God Of football-Chapter 258: Five Finals [ Belter Protocol]
The number went up.
#25 – Fran Pérez OFF
#21 – Izan ON
A murmur in the crowd. A flicker of curiosity.
As he stepped onto the pitch, the camera caught his face.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Just fire.
He turned to the ball, his eyes scanning the field.
And as the game resumed, one thought burned in his mind.
"I’m hungry".
[Jk. Thought it would be funny]
. .
~~~
The Mestalla was drowning in sorrow. Hope, fragile as glass, teetered on the edge of a cliff.
This content is taken from freёnovelkiss.com.
But then—Izan touched the ball.
A subtle weight shift. A glance forward.
Something changed.
The ball rolled to his feet, and suddenly, the world around him slowed.
Girona’s midfielders collapsed inward, swarming, a red wall forming to smother him before he could even turn.
"He’s boxed in!"
"No way through!" The commentators said but Izan disagreed.
A delicate feint to the right, a flick to the left—one defender twisted the wrong way and Izan was through.
But the danger was far from over.
Another Girona player lunged, boots flashing but Izan let the ball roll, waited a fraction of a second—then snapped a roulette spin, Zidane-esque, slipping between two bodies as if he belonged to another plane of existence.
The Mestalla gasped.
"OH, STOP IT! STOP IT, YOUNG MAN!" The commentator roared in approval.
At this point, Girona’s midfield had shattered like glass. Three more players. Three desperate red shirts threw themselves at him.
But Izan just kept gliding through them.
One step over, then two before his feet started moving like the wings of a helicopter. The Girona players retreated trying to stall for time but Izan didn’t have that leisure.
His right foot hovered over the ball, teasing, baiting before a sudden drop of his shoulder sent another defender stumbling.
Seeing as their waiting game wouldn’t work, the next came barreling in, but Izan—calm, cold, ruthless—lifted the ball past him with an outrageous scoop flick.
"IZAAANN. HE’S TAKING SOULS OUT THERE!"
The final defender stood his ground at the edge of the box slowing Izan down. The two locked eyes, the crowd holding its breath.
Then—an explosion of movement.
A lightning-quick elastico. The defender, Eric Garcia blinked, and Izan was already past him.
"OH MY WORD! THIS IS NOT NORMAL. HE NEVER WAS!"
And now, there was nothing left.
Just him. The ball. And Gazzaniga—the Girona goalkeeper, frozen on his line, eyes wide, unsure whether to rush out or pray.
Izan didn’t hesitate.
His left foot is planted. His right foot swung—an outside-of-the-foot rocket, slicing through the air like a comet.
Gazzaniga dived but there was no way he was getting to that ball.
The ball EXPLODED into the top-left corner, a firework against the night sky sending the Mestalla into a frenzy.
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH MY WORD!!"
"IZAAAAAAAAAN! STOP THAT! STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!"
"STOP THE COUNT! GIVE HIM THE PUSKÁS AWARD NOW!"
"THAT IS OUTRAGEOUS! THAT IS A PUSKÁS CONTENDER! THAT IS A GOAL OF THE SEASON CONTENDER!"
"WHAT HAVE WE JUST WITNESSED?!"
Izan wasn’t watching.
He had already sprinted into the net, grabbing the ball, turning, and running back to the halfway line.
The stadium was still stuck in awe. Girona’s players stood frozen, their coach slack-jawed, their fans holding their heads.
"Izan is not normal. We heard Pele. We heard Maradona. We hear Messi and we hear Ronaldo and now what are we hearing? Yes Izan, that’s what we’re hearing"
"THIS KID JUST PULLED VALENCIA BACK FROM THE DEAD! It’s Girona 3, Valencia 2. Can Izan bring back the hope? "
Baraja, on the touchline, didn’t even celebrate. He simply pointed. "Again."
As Izan placed the ball at the center circle, sweat dripping, breathing heavily, fire raging in his eyes—
Everyone knew.
This wasn’t over.
...….
The ball rolled again, Girona restarting the game, but the air had changed.
Izan was no longer playing in this match.
He was conducting it.
"AND HERE COMES IZAN AGAIN! LIKE A MAN POSSESSED!"
The moment a Girona player received the ball, Izan was on him, snapping at heels, forcing rushed passes.
And when Valencia had it?
It was a mad symphony.
He dropped deep to collect, turning with grace, evading pressure like he was built for it.
A quick one-two with Pepelu. A darting run forward. Then a lofted outside-the-boot pass cut open the entire midfield, landing at the feet of Diego López on the left flank.
The Mestalla roared.
Diego López surged forward, Izan sprinting alongside him, demanding the return pass.
The former punted into space making sure what he intended to do before going around another Girona player.
" Valencia have been pumped to life. Diego Lopez now slips the pass to Izan".
Izan didn’t even need to take a touch—a first-time flick redirected the ball toward the opposite wing, where Pietro had filled in.
A Girona defender slid in but his effort came too late.
Pietro brought it down, his marker scrambling before whipping in the cross.
The box was chaotic with both sides fighting for possession of the ball but among them, there was a more determined player.
Hugo Duro rose high!
A powerful header directed at the goal but his effort was blocked off the line by the defensive heroism of Eric Garcia who looked to make up for his error against Izan earlier but it looked as if fate was playing tricks.
The cleared ball bounced out only to find Izan who met it with a thunderous volley!
"OH! BLOCKED AGAIN! BUT LOOK AT THE RELENTLESSNESS FROM VALENCIA!"
Girona scrambled the clearance, but the Mestalla was alive again.
They believed.
Because Izan was making them believe.
In the 75th minute, Girona tried to slow down the tempo of the game.
They passed sideways, stalling, killing time but the new Valencia was not taking that for an answer.
They refused and moreover, they couldn’t rest when Izan was on the pitch.
The latter hunted them, one by one. He forced mistakes. A misplaced pass? He was there. A loose touch? Snatched away.
By the 77th minute, Girona stopped playing through the middle.
Because Izan was in the middle.
"GIRONA CAN’T BREATHE! THEY CAN’T FUNCTION!"
Baraja saw it. He adjusted.
"Give him the ball. Let him work."
And work he did.
A sudden flick behind his standing leg took out a defender, drawing "oohs" from the crowd followed by a cheeky nutmeg in midfield which sent the Mestalla into raptures.
"WHAT ARE WE WATCHING?! THIS IS A ONE-MAN SHOW!"
Izan had resurrected Valencia but time was ticking. They needed to win to have a sure chance but right now, they were losing.
"Max, activate, Ego Crown and Pinpoint Accuracy simultaneously" Izan intentioned with a mental flex.
Ding,
[ Ego Crown(incomplete) activated]
[Pinpoint Accuary Lv 3 activated]
[Two traits Activated; Forming UNION]
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1
With the system counting down, Izan spun away to receive the ball and he did after Gaya slipped the ball to him deep into his own half.
A slide came from behind but Izan spun away from the challenge and rolled the ball with his studs before bolting forward.
Izan moving forward kept scanning for a more defined path and the system gave him one. Settling in on a target, Izan sent a through ball. No. A laser.
The ball, Diagonally split three defenders, curling perfectly into the path of Hugo Duro who bodied his marker before continuing on his run, charging at the goal like a lost bull.
Duro took a touch and now he was one-on-one!
The Mestalla held its breath.
But his shot, well, "SAVED!" The commentator roared after Gazzaniga pushed the ball away.
Gasps. Hands in hair. Hugo Duro clutched his head in disbelief.
Izan?
No reaction.
He grabbed Duro by the shoulders. "Again."
And so, they went again.
Valencia attacked in waves. But Girona would not break.
Until they did.
Izan received the ball near the edge of the box, a Girona defender lunging in desperately but Izan dragged the ball past him escaping them before they could encircle him.
Another defender charged but Izan knocked it past him and turned the other way.
Hugo Duro saw the opening.
He darted into the gap, and Izan fed him instantly.
Duro took a touch, winding up for a shot but—
CRACK.
The tackle came from behind. Hugo Duro collapsed onto the ground clutching his ankle.
The whistle blew.
The Mestalla EXPLODED.
"FREE KICK! FREE KICK FOR VALENCIA!"
The referee stood over the scene, already reaching for his pocket—a yellow card for the Girona defender.
But nobody cared.
Because the ball was now being cradled in one player’s hands.
Izan.
The Mestalla knew.
They had seen him do it before.
And now, they could see it again.
...
Izan placed the ball down, his fingers pressing into the leather, feeling its weight, its shape. It had to be perfect.
He took two steps back, then another. His eyes lifted, scanning the goal, the wall, the goalkeeper. The distance didn’t matter. The pressure didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered except the strike.
The Mestalla had fallen into a hush, the kind of silence that wasn’t silence at all. It was anticipation, thick and electric. A thousand murmurs held in breaths.
Baraja stood still, arms crossed. Not in doubt. Not in fear. But in understanding.
He had played this game long enough to know what was about to happen.
Across the pitch, the Girona goalkeeper shuffled on his line, squinting at Izan, trying to read his intent.
The wall was set—four men strong, bodies rigid. They knew. They all knew.
This was his moment.
Izan took one last breath before issuing a slight command to the system.
"Max, load the previous template," Izan said earning a slight buzz from the system.
Ding, [ Belter protocol loading]
After hearing this, Izan looked back at the Goalkeeper.
Then, he moved.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Then—
