers, fresh from rehab exercises inside, the Spanish international leaned against the doorframe, following their gaze.

"Even with Spain, last year, before the France semi-final. He went out and hit the post like ten times in a row. Never shot once at goal. Just the post."

Martinelli turned. "Why the post?"

Merino smirked. "Lamine joked, saying Izan said if he can hit the thin margins when it doesn’t count, he’ll find the gaps when it does."

Declan Rice, with a protein shake in hand, now joined the lineup of onlookers.

He gave a short nod of acknowledgement toward Merino, then looked back out to the pitch where Izan had adjusted again — this time lining it up just a little wider, making the angle sharper.

Thunk.

Off the far post

The four of them stood there for a moment, just watching.

Out on the pitch, Izan took one last free kick — not to the bar or post this time.

This one curled into the top corner like it belonged there, tugging the net into silence.

Then he stepped back, wiped his hands down his shorts, and finally turned toward the building with a faint smile on his face.

....

April 8th – London, 24 Hours to Kickoff

Evening drizzle. Heathrow Airport.

The doors of the white jet hissed open, and one by one, the players of Real Madrid stepped onto the grey tarmac like fallen angels in branded tracksuits — regal, cold, and composed.

The sky over London was darkening, that damp spring sort of grey, and the drizzle clung to their jackets as the team made its way to the waiting convoy of luxury buses.

There were no cheers or fanfare because Arteta had made the team travel discreetly.

Still, there were a few photographers lurking behind barriers, and the flashing bulbs painted brief strobe lights on boots and faces.

Carlo Ancelotti was the last to step off.

Hands in coat pockets, collar turned up as his eyes scanned the overcast horizon.

London. Arsenal. Izan.

The media had gotten hold of the narrative already.

"The White Angels Have Landed — Real Madrid to Slay the Devil of North London."

– Marca headline, bold on every sports stand by morning.

It wasn’t hard to guess who the devil was.

The Spanish press had already adopted the myth.

Izan Miura Hernández — Arsenal’s prodigy and, inarguably, Europe’s current best and at just 17 at that.

Real Madrid knew it too well and they were prepared to put their pride aside to battle it out, at th Emirates.

A/N: First of the day. Damn, I’m tired. Use some Golden Tickets and Gifts to power me back up. Alright, have fun reading and I’ll see you all in a bit with the last of the day.