God Of football

Chapter 524: Towering Figure

It began not with a roar, but with a rhythm.

A tempo.

Arsenal had come out of the gate pressing with fury, snapping into tackles and pressing Liverpool’s backline like they were chasing something personal.

But amid the collective effort, it was Izan who moved differently.

While others charged, he glided.

While they chased, he hunted.

It was the seventh minute when the game tilted.

Trossard found space between the lines and slipped a pass to Izan, hugging the left touchline.

With one smooth touch, he brought the ball under control and raised his head.

Trent Alexander-Arnold was already closing in, eyes locked, stance low, trying to force Izan to the outside.

But Izan didn’t bite.

He stopped the ball dead with the underside of his boot, freezing time just long enough for the stadium to hush.

He stood tall, let the defender inch forward, and then shifted his weight left—only to drag the ball right with the outside of his foot, sending Trent stumbling a half-step as he corrected.

What followed was a masterclass in motion.

A shoulder drop sent Trent leaning one way; a stepover and quick drag sent him the other.

Izan wasn’t sprinting still. He danced past Trent like he wasn’t even there.

One flick behind his standing leg, one quick chop inside, and suddenly there was space where none had existed.

Mac Allister stepped in to cover, hoping to trap Izan along the touchline, but he arrived late to a show that was already halfway through its climax.

Izan glanced once over his shoulder, registered the movement, and pulled off a tight elastico, pushing the ball away with the outside of his boot before reeling it in again with the inside.

It was all wrists and ankles, subtle and devastating.

Mac Allister tried to lunge, but it was too late as Izan pivoted, slid the ball between both defenders and emerged on the other side, the crowd gasping in unison as if they’d all seen something illegal.

“He’s turning the pitch into a dancefloor,” one commentator murmured, his voice reverent rather than excited.

“You don’t teach this people. This is almost instinctive.”

Izan, with his blistering pace, went past Konate, who had stepped up.

As he reached the edge of the box, he looked up once, scanned the space, and threaded a pass with surgical precision through a gap that hadn’t been there a second ago.

Martinelli darted into the channel, took the ball in stride, and opened his body to shoot—but before he could even swing his leg, Van Dijk and Gravenberch collapsed on him from either side.

The impact wasn’t malicious, but it was absolute.

Martinelli hit the turf, the ball squirting loose and spinning harmlessly toward the corner flag.

The crowd groaned—not in frustration, but in disappointment.

It had been so close. So cruelly close.

“That’s the difference,” came the next line from the booth.

“You defend perfectly for twenty seconds, and then Izan decides to bend reality. That pass should never exist. And yet… it did.”

From the goal kick, Liverpool moved with purpose.

Alisson found Robertson short, who quickly played into Gravenberch.

One-touch.

Then another diagonal switch to Salah, who came short to receive and turned sharply on the half-turn, brushing past Timber before sliding a low pass down the channel to Núñez.

It was slick, sudden—Liverpool’s first flash.

Núñez drove at Gabriel, cutting inside just enough to pull Partey over.

Salah continued his run, and the return pass was perfect, curled behind the backline.

The Egyptian took one touch and fired low toward the far post, but Raya got down sharply, pushing it wide with his fingertips.

“That’s a warning,” came the commentary, tone shifting.

“Salah’s barely been seen all game—but give him an inch, and he finds a yard.”

Robertson rushed to the ball on the sidelines and hurled in the throw, but Gabriel rose and headed it away to Ben white, who quickly returned it to David Raya.

Arsenal built again from the back after that.

Partey to Rice and then a quick switch to Timber on the overlap.

The fullback drove it down the line to Trossard, who played the quick inside pass into space for Izan once more.

The ball barely touched the turf when he met it in stride, shaping as if to drive forward.

But this time, he pivoted inside, slowing.

Letting Liverpool shape around him.

He passed back to Rice, who played short to Trossard, and then it reset again—Arsenal keeping possession now, dictating pace.

“Notice how Izan’s moving now,” the second commentator said.

“He’s drawing defenders with or without the ball. He’s changed the tone of the game just by standing in the half-space. It’s not just flair. It’s footballing IQ, and that kid has a load of it.”

Liverpool pressed, aggressive tyring to take possession of the ball and it worked out as Gravenberch intercepted a sloppy pass from Merino and played Salah through the middle again.

This time, it was Rice who caught him early—stepping in hard, clean, taking both ball and rhythm away.

“That’s a proper tackle from Rice,” came the shout.

“He’s the wall between Liverpool and goal right now.”

Back and forth the match moved, fluid as water, sharp as glass.

Arsenal surged again for the third time since the start of the match 20 minutes ago, and Izan came central, received the ball on the half-turn, and ghosted past Mac Allister—again.

He opened his hips and sprayed a switch to Saka, who cut inside, beat Robertson, and took aim—but the shot curled wide, rippling the outside netting.

“What a move!” the lead voice shouted.

“From left to right, Arsenal slicing through—but Liverpool are not folding. This is pure Premier League football.”

The game had no brakes.

A goal felt inevitable, not like hope but like math.

It wasn’t about who wanted it.

It was about who worked out the goal equation first.

“…Arsenal have had the better control of the tempo,” Peter Wallace said, his voice calm, analytical, as the camera followed Izan drifting back after Saka’s shot.

“But you do start to wonder, with this kind of dominance, can they make it count before it flips?”

And as if the commentator jinxed, Trossard took an extra touch in midfield.

His pass to Rice wasn’t firm enough, and Gravenberch snapped in, toe-poking it clear before spinning into the open lane.

Rice turned to recover, but Gravenberch was already gone, his stride opening up like a blade slicing diagonally through Arsenal’s shape.

“Wait a minute,” Marsha cut in. “This could be trouble.”

The Emirates lowered in volume—not in silence, but in recognition of what was happening.

Something real.

Gravenberch ignored Salah’s gesture and drove centrally, pulling defenders toward him.

Then, with a quick glance, he threaded a diagonal pass into Darwin Núñez, who peeled off Gabriel’s shoulder at the exact wrong moment.

The run was perfect, but the first touch wasn’t.

It bobbled.

But instead of losing momentum, Núñez adjusted instantly—his left foot lashing through the ball before Gabriel could recover.

It tore low toward the far post, skipping over the grass, knuckling slightly with pace.

Raya stretched, getting his fingers to the ball and deflecting it onto the post.

The sound of it was sharper than anything in the stadium.

The kind of hit that cut through breath.

The ball deflected out, bouncing across the goalmouth and rolling behind the line for a corner.

And now the atmosphere had changed.

“This is the first corner of the match,” Peter said, voice low now, like he was leaning closer to the monitor.

“And that one felt like a warning shot. Arsenal need to focus—immediately.”

Trent picked up the ball and walked over to the flag, not in a rush or panic.

In the box, Van Dijk was already circling—slow, patient, reading the space like a hunter, drifting toward Gabriel and nudging him gently with the elbow.

Not enough for a foul.

Just enough to say I’m here.

Trent placed the ball with care and then lifted his right hand before moving.

The run-up was short.

But the delivery was wicked.

It came in flat, curling like a blade through the penalty area—low enough to invite doubt, high enough to create fear.

Gabriel jumped late.

Timber never saw it.

And Van Dijk rose into the frame like a figure carved from steel, climbing into the air like he had an invisible ladder.

“Van Dijk!” the commentator roared as the header tore through the air, crashing toward the far post like a missile.

Saka leapt, twisting in desperation.

The ball skimmed his shoulder, kissed the post with a cruel clang, and bulged into the net.

Time stuttered.

There was a split second where no one reacted—not the players, not the fans.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t come from confusion, but from impact.

A pause where everyone processed what had just happened.

Then came the noise.

From the Liverpool end—detonation.

A thunderous wave of red shirts surging to the front rows, fists pumping, limbs colliding, strangers embracing like they’d just seen lightning strike gold.

“Virgil Van Dijk. Towering. Relentless. And just like that, Liverpool draw first blood in North London.”

A/N: Hey guys, this is the first chapter of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit

I tagged this book, come and support me with a thumbs up!