God Of football Chapter 693: Like Old Times.

The tunnel was a narrow throat of concrete, every sound bouncing back at twice its volume — boots striking the floor in uneven rhythms, muted laughter and the occasional thud of a hand slapping a shoulder.

It was the same tunnel they had walked in after the first half, but to Izan, it was starting to feel a bit shorter and longer at the same time.

Just ahead, Rice leaned slightly toward Saliba, voice low but carrying in the close space.

"...and I told him, if he tries that turn again, he’s losing the ball."

Saliba’s grin flickered in the dim light. "You’ll foul him before that."

Rice smirked. "Maybe."

Izan trailed behind them, his gaze fixed on the slope of Rice’s back, each step calculated.

he thought, the name passing through his mind like a finger flicking a switch.

The response he expected didn’t come for a while, causing his jaw to tighten.

When the voice came, it was perfectly level, without a hint of hesitation.

Izan’s eyes narrowed, his face carved into stillness as the words began to sink in, and then the system continued.

The echo of footsteps swelled in the pause that followed.

Then, Max’s tone shifted just enough to suggest something faintly, unnervingly human.

Izan’s brow lifted slightly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

"That was not supposed to be a compliment, Izan muttered under his breath while rubbing his eyes.

System entering,

With that, the sentient voice was gone, and so was the forward pull in Izan’s stride.

He found himself standing still near the mouth of the tunnel, the others streaming past into the noise and light.

His eyes hadn’t moved from the spot Rice had been moments ago, and from behind, a shadow broke across his focus.

"You good?" Odegaard asked, voice low.

"You’ve been staring at the same place for... a while."

Izan blinked, his first real movement in what felt like minutes, before shifting into step beside him.

"Yeah. I’m fine."

Odegaard looked at him for a while, and then his hand tapped Izan’s arm lightly before moving ahead, and Izan followed, the two of them stepping into the swell of light at the tunnel’s end.

The air shifted instantly — warmer, louder, alive.

The sharp tang of the pitch hit his senses first, then the sound, a low rumble that grew with every step until it felt like the ground itself was humming.

The pitch glistened faintly under the floodlights, studs clicking over the turf as the players broke away toward their stations.

Darren Fletcher’s voice rang over the broadcast, quick and bright.

"

From the far end, white shirts and flags rippled in unison, the Madrid supporters thundering out a chant that seemed to shake the upper tiers.

They had been gasping and shaking for the entirety of the first half because what they had seen wasn’t what was displayed on the scoreboard.

They, ’Los Blancos’, had come into the game as the underdogs, the first in a while, and although the score had gone for them, they knew if something didn’t happen for them, it was only a matter of time until Arsenal equalised.

The Arsenal contingent answered from their pocket of red in the stands, voices raw but unbroken, tossing their defiance into the Madrid night.

Izan, now out of his long sleeves, adjusted his gloves as he walked into his half, gaze scanning the white line of defenders already shuffling into shape.

Fletcher let the last words hang for half a beat, the crowd swelling beneath him, "

The referee glanced at each captain, his whistle resting between his fingers, before letting it rip from the centre of the pitch.

"And we are off once again," Darren Fletcher returned as Mbappé rolled the ball forward from the centre spot.

For the first few minutes of the half, Declan Rice couldn’t shake the feeling that something was... different.

The shirts opposite his team looked like a movie that had suddenly been slowed down.

Every flicker of a boot, every twitch of a shoulder, he could read it before it happened.

Izan was retreating into Arsenal’s half with the ball, but his body language screamed attack.

Modric, the veteran midfielder, lunged to close him down, only for the Spaniard to roll the ball left, straight into Rice’s path.

Instinct — or maybe something sharper — took over.

Rice let his body dip ever so slightly, a feint to pull Modrić half a step the wrong way, before sliding the ball back to Izan.

The youngest on the pitch took it in stride, eyes flicking over the pitch before returning the favour, feeding it right back.

Almost like he knew Rice could see it now — the lanes, the traps, the open space behind, and the Englishman didn’t waste it.

With one touch forward, he sent a sweeping pass out to the left where Trossard was already on the move.

But the Belgian barely had time to drop a shoulder before a grey blur came tearing in from his blind side.

And as quickly as he got the ball, he lost it, with Valverde sweeping the ball away, relentless as ever.

Valverde didn’t hesitate — the second the ball was under his control, he was tearing up the right flank.

The Madrid fans were on their feet, the noise swelling in time with each stride.

Trossard gave chase, but the Uruguayan was already shifting gears, eating up the grass.

Lewis-Skelly, let off since the start of the first half, stepped across to block his path, low stance, arms out and ready to force him wide, but Valverde didn’t even blink.

He pushed the ball onto his right before rolling it across his body, his left leg sticking out to make sure that the ball didn’t stray too far.

The ball shifted smoothly from right boot to left, like it was part of him.

Darren Fletcher’s tone sharpened, the crowd’s roar building behind him.

Declan Rice, seeing the impending threat, moved to block the shot he thought was coming, but Valverde faked a shot again, his right leg rolling the ball onto his left and from there, the shot came like a gunshot.

Pure, rifled power — one of those signature shots from the Uruguayan.

the commentary came through as the ball clapped against the woodwork.

The far post shuddered, the sound punching through the air like a hammer on steel.

The rebound skidded into the danger zone, bodies converging with opposing shirts closing in.

Odegaard was first to react, lunging in and sweeping the ball clear before a Madrid boot could get there.

It spun out toward the top of the box, no real control on it, just begging to be claimed.

But it was there — just like so many times in Valencia colours — that Izan read the moment like a predator.

The ball skipped toward him, and in one smooth motion, he brought it under control, pivoting on his heel as the pitch opened up ahead.

One opponent was already lunging in, another was trying to track back, but Izan’s first touch had already bought him the half-second he needed to burst into the counter.