God Of football-Chapter 307: The Smiling Reaper.
Izan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he walked down the tunnel. The air was thick, charged with anticipation.
Nico Williams jogged beside him, muttering under his breath, hyping himself up while Lamine Yamal cracked his neck.
No one spoke, but the energy between them was electric. Focused. Determined.
Then, as they reached the mouth of the tunnel, they saw them.
The French players were looking at them like they wanted to kill. Izan smiled wryly before he met another player’s gaze.
Kante.
The short Frenchman had been put on for Camavinga who had been somewhat lackluster after his pass to start the French goal counter.
The Frenchman gave Izan the warmest smile he had ever seen in a while before turning towards the end of the tunnel.
The referee gave the signal.
The two teams stepped out together, side by side, into the deafening roar of the stadium.
Forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes to hold on. To fight. To finish what they started.
And the fans were ready.
PETER DRURY:
"And now… the second act of this epic unfolds! Forty-five minutes remain in Munich—forty-five minutes that will decide who moves on, who falls, and who carves their name into history!"
JIM BEGLIN:
"Spain, with their fearless brilliance, turned the game on its head before the break, but France… they are far from beaten.
We saw them wake up toward the end of the first half, we saw Kylian Mbappé remind us of his threat. And now? Now, we see the change— We see if France can carry on"
PETER DRURY:
"N’Golo Kanté. The man who, at his peak, devoured entire midfields, covered every blade of grass, and disrupted every plan.
Didier Deschamps has called on his warrior. Camavinga makes way, and Kanté steps in."
JIM BEGLIN:
"And Spain? No changes. Why would they? De la Fuente believes in the eleven that flipped the script.
But this battle is far from won. The stage is set, the players are ready, and we are about to witness a war."
The stadium vibrated as the referee signaled the restart.
Spain began in possession, their passing crisp, controlled—exactly what De la Fuente had demanded.
The ball cycled between Rodri, Pedri, and Laporte, weaving its way forward as Spain settled into their rhythm.
Then it reached Izan.
A smooth turn, a touch of silk, and he was already shifting his body, scanning the field for an opening.
But then—
A shadow. A presence.
Kanté.
Izan barely had time to react before pressure swallowed him whole.
Kanté’s steps were light, almost effortless, but his body moved with the precision of a predator.
Izan adjusted his footing, attempting to shift away—
But Kanté was already there.
A nudge. A perfect, calculated step. Not a foul, just enough to unbalance.
Izan fought to keep possession, turning his back to shield the ball—
Mistake.
The moment he lingered, Kanté struck.
A clean hook of the leg, a pivot of his frame—gone.
The ball ripped away in an instant.
Kanté didn’t even hesitate. His first touch wasn’t to control—it was to disrupt, to send the ball flying toward the flanks, where Dembele was already sprinting forward.
The French attack ignited instantly.
Dembélé latched onto the pass, his pace shredding through the right side before cutting in. His shot came quick, a venomous strike aimed low toward the corner.
Blocked!
Laporte threw his body in the way, the impact sending the ball spiraling toward the six-yard box.
Chaos in the box.
Rodri lunged, trying to clear—
Griezmann swung a boot—
Blocked again!
But the ball didn’t leave the area. It pinballed through the sea of legs before spilling loose—
To Mbappé.
The French crowd erupted.
"Shooooooot" they screamed at Mbappe but they needn’t remind him.
A split second. A touch. A shot.
No hesitation.
Mbappé’s strike rifled through the bodies, past Simón’s desperate reach— before homing into the back of the net.
GOOOOOOAAAALLLL!
"OHHHH, KYLIAN MBAPPÉ! SPAIN TRIED TO HOLD, THEY TRIED TO SURVIVE, BUT HE HAS TORN THEM OPEN!" PETER DRURY ROARED.
JIM BEGLIN:
"And it all started with N’Golo Kanté! He hounded Izan, stole possession, and triggered the entire move! And once the scramble began, France smelled blood!"
French fans exploded in celebration, the blue tide roaring with renewed life.
Izan exhaled sharply, pressing his lips together. His teammates were already picking up the ball, shaking off the setback, but he—
He looked up.
Kanté stood a few meters away, not gloating, not celebrating—just watching.
He was smiling.
Not in mockery. Not in arrogance.
A warm, almost gentle smile. The kind a teacher gives a student who is about to learn a very difficult lesson.
Izan swallowed, his heart still hammering. And then—
The system chimed.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: PLAYER SCANNED]
[NAME: N’GOLO KANTÉ]
[OVR: 88(91)]
[TRAIT: SMILING REAPER]
Izan’s breath hitched as the text hovered above Kanté’s head.
The system, Max, gave its description:
"A force unseen, a predator without malice. The Smiling Reaper is the hunter who does not chase—because he is already where you will be.
His steps are silent, his presence weightless, but when he strikes, there is no escape.
A beast not of power, but of inevitability. He does not fight to dominate. He fights because it is simply in his nature. And when he smiles—"
"—you have already lost."
Izan blinked, his mind still processing the words floating before him.
"A beast not of power, but of inevitability."
He swallowed. His arms twitched. Was it cold in here?
No.
Goosebumps.
He rubbed his forearm absentmindedly, shaking off the eerie sensation creeping up his spine.
"Why does this sound like something out of a horror movie?" he thought.
And that last line—
"When he smiles… you have already lost."
Izan peeked up at Kanté.
He was still smiling.
Not in a taunting way. Not even in a way that suggested he enjoyed winning duels. It was just… natural. Like he was happy to be playing football.
Which somehow made it worse.
"Bro, why do you play like a final boss but look like you’d help me find my lost dog?"
Izan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He needed to focus.
Even as he tried to recompose himself, he couldn’t deny the feeling lingering in his gut.
Kanté wasn’t fast, not in the way someone like Mbappé was. He wasn’t a towering physical monster like Camavinga. And yet…
He was already where you wanted to be.
That was what made him terrifying.
Izan clenched his fists. Fine. If that’s how it was going to be, he’d find a way through.
Goosebumps or not.
MINUTE 53’
Izan exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he jogged into position. The match had resumed in chaos, and for the past few minutes, he had been drowning in it.
Not literally.
But it felt that way.
Because wherever he moved, whatever pocket of space he tried to drift into, one thing was constant.
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N’Golo Kanté was there.
Not in an aggressive, overbearing way. He didn’t shove, didn’t hack at his ankles like some defenders desperate to stop him.
No.
Kanté was a shadow. A presence that lingered just enough to suffocate.
Every time Izan tried to receive the ball on the half-turn, he felt Kanté’s weight shifting, his body already reading the next movement.
Every time he tried to accelerate, a well-timed step from Kanté nudged him just slightly off-balance, disrupting his rhythm.
Every time he thought he had found a way out, Kanté had already closed the door.
It was frustrating. Maddening, even.
And it was working.
Izan had barely touched the ball in the second half. Spain’s fluid attack had lost a vital piece, and the French press had grown sharper.
From the touchline, Luis de la Fuente watched closely, his hands behind his back.
Beside him, one of his assistants whispered something.
"Dani?"
De la Fuente didn’t respond immediately. His eyes were locked on Izan, watching the teenager struggle to escape Kanté’s orbit.
Dani Olmo was warming up.
It wasn’t a bad idea. If Izan couldn’t get going, then a more experienced player might be the answer.
But De la Fuente hesitated.
He had seen this before.
Izan getting shut down. Izan struggling. Izan going quiet.
And then—
Izan exploding.
De la Fuente folded his arms. He wasn’t making a move. Not yet.
But the Spanish fans? They weren’t as patient.
In the stands, murmurs had started.
"He’s disappeared."
"Kanté’s got him locked."
"Izan has done exceedingly but Maybe it’s time to bring Olmo on…"
The shift in energy was tangible. Izan had gone from the heartbeat of Spain’s attack to a ghost struggling to get a touch.
Then—
MINUTE 57’
A mistake.
It was small. Almost invisible.
But Izan saw it or at least he felt it.
For the first time in the half, Kanté had slightly overcommitted—not much, just a half-step too far forward.
It was enough.
Izan didn’t hesitate. He feinted to receive the ball on his right—then let it roll past him to his left, twisting away from Kanté’s reach.
The Frenchman lunged. Too late.
Izan was already gone.
A spark ignited in the stadium.
He was back.
