God Of football-Chapter 259: Five Final [Curtain Closes]
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 who was still arranging his wall.
After making sure everything was set, the referee came back and stood behind Izan before sounding his whistle.
Then, he moved.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Then—
Izan’s final step sent his foot slicing through the ball with the precision of an artist’s brushstroke—pure, vicious, and absolute.
The strike was unlike any other. The ball did not float. It did not curl lazily over the wall. It ripped through the air with a violent whip, bending outside the post only to return like a guided missile.
The goalkeeper barely reacted. His eyes tracked it, his body tensed, but his feet—rooted.
Because this shot was impossible.
It dipped.
It curved.
It accelerated as if time itself had broken.
The fans couldn’t believe what they were seeing. The ball which was streaking towards the stands had now turned towards goal.
Under the gazes of the whole Mestalla crowd. The ball kissed the underside of the crossbar, rattling the net with a sound so sweet, so devastating, that for a second—just a second—the Mestalla froze.
Then—
BEDLAM.
——
"¡GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!"
The entire stadium detonated in a frenzy of limbs and voices. Fans leaped onto their seats, scarves waved frantically in the air, voices raw from screaming.
The sound wasn’t just loud.
It was earth-shaking.
It was history being written in real-time.
It was faith restored.
A man in the front row collapsed to his knees, hands in his hair, disbelieving. Children screamed their hero’s name. Flares ignited in the stands, orange light flickering against the chaos.
In the coaching box, Baraja clenched his fist but barely moved. He had seen legends before. He had played with them. And now, he was watching one being made!
Girona on the other hand, were stunned to silence, particularly their fans. One moment they were two goals up and the next, they were level.
On the pitch, Girona’s players stood as if struck by lightning. Hands on hips. Knees slightly bent. Wide eyes tracking the ball inside the net—as if refusing to believe.
The goalkeeper, Gazzaniga, still hadn’t moved. He stood frozen, arms limp, head tilted back in sheer exasperation.
One of the defenders, Daley Blind, ran both hands down his face, muttering curses into his gloves.
Another simply crouched down, staring at the grass, shaking his head.
Their manager? He didn’t even shout. Didn’t protest. He just turned away, arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Because what could you even say to that?
For the other side though, it was pure euphoria.
Hugo Duro sprinted toward Izan first, arms wide, screaming.
"¡LOCO! ¡LOCO! ¡ERES UN LOCO, TÍO!" (Crazy! Crazy! You’re insane, man!)
Fran Pérez, from the bench, tackled him to the ground with Diego López on top, the entire squad piling in.
Gaya screamed into the night sky, pounding his chest as if trying to tear his jersey apart.
Players ran from the bench, substitutes were barely able to contain themselves. It wasn’t just a goal.
It was a declaration
Commentator 1: "NOOOOOOO. NO. NO. NO. WHAT HAVE WE JUST SEEN?! THIS IS MADNESS! THIS IS—THIS IS PURE, UNFILTERED, UNREAL MADNESS!"
Commentator 2: "I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. I CAN’T—HE’S DONE IT AGAIN! HE’S DONE IT AGAIN, THIS KID IS NOT HUMAN!"
Commentator 1: "MY HANDS ARE TREMBLING. LOOK AT THE STADIUM! LOOK AT MESTALLA! THIS IS FOOTBALL. THIS IS—NO, THIS IS LEGENDARY!"
Izan after escaping from the pile of bodies, ran again.
He sprinted to the corner flag, arms spread wide, before leaping into the air, legs kicked forward, fists clenched as he ROARED at the top of his lungs.
He landed, turned, and pointed both fingers to the sky.
Then—he ripped his shirt off.
The crowd lost it.
Teammates swarmed him, again, shaking him, slapping his back. The referee jogged over, a yellow card already in hand. Didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered except the ball and the comeback.
As the chaos still rippled through the stadium, Izan, now turned and walked straight into the net, retrieving the ball with calm, measured steps.
He turned.
Ran back.
Placing the ball at the center circle.
His chest rose and fell, sweat dripping, body still vibrating from adrenaline.
His eyes burned.
Valencia 3 – 3 Girona.
The time?
82:54.
The mission?
Win.
The match restarted, Girona knocking the ball around cautiously, trying to reset, to breathe.
But Izan did not let them and it wasn’t only him though. The Valencia team attacked as a whole forcing amateurish mistakes from the Girona players.
They were on them.
Like a shadow that clung too close, too tight.
The moment Girona’s midfield hesitated, Valencia pounced.
A loose touch? Gone. A slow pass? Intercepted. A moment of doubt? Punished.
The Mestalla could sense it—the momentum shifting, the scales tilting, the feeling that something inevitable was about to unfold.
...
Minute 85,
Izan picked up the ball deep, in his own half, surrounded.
Girona’s press tightened, swarming him, desperate to shut him down.
But Izan had already mapped the exits.
A quick pirouette, then a chop between two lunging defenders. The ball stuck to his foot like it was tied with an invisible string.
One touch. Two. And then, Ding, [Speedster trait activated]—
HE WAS OFF.
A burst of acceleration sent him tearing through the lines, dodging tackles, leaving defenders in his wake.
Reaching the edge of the box, Izan looked for his number but seeing as he couldn’t find any, he let the ball fly at the Girona goal.
BOOM.
Outside the box. An absolute cannon off his right foot, bending, swerving, destined for the bottom corner.
"IZAN GOES FOR GOAL—!"
But Gazzaniga, somehow, somehow, clawed it away.
"Gazzaniga denies him! How?! How has he saved that?!"
The Mestalla screamed in frustration. Hands yanked through hair. Fans leaped, then collapsed back into their seats, disbelief painted across their faces.
Izan clenched his fists.
But he did not stop.
In the 87th minute, Valencia got another chance. Another strike.
Izan once again, curled one from 30 yards, the ball dipping, the crowd already halfway into celebration but before they could celebrate—
CLANG.
The post.
A cruel, metallic ring that sent hearts dropping.
Girona scrambled to clear while Izan watched the ball bounce away.
He wiped his mouth. Still no reaction.
He simply turned and pointed at Gaya who had given the pass before showing a thumbs-up sign. From behind, Gaya looked at Izan who was reminiscent of a war hero.
"Izan is playing like a man possessed! He wants this! Valencia want this! But fate is toying with them!"
...…
The Mestalla had seen many great nights, but this? This felt different.
It was as if the very air carried something heavy, something inevitable.
Valencia were throwing everything forward.
The four minutes of added time had begun ticking down, but Valencia did not rush blindly. They hunted with purpose.
They moved like a team possessed, a team with a singular belief—a goal was coming.
And at the heart of it all was Izan.
A quick combination with Pietro released the latter but he quickly returned the ball back to Izan.
Then, Izan to Diego López. A flick.
Diego López to Gayà. A one-two, then a cut inside.
Girona’s defense Waa being stretched to its limit.
Bodies in white and red scrambled, lunging, hacking, throwing themselves into desperate blocks. The Mestalla screamed for a breakthrough.
Jose Gaya pulled his foot back and struck the ball but a foot was stuck out!
The ball deflected, looping high into the air.
Time slowed.
The fans held their breath.
The defenders turned, tracking it.
For a second, it seemed like Girona’s Eric Garcia would get there first. But then—
Izan appeared.
Like a ghost slipping into the moment.
His body twisted mid-air—adjusting—preparing.
And then—
BOOM.
A SCISSOR KICK.
A connection so pure, so violent, the ball exploded off his foot.
The Mestalla froze.
The shot was a bullet.
Gazzaniga dove.
Fingertips stretched.
But it wasn’t enough.
"OH MY GOD! OHHHH MY GOD! THAT IS NOT NORMAL! THAT IS NOT NORMAL! WHERE WERE YOU WHEN WE NEEDED YOU. THEY ASKED FOR HIM AND NOW HE HAS GIVEN IT"
"HERNANDEZ IZAN MIURA… WITH THE GREATEST GOAL YOU WILL EVER SEE IN FOOTBALL! THE MESTALLA IS SHAKING! THE ROOF IS GONE!
IZAN’S HATTRICK MIGHT WELL AND TRULY SEND VALENCIA TO CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FOOTBALL"
Limbs. Everywhere. Chaos.
In the stadium, grown men wept.
Some collapsed into their seats, hands on their heads, eyes wet, muttering "No puede ser… no puede ser…"
Others leaped over rails, seats, and bodies—pure pandemonium.
The away section?
Silent.
Stunned Girona fans sat motionless, mouths slightly open, faces blank.
On the pitch, Gazzaniga lay still.
Staring at the sky.
Beaten.
Completely, utterly beaten.
The sourc𝗲 of this content is frёeωebɳovel.com.
——-
In bars across Valencia—
Beer spilled. Tables knocked over. Shouting, hugging, disbelief.
At a small café in Izan’s hometown, a group of old men watching on a flickering television stood frozen, their breath held just a little longer.
In a quiet living room, Komi pressed both hands to her face, her heart hammering, while Hori screamed, jumping onto the couch.
——
Izan didn’t think.
Didn’t care.
He ripped his jersey off, veins bulging, fists clenched, a roar from the depths of his soul.
Mestalla screamed back at him.
A king.
A warrior.
His teammates mobbed him, bodies piling onto him, hands pulling at his hair, slapping his back, shaking him, screaming into his face.
The cameras captured it all.
The veins on his neck. The sweat dripped down his bare chest. The fire in his eyes.
But then—
The whistle.
The referee walked over, expression blank.
A card.
Yellow.
A second one.
Then red.
Izan stood there, breathing hard.
The realization hit.
Sent off.
For a second, a flicker of something—shock, maybe amusement.
Then?
A grin.
He turned to the fans.
Lifted both arms.
And soaked it all in.
Because tonight?
This was his kingdom.
