God Of football-Chapter 326 : New Level [Golden Ticket]
The Spanish players walked forward as one.
The noise from the Spanish fans had reached something indescribable—a wall of sound, a force of nature, a nation's heartbeat pounding in unison.
Izan took it all in.
The endless sea of red and gold. The flags waving madly. The raw, unfiltered euphoria crackling in the air.
And at the very front—the trophy.
The Henri Delaunay Trophy.
The pinnacle of European football.
Izan exhaled, tightening his grip on his medal as he stepped forward alongside Rodri, Spain's captain.
The UEFA president handed the trophy over, shaking Rodri's hand. There were words exchanged, but Izan barely registered them.
Because in that moment—the weight of everything hit him.
Everything.
The heartbreak of not being selected at first.
The frustration of being an afterthought.
The doubt, the critics, the endless questions.
The moment Asensio got injured, and the door finally opened.
The fear that he would be distracted with all that was going on with Valencia.
The first goal. The second. The third. The ninth.
The Golden Boot. The Player of the Tournament.
The Final. The moment they had just lived through.
And now—this.
Rodri turned, his eyes shining, his face unreadable for a split second before breaking into an unstoppable grin.
"VAMOS!"
He hoisted the trophy into the air.
And the world erupted.
Fireworks exploded into the night sky. Confetti rained down in waves of red and yellow.
The Spanish players lost themselves.
Izan threw his arms around Lamine and Nico as they jumped in wild celebration.
Dani Olmo grabbed his head, shaking him like he still couldn't believe it. Cucurella sprinted in from nowhere, tackling him in a chaotic hug.
The cameras captured it all—Spain's young generation, their golden future, dancing under the raining confetti.
Then—the moment.
Rodri turned—looking for him.
And when he found Izan, he nodded.
"Vamos, Pichichi."
Izan stepped forward.
He gripped the trophy.
It was cold. Heavy. Real.
His fingers curled around the handles. He felt every groove, every engraving, every inch of history carved into it.
The cameras zoomed in—the world watching, waiting.
Izan turned.
He faced the Spanish fans—his people.
Then, with everything in him—he lifted it.
The stadium detonated.
Back home, the whole of Spain shook.
Peter Drury's voice soared, carrying the weight of the night:
"A boy—now a king. A name—now a legend. Spain—now the champions of Europe!"
"A tournament graced by his touch, by his vision, by his will to seize the moment. Nine goals, a record matched, a legacy born in the heart of Germany."
"He arrived as a boy full of questions, full of doubts. Tonight, he leaves as an answer, as a truth etched into the annals of footballing history."
"This, this is what dreams are made of. The sound, the sight, the feeling—forever etched in the soul of Spain."
"Europe, bow to your new champions."
"And to you all, wherever you are watching my name is Peter Drury and—goodnight!"
The celebrations did not stop.
Rodri passed the trophy to Morata, who kissed it before hoisting it high again. The team gathered for photos, but chaos reigned.
The confetti made it impossible to stand still. Players took turns running toward the fans, draping themselves in Spanish flags.
Cucurella, his wild curls bouncing as he ran, grabbed the trophy and began sprinting wildly across the pitch. Dani Carvajal chased after him, arms flailing.
Lamine and Nico threw their shirts into the stands. Fabián Ruiz jumped onto Ferran Torres' back.
Then came the iconic moment.
A cameraman focused in on Cucurella, who had just stopped running and turned, eyes wide in exaggerated shock, as if finally realizing what he had done.
The frame was perfect.
And just like that—the meme of the night was born.
Izan, laughing, finally made his way to his family in the stands.
His mother—Komi, tears in her eyes.
His sister—Hori, was waving a Spanish flag so wildly that it almost hit someone.
He hugged them both, the warmth of their embrace cutting through the cold of the night.
After a while, the players left the pitch to the locker rooms, but that didn't stop the leaving fans from celebrating,, and neither did it stop the players.
The Spanish dressing room was a war zone.
Music blasted. Champagne sprayed. Players danced, sang, and screamed.
Izan had barely stepped inside when a bucket of freezing cold water was dumped over his head.
"BIENVENIDO, PICHICHI!" someone roared.
Nico and Lamine grabbed him, dragging him into the center of the madness.
Rodri was standing on a bench, waving the Spanish flag like a king leading his army.
Morata and Carvajal had already lost their shirts and were stomping their feet in rhythm, leading a chant:
"¡CAMPEONES, CAMPEONES, OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ!"
Izan, still dripping, threw his arms around them, shouting the words until his voice went hoarse.
Then—the music cut out.
Silence.
Someone was typing.
The Bluetooth is connected.
And then—
"REAL MEN LISTEN TO SHAKIRA!"
Absolute chaos.
The players erupted. The beat dropped.
Lamine and Nico hopped onto tables. Cucurella started jumping with his arms flailing.
Dani Olmo and Ferran Torres did some horrendous dance moves that should have been illegal.
Rodri grabbed the trophy and held it high as the entire squad jumped in rhythm, voices shaking the walls:
"SPAIN'S ON FIRE! NANANANA!"
Izan?
Izan was in the middle of it all.
Lost in it. Alive in it.
The champagne. The music. The arms around his shoulders.
A night that would never be forgotten.
The night Spain conquered Europe.
Then—the door swung open.
Luis de la Fuente walked in.
And instantly—everything stopped.
The music. The jumping. The chanting.
It was like someone had hit pause on a wild party movie.
The players froze.
Some still had bottles in their hands. Others were mid-jump. Rodri, still holding the trophy, glanced over like a kid caught red-handed.
Luis de la Fuente looked around. Slowly.
The tension was unbearable.
Then—
"VAAAAAAAAAAMOSSSS!!!"
He roared at the top of his lungs, throwing both fists in the air.
The locker room exploded.
The players charged at him.
Nico and Lamine grabbed him by the shoulders. Rodri poured champagne on his head.
Cucurella somehow ended up hugging him while screaming into the sky.
Luis de la Fuente?
The Spain manager?
He was jumping. Jumping.
With his players, his champions.
And in that moment—it didn't matter who was coach, who was player.
They were just Spain.
The kings of Europe.
......
Izan shook his head, pushing through the chaos of the dressing room.
The teasing continued behind him—Lamine dramatically blowing kisses in the air, Nico howling with laughter, Ferran shouting, "Don't forget to send heart emojis, bro!"
He ignored them.
His pulse was still racing.
The moment he stepped into the quieter hallway, he let out a slow breath. His hands trembled slightly—not from nerves, but from the residual energy coursing through him.
Then, it appeared.
[System Update: Euro 2024 Complete]
His breath caught.
[Congratulations! Spain has won the UEFA European Championship!]
The sourc𝗲 of this content is freēwēbηovel.c૦m.
[Final Stats: 9 Goals | 4 Assists | 5 MOTM Performances]
[Processing Rewards…]
[Stat Points Earned: +50]
That alone was massive. The system had never been this generous before.
Every other time, it had been subtle, almost stingy with its rewards. But now? It felt like something had changed.
He didn't check the allocation menu yet, but he could feel it waiting.
Then came the skills.
[New Skill Moves Unlocked]
La Croqueta (Advanced) → Mastered
Hocus Pocus → Acquired
Elastico → Mastered
Berbatov Spin → Acquired
Antony spin→ Acquired
[OK so here me out. The last one is for a meme and recreational purposes, but it's still good right?right?right??]
Izan exhaled sharply. These weren't just ordinary moves—they were flair-heavy, high-difficulty techniques used by some of the best dribblers in history.
The kind of moves that could destroy defenders when executed perfectly.
But what came next was even more intriguing.
[New Feature Unlocked: Vision Mode]
(Enhances spatial awareness, allowing for precise anticipation of opponent movements.)
That alone was huge. If it worked the way he thought it did, it would let him read the game at an even higher level, processing everything faster than before.
But the next one made his heart pound.
[New Feature Unlocked: Reflex Boost]
(Short-term reaction speed enhancement during crucial moments.)
That was dangerous. In the right moment, a fraction of a second could make the difference between winning and losing.
And then—
[New Title Unlocked: Champion's Presence]
(Subtly enhances confidence and aura, making teammates naturally look to you in high-pressure moments.)
Izan's breath caught.
That... that was different.
This wasn't just physical. This wasn't just technique. This was influence. This was what separated great players from those who defined an era.
He ran a hand through his damp hair, still processing everything.
The energy in his body hadn't faded, but it wasn't overwhelming—it was like a door had opened, a potential he hadn't tapped into yet.
The weight of it settled in.
He had reached a new level.
And the world didn't even know it yet.
A sudden banging on the door snapped him back.
"IZAN!"
It was Lamine, his voice muffled but unmistakably mischievous.
"YOU GOOD IN THERE, BRO? YOU NEED A MINUTE? NEED A CALL?"
More laughter exploded from the hallway.
"I THINK HE'S STARING AT HIS PHONE, MAN!" Ferran shouted.
"Bro, he's definitely smiling at the screen," Nico added. "Olivia's getting a long text right now."
Izan rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at his lips.
"Idiotas," he muttered, shaking his head while getting up.
He pushed open the door—
Only to be greeted by half the squad, all leaning against the wall, smirking.
Rodri raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
Izan exhaled dramatically. "Yes, I texted Olivia. Happy?"
Lamine threw his arms up. "KNEW IT!"
The squad erupted in cheers.
Dani Olmo clapped him on the back. "Respect, Pichichi. Even champions need romance."
Cucurella draped an arm around him. "Now let's go. We've got a party to finish."
Izan laughed.
His system had upgraded. His game had evolved.
But right now—he was going to celebrate.
A/n: This is the end of the Euros Arc. I wanted to release as part of tomorrow's double update but some of you guys decided to spam the Golden tickets so here we are. Have fun
