God Of football-Chapter 252: Five Finals[Oryazabal’s Challenge: 6]

Juno now standing, walked to the ball and took a quick free kick but his pass forward was smothered by Marmadashvilli who spotted Sosa.

Sosa had been waiting for his moment.

The ball came to him near the halfway line, Sociedad’s midfield press closing in. But with a sharp feint, Sosa sent one defender flying the wrong way.

Then, he turned.

And he ran.

His legs pumped, and his breath came sharp. The green grass opened in front of him, the away crowd also gasping for air like they were the ones running with the ball on the field.

Valencia had space and Sosa intended to use it.

But then—a sudden impact rocked his body.

Le Normand.

A full-body check. No pretense of playing the ball. Just brute force ent Sosa sprawling, skidding across the grass, his arms scraping against the turf.

The whistle shrieked and the Valencia players surrounded the referee this time, voices raised in protest.

Le Normand held his hands up, pretending innocence, but the referee had seen enough.

Yellow card.

Sosa pulled himself up, rolling his shoulder. He turned to Le Normand and smirked. "Go easy on me okay?"

The French defender didn’t respond and just stared at the former. Sosa looked back before he walked off awkwardly.

With a couple of minutes on the clock for the first half, Valencia weren’t content with going into halftime on edge. They wanted more and they worked for it.

Guillamón took control of the ball in midfield, his eyes scanning for an opening. Sociedad had fallen into a cautious stance, trying to protect themselves before the break and that was their mistake.

Guillamón didn’t hesitate. He slid a pass into the left channel, threading it through a sea of blue and white.

Diego López was already moving before the ball even reached him.

He took the first touch on the run. A flick of his boot to set himself up and before long, he found himself inside the box.

The angle was tight. A shot was possible—but not the right choice.

So he didn’t take it.

Instead, a sharp cut inside caused a Sociedad defender to lunge but he missed, sliding past him helplessly.

López looked up and Fran Pérez was there.

Perfectly placed, Lopez sent the ball toward Fran Perez.

The pass came in—crisp, clean, almost inch-perfect.

Fran took one touch to settle.

A second to set.

And then—a low, ruthless drive towards Alex Remiro. The Real Sociedad fans prayed for a save but Alex Remiro was a few inches short.

The ball kissed the grass as it shot forward, past the outstretched leg of a defender, beyond the diving hands of the goalkeeper, and Straight into the net.

The net rippled violently.

A second of silence.

Then—pandemonium.

Fran screamed into the night sky, veins in his neck bulging as his teammates mobbed him, grabbing his jersey, and shaking him in pure adrenaline-fueled ecstasy.

On the touchline, Baraja clenched his fists and let out a roar, veins popping at his temples as Valencia celebrated their halftime lead

The referee’s whistle followed soon after.

Halftime.

Valencia led.

But the war was far from over.

The Reale Arena was a storm of contrasting emotions as the referee blew for halftime.

For the Valencia fans, packed tightly in their section, it was a scene of absolute jubilation.

Their voices had never wavered, but now, leading 2-1 away in one of the toughest stadiums in Spain, they were deafening.

Flags waved wildly. Drums pounded in a chaotic rhythm. Some fans clutched their scarves tightly, as if willing this fragile lead to hold. Others simply screamed.

@VCF_Forever: WE’RE TAKING CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FOOTBALL BACK TO MESTALLA.

@BlanquinegreFC: SOSA.HUGO.FRAN. THIS TEAM HAS ICE IN THEIR VEINS.

Among the crowd, the Valencia fans stood, smiles streaking across their faces.

They had seen Valencia rise and fall and tonight, under the glistening lights in San Sebastián, their team were not faltering.

"This," an older fan in the stands whispered, gripping his scarf, "is the Valencia I remember."

On the opposite side of the stadium, the mood was far from joyful. The Sociedad fans were restless and frustrated. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go and they showed it online.

@TxuriUrdinDaily: We’ve been the better team. How are we losing?

@RealSociedadFans: We need to wake up. This is retribution against Valencia for that Copa del Rey elimination.

Some fans sat in stunned silence, arms crossed tightly. Others stood, shouting into the night, urging their players to respond.

The most passionate supporters near the pitch berated the referee as he walked off, convinced that Valencia’s aggression had gone unpunished.

"Referee, where’s the second yellow for Gayà?!" a furious fan yelled.

Another clapped his hands aggressively. "We’ve been the better team! We just need one chance, one damn chance!"

As the players walked off the field, the tension didn’t subside.

Sociedad’s Martín Zubimendi shook his head in frustration, muttering to his teammates. "They’re not better than us. We’re letting them dictate the game."

Walking beside him, Mikel Merino gnashed his teeth slightly at Zubimendi’s words.

Behind them, Take Kubo sighed in frustration before joining his mates who were ahead.

For Valencia, it was the opposite.

Fran Pérez, still buzzing from his goal, turned to Sosa. "They’re rattled."

Sosa smirked. "That’s Good then. Let’s finish the job."

Gayà, ever the leader, reminded them all. "We’re 45 minutes from making a statement. Keep your heads. They’ll throw everything at us."

Baraja walked behind his squad, his mind racing. They had the lead. Now, could they hold onto it?

From the bench, Izan watched everything unfold, hands gripping his shorts. He felt the weight of the moment.

He wasn’t supposed to play.

But deep down, he had a feeling—this night wasn’t over for him.

...…

The tunnel was heavy with unspoken tension as both teams emerged from their dressing rooms.

The Valencia players moved as one, their expressions focused, their bodies coiled with anticipation.

A few exchanged low murmurs, but the real communication was in their eyes—the unspoken understanding that these next forty-five minutes would define the night.

Gayà, the ever-present leader, strode with authority, a reminder to his teammates that this fight was far from over.

On the other side of the tunnel, Real Sociedad were simmering. Zubimendi clenched his jaw, his mind replaying the first half.

They had dominated stretches of the game but still found themselves trailing. That wasn’t acceptable.

"We’re the better team," he muttered under his breath. "We just have to prove it."

Mikel Oyarzabal, their captain and talisman, had no doubts. He had been here before—big moments, big pressure.

As he walked out, his gaze remained fixed straight ahead. No emotion, no words. Just intent.

The referee checked his watch. The second half was about to begin.

Blow the whistle. Restart the war.

After the restart, Valencia barely had time to settle before the danger arrived.

Real Sociedad came out swinging, their attack moving like a relentless tide. Zubimendi picked up the ball deep in midfield, lifting his head for options.

He didn’t hesitate. A smooth turn. A quick pass and that was all they needed to breach Valencia’s defensive form

Méndez, lurking between the lines, received it. His first touch was perfect, setting him up before Guillamón could close him down.

Valencia’s defense was compact, but Sociedad were patient. Méndez feinted once, waiting for the briefest gap to appear.

There it was.

A slip of space between the center-backs.

Méndez slid a pass into the box, slicing through Valencia’s defensive wall like a scalpel.

Oyarzabal was already moving before the ball even arrived. His instincts were razor-sharp, his timing impeccable. He stretched, reaching for the ball, but just as he controlled it—

Contact.

A tangle of legs. A stumble.

Oyarzabal went down. The whistle shrieked and the stadium froze for a second.

Penalty.

The Reale Arena erupted. The entire stadium shook with the force of the home crowd’s celebrations, voices merging into an avalanche of noise. The referee pointed to the spot, unwavering in his decision.

The Valencia players lost it.

Gayà was the first to charge toward the referee, his face contorted in disbelief. "No! No way that’s a pen! He threw himself to the ground!"

Hugo Guillamón spun in frustration, hands on his head. "He’s looking for it! He goes down every time!"

Even Assistant Coach Moreno, usually composed on the touchline, let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed his forehead beside Baraja who was fuming. This was the worst possible start to the half.

Oyarzabal, however, was unmoved.

He had the ball in his hands before the protests even died down. He didn’t argue, didn’t react.

He simply walked to the penalty spot, placed the ball down, and took three steps back.

Mamardashvili adjusted his gloves, bouncing on the goal line. His eyes locked onto Oyarzabal, reading his body language, searching for a hint of hesitation.

Nothing.

The referee signaled.

The whistle blew.

Oyarzabal took a breath.

A stutter-step. A pause and sent the ball towards the goal.

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Mamardashvili lunged left but he had been sent the wrong way.

The stadium erupted.

The Reale Arena was a cauldron of euphoria. Fans threw their arms into the air, scarves waving in a sea of blue and white.

The ground itself seemed to tremble under the sheer force of the celebrations.

Oyarzabal didn’t celebrate wildly. No sprint, no outburst.

Instead, he jogged toward the corner flag, raising one finger in the air—a statement, a message. He had done this before. He had expected this.

But then, just as he turned back toward midfield, he stopped.

He turned his head.

His eyes locked onto the Valencia bench.

And then, he pointed.

Not at the coach. Not at the substitutes warming up.

At Izan.

The cameras caught it. The entire stadium saw it. A silent callout, a deliberate gesture.

The crowd roared louder, feeding off the moment.

And on the bench, Izan smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a forced grin.

A calm, knowing smile.