God Of football-Chapter 291: Clash Of Titans[3]

A disguised pass zipped toward the left, perfectly weighted for Nico. The winger trapped it in stride, feinted right, then burst left, breezing past Kimmich and whipping in a cross.

Yamal lunged for the ball but before he could get to the ball, Rüdiger threw himself at it, deflecting it behind for a corner.

" Lovely cross from Nico but an equally impressive clearance by Rudiger. This match is just beginning but you can feel the intensity it’s coming with"

From the set-piece, Lamine Yamal curled in a teasing ball, his delivery vicious and dipping.

Rodri rose highest, outmuscling Havertz, but his header sailed just over the bar.

Spain were growing into the game now.

" What an exciting first few minutes here in Stuttgart. And as we talk, Wirtz has the ball, driving forward. He takes on one, and now he lays it off to Musiala,...…. MUUSIIALAAA!!!!!!!!"

In a crowded sports bar in Berlin, packed with German supporters draped in black, red, and gold, the energy was crackling with nervous excitement.

Among the sea of fans, Sebastian, a lifelong German supporter, sat at the edge of his seat, his hands gripping the edge of the wooden table so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

A half-empty beer sat untouched beside him, condensation dripping down its glass.

The early exchanges had been intense. Spain had threatened through Izan’s electrifying speed, but Germany had found their rhythm, and now—

Musiala had the ball.

The bar collectively held its breath as Wirtz darted forward, slipping a quick pass to Musiala at the edge of the box.

Musiala’s first touch was perfect. He feinted past Carvajal with a quick flick of his right foot, leaving the Spanish defender scrambling.

Sebastian shot to his feet. "JA! LOS, JAMAL!"

Musiala took one more step forward. The net was in sight. The shot came—

The bar ERUPTED.

"TOOOOOOOOOORRRRR—"

But then, silence.

The celebrations froze mid-air, cheers dying on their tongues as the referee’s whistle cut through the noise.

A foul play had occurred in the buildup.

Sebastian’s hands ran through his hair, disbelief etched onto his face. "Was zum Teufel…?" (What the hell…?)

Replays flashed on the screen- Raum had taken the ball unfairly. The groans of frustration echoed across the bar.

Some slammed their fists on tables, others buried their faces in their hands.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "He only needs one chance," he muttered, eyes fixed on the screen as Musiala looked up at the replay, disappointment flashing across his face.

Back in the commentary booth, the broadcasters echoed his thoughts.

Martin Tyler: "And there it is—a warning from Germany. Jamal Musiala, even with the smallest opening, can slice through a defense in a heartbeat.

Spain got lucky there, but they won’t always be so fortunate."

Cesc Fàbregas: "That’s exactly why he’s one of the most dangerous young players in the world.

His movement is unpredictable, his balance incredible, and if you give him space inside the box, you’re finished."

As the camera panned to Musiala, who was already refocusing, Fàbregas continued.

Fàbregas: "But let’s not forget—Spain has a player just like that. If Musiala can hurt you in one moment, so can Izan."

Tyler: "Absolutely, Cesc. We’ve already seen glimpses of Izan’s explosiveness in these opening minutes.

The way he initiated that counterattack earlier was terrifyingly fast. And with his ability to create something out of nothing, Germany has to stay alert every second."

Just as the conversation flowed, Unai Simón suddenly launched the ball forward.

...

Neuer had barely finished organizing his defense when Simón hurled a long throw toward Nico Williams near the halfway line.

The Spanish winger, ever alert, let the ball bounce once before cushioning it with his chest.

His touch was perfect, absorbing the momentum before swiftly laying it off to Izan, who had already started his run.

The counter was ON.

Tyler: "AND JUST LIKE THAT—SPAIN BREAKS!"

Fàbregas: "This is where they’re lethal. Izan, running at a scrambling defense, is the last thing Germany wants to see!"

The Stuttgart crowd rose as one, sensing danger.

Izan took his first touch—a clean, sweeping motion that sent the ball rolling perfectly into his stride.

Then he exploded forward.

For a brief second, all eyes were on him.

...

On the German bench, Julian Nagelsmann shot to his feet, his voice booming over the roaring stadium.

"ZURÜCK! ZURÜCK! ALLE ZURÜCK!" (BACK! BACK! EVERYONE BACK!)

His arms waved frantically, demanding his defenders drop deeper, but the transition was too quick. Spain were coming.

Luis de la Fuente, in contrast, remained composed. He stood near the edge of his technical area, arms crossed, eyes locked on Izan as he surged forward.

His expression betrayed nothing—but inside, he knew this moment was critical.

This was where Izan could be devastating.

As Izan sprinted toward the final third, Rüdiger stepped up.

A wall of power, experience, and aggression.

For a moment, Izan hesitated. His first real 1v1 battle of the match.

Nagelsmann’s voice rang again: "STOP HIM! DON’T LET HIM THROUGH!"

Rüdiger, as if responding to Nagelsmann’s words, lunged in—fast, precise, hunting for the ball and Izan reacted instinctively.

With a feint to the right, he baited Rüdiger in. Then, in a split second, he flicked the ball through the defender’s legs.

A nutmeg.

The stadium gasped.

Izan moved to collect the ball on the other side, but—

WHAM.

Rüdiger, realizing he had been beaten, stuck out a leg and took Izan down.

The whistle shrieked.

Izan tumbled onto the turf, rolling before planting his hands down to push himself up.

The Spanish players swarmed the referee.

Rodri was the first to reach Anthony Taylor, his arms outstretched. "That’s a last-man foul! He was through!"

Pedri joined in, frustration written across his face. "Come on, that’s stopping a clear goal-scoring chance!"

Rüdiger, meanwhile, raised his hands in protest. "It was a tactical foul!" He glanced at the referee, his face unreadable.

Taylor wasted no time.

Yellow card.

The Spanish players erupted.

Dani Olmo shook his head, gesturing furiously. "If that’s anywhere else on the pitch, it’s red!"

On the touchline, de la Fuente simply exhaled, his face betraying the slightest flicker of amusement.

He turned to his assistant and murmured, "Rüdiger knows exactly what he’s doing."

As the debate raged on, Izan slowly picked himself up, brushing bits of grass off his shorts.

His eyes locked onto the ball.

A dangerous free kick.

A chance for Spain.

The noise inside the Stuttgart Arena didn’t die down. If anything, it grew. The Spanish fans, fueled by the injustice of what they believed should have been a red card, whistled furiously.

The German supporters, relieved that they still had eleven men on the pitch, countered with jeers.

But amidst the chaos, Izan had already placed the ball down.

He stepped back, rolling his shoulders, exhaling slowly.

It wasn’t the perfect angle for a direct shot—a bit too central, about 26 yards out—but it was still within his range. He had scored from these positions before.

Behind him, Dani Olmo and Lamine Yamal hovered—a decoy, making it unclear who would take it.

Neuer, standing tall between the posts, barked orders at his wall.

"ZUSAMMEN! BLEIBT FEST!" (Stay together! Stay firm!)

Germany’s four-man wall was solid—Rüdiger, Kimmich, Kroos, and Havertz. A line of experience, strength, and tactical intelligence.

But Izan?

He wasn’t looking at them.

He was looking at Manuel Neuer.

Martin Tyler: "Izan Hernandez… lining up the free kick… the youngster who has already shaken up this tournament.

Could this be another moment?"

Cesc Fàbregas: "It’s not an easy position, but if he gets the dip right, it’s a nightmare for the keeper."

Izan took four steps back, planting his left foot firmly. His right leg tensed.

One last breath, Izan thought before closing his eyes.

[Knuckleball: Activated], the system sounded, and with that, he took off.

His run-up was short but precise—not a full swing, not a curling effort. Instead, he struck it clean and pure with the inside of his foot, sending the ball knuckling through the air.

The trajectory was unnatural.

It started high—almost too high—but then dipped suddenly.

The ball swerved violently, moving away from the wall at the last second, curling back inward toward the top corner.

Neuer reacted instantly and For all the talk of Neuer’s age, he was still a monster in goal.

He exploded off his line, his massive frame stretching out.

His left hand shot up—a reflex as sharp as ever—and made contact.

The ball didn’t just deflect. It ricocheted.

It slapped against Neuer’s fingertips, then clipped the underside of the crossbar before bouncing back into play.

The Spanish fans screamed.

At first, a roar of belief, thinking it had gone over the line.

Then, a collective groan as they realized Neuer had kept it out.

Tyler: "OH MY WORD—WHAT A STRIKE FROM IZAN! AND AN EQUALLY IMPRESSIVE SAVE FROM NEUER"

Fàbregas: "Izan caught that perfectly! It had everything—power, swerve, dip—but Neuer… oh, that’s world-class goalkeeping."

Izan, still standing near the free-kick spot, didn’t move for a second. His chest rose and fell, his breath steady.

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Then, slowly, he turned towards his half.