God Of football Chapter 738: Far From Over.

After the restart, the game settled into its final rhythm, tension thick in the air after Izan’s thunderbolt had shaken the stadium.

Luis Enrique, realising the tide was shifting, wasted no time.

He gestured sharply to his bench, calling on defensive reinforcements as Fresh legs flooded into PSG’s back line, the Spaniard determined to protect the lead at all costs.

Arsenal pushed, urged forward by the roar of the Emirates, but PSG absorbed everything.

The French champions dropped deeper, compact lines leaving Izan with hardly a yard to breathe, while remaining alert for any opportunity to counter.

Every touch was contested, every second ball swallowed up.

Tackles were made, with PSG incurring 2 yellow cards in the process, all courtesy of Izan.

They were pulling out all the stops in the final minutes.

On the other hand, the Gunners searched desperately for one more opening, yet the clock ticked mercilessly toward ninety.

And then, with one last shrill blast, the referee brought his whistle to his lips.

Full-time.

Arsenal 1, Paris Saint-Germain 2.

The away end exploded.

A deafening roar of French voices rose into the North London night, their players clenching fists, arms pumping in triumph.

On the other side, groans rolled from the Arsenal faithful.

Disappointment, yes, but not despair.

They had seen their talisman return, seen him strike with the venom of a king, and belief flickered in their eyes.

The second leg awaited, and this time, fear had no place.

"Unbelievable drama here at the Emirates in the final moments," the commentary team, up the gantry, tried to put it into words as their voices rang out.

"Arsenal beaten for the first time with Izan on the pitch... can you believe that? His 23rd goal of this Champions League campaign, and still, it wasn’t enough tonight."

"A staggering statistic," the co-commentator, Alan McInally, added.

"A seventeen-year-old, redefining what’s possible in this competition, in football, and yet here he walks off the pitch with his first taste of defeat. It tells you how extraordinary he’s been."

Down on the grass, Izan peeled off his shirt, sweat glistening under the floodlights.

He walked slowly, head slightly bowed, but his eyes were hard, burning with something that wasn’t shame.

If anything, it was hunger and a mix of frustration.

"Just a few minutes earlier and that would have...." he said, as his voice trailed off.

A reporter darted forward as he neared the touchline, microphone stretched, desperate for a word, but Izan glanced at him once, just once.

A sharp shake of the head, eyes saying all that needed to be said:

Without breaking stride, he carried on, boots clattering down the tunnel, shirt draped over his shoulder.

The cameras lingered, following him until the shadows swallowed his figure.

And as the stadium buzzed with the mixture of elation and anguish, one truth rang clear: this tie was far from over.

....

The morning after the game, the media houses and bodies were having a field day.

"Izan Returns, But Arsenal Fall Short at the Emirates – Talisman strikes again, but PSG edge ahead in first leg."

"El Dios del Gol No Descansa – Izan’s UCL tally rises to 23, even in defeat."

"Paris Hold On, But Izan is Back – Arsenal’s star reminds PSG he needs only one chance."

"2-1 in Emirates: Arsenal beaten, but belief restored with Izan’s return."

As the headlines flooded the scenes, a feature BBC article went on to explain the story of the game.

........

...

Hori tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she read aloud the last paragraph of the article glowing on her tablet.

""

She exhaled through her nose and set the device aside with a faint chuckle.

"Honestly, these writers... they really know how to glaze and raise you."

Across from her, Miranda, fresh off from Milan, and espresso clinging to her, had settled into the armchair like she’d never left.

She draped one leg over the other, gesturing lazily with her hand as if flicking away an obvious truth.

"Please. Arsenal would have walked out with at least a draw if Arteta had the sense to put Izan on earlier."

The provocation hung in the air, and Hori’s lips curved into a sly smirk.

She leaned back, crossing her arms with mock finality.

"I don’t think so," she replied, deliberately casual, though her eyes flickered toward the couch, toward the boy with the controller.

She hoped, just hoped, the line would tug something out of him.

But Izan didn’t so much as flinch.

His gaze was glued to the screen, headset framing his face, fingers moving with that silent intensity everyone in the house knew too well.

On-screen, Arsenal were dismantling PSG on the highest difficulty setting of

The scoreline read 3–0.

The game cut briefly to his in-game avatar, already with two goals to its name, and then back to another ruthless press against Donnarumma’s defence.

If the jab had landed, he wasn’t showing it.

The quiet broke when the kitchen door swung open and Komi emerged, cradling a tray with the kind of reverence usually reserved for art pieces.

A loaf of deep-dish bread, its crust golden and split with steam, sent a wave of warmth across the room.

She laid it down gently, then looked at her daughter with that familiar maternal firmness.

"Hori, don’t bother your brother. Let him sulk in peace."

Her tone wasn’t sharp, but enough to make Hori shrug and roll her eyes.

"Of course, he can troll, but I can’t," she said while gesturing animatedly at her mother’s supposed favouritism towards Izan and to her, it showed in the next moment as Komi sliced through the loaf, the crackle of crust filling the room, and placed a piece on a small plate.

She moved to Izan, who finally lifted his headset just long enough to lean forward, kiss her cheek in gratitude, and retreat into the glow of the match.

A faint smile passed over Komi’s face as she returned to the kitchen, satisfied.

Hori shook her head at the little scene, her smirk softening into something almost amused.

She turned to Miranda, raising her brows.

"Since when did we start playing the Godfather game?" she asked, gesturing at the quiet ritual of the bread, a kiss, silence, and resumed business, as though it were part of some family mafia drama.

Miranda laughed under her breath, her eyes following Izan’s focused profile, the controller clicking like background music.

"Komi, Hori’s been watching R-rated movies again. She just mentioned the Godfather."

"No, I did not," Hori fired back as she continued to settle down before one of the tables near the couch, watching on as her mother threw her a glance.

A/N: Okay, this will be the last of the day. Have fun reading, and I will see you soon.