God Of football-Chapter 346: Unveiling

The final test concluded, and Izan wiped his face with a towel. His breathing was still controlled as if the grueling medical examination had been nothing more than a warm-up.

The tension in the room hadn’t dissipated—if anything, it had thickened.

The murmurs among the medical staff had turned into quiet exchanges, cautious glances directed at the screens displaying Izan’s test results.

Mikel Arteta, arms crossed, watched in silence before finally motioning to a few of the doctors. "Step outside with me."

The moment they were out of Izan’s earshot, Arteta turned to the group, his tone low but firm.

"Be honest with me. Are these numbers natural?"

A pause. A few of the doctors exchanged glances, clearly uncertain. One of them finally cleared his throat.

"It’s… difficult to say."

Another doctor, shifting uncomfortably, added, "We’ve never seen numbers like these from a player who just came off vacation.

His endurance levels are something you’d expect at peak mid-season form, not now."

Arteta’s expression didn’t change. He wasn’t a stranger to elite athletes, nor to the extremes some went to in pursuit of an edge. His voice dropped even lower.

"Has he taken anything?"

The silence stretched.

Before any of them could answer, the door to the medical room opened, and the head of the medical department walked in.

He had been overseeing another player’s rehabilitation and had only now gotten a proper look at the reports. Without hesitation, he shook his head.

"No. He’s clean."

Arteta turned to him, watching carefully. "You’re sure?"

The doctor exhaled, stepping closer to the screen. "If he had taken performance enhancers, we’d see clear markers—disruptions in his hormonal balance, irregular oxygen uptake levels, muscle inflammation beyond normal thresholds. There’s none of that."

He tapped on the screen, pointing at specific parameters.

"His body’s not reacting like someone who’s artificially boosted. It’s reacting like someone who’s built for this. A genetic anomaly, maybe. But not unnatural."

Arteta didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the data for a moment longer before the doctor straightened, offering a small shrug.

"He’s simply a beast of nature."

Arteta exhaled through his nose. The weight of that statement lingered between them.

He glanced towards the room where Izan sat, speaking quietly with Miranda and Henry.

His posture was relaxed, but Arteta could see it now—the coiled energy beneath the surface, the controlled intensity in how he moved, the way his body operated at a level beyond normal limits.

Not manufactured. Not altered.

Just built different.

Arteta nodded. "Alright."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked back inside.

...…

With the medicals completed, the doctors gave the final green light, and the atmosphere shifted.

The uncertainty that had clouded the room moments ago was gone. Now, everything moved with precision—the formalities of sealing a top signing.

Izan stepped out of the medical room, greeted by he head doctor. Miranda, ever the professional, checked her phone before nodding. "That’s done. Now, we move to the paperwork."

Arteta, who had remained silent for most of the process, finally stepped forward. He looked at Izan, eyes sharp but unreadable. "You ready?"

Izan met his gaze. "Of course."

A brief pause—then Arteta gave a small nod, motioning for them to move forward.

They exited the medical wing and stepped into the club’s inner offices.

Arsenal’s media and legal teams were already in position.

The next steps were routine but essential: signing the contract, media obligations, and, of course, the long-anticipated club announcement.

The contract signing came first.

Inside a sleek, well-lit room, Izan took his seat at a long table. Documents were spread before him, neatly organized.

Arsenal’s director of football, along with key club representatives, sat opposite him.

Miranda sat by his side, carefully scanning through every clause, though most had already been settled in prior negotiations.

When the final paper was placed before him, Izan didn’t hesitate. He picked up the pen, scrawled his signature, and sealed his move to Arsenal.

A handshake followed—Arteta first, then the club officials, then Miranda.

The moment was captured by cameras in the room, images that would soon flood Arsenal’s official channels and social media.

Next came the official photos and videos.

Izan changed into a full Arsenal kit, the No. 10 printed on the back. He stood before the club’s emblem, cameras flashing as he posed with the jersey, a signature smirk on his face.

A short video followed, with him simply stating, "I’m here."

Behind the scenes, Arsenal’s social media team worked rapidly. They knew the weight of this signing.

The graphics were pre-made, the captions pre-written. Moments later, a tweet went live:

"The wait is over. Welcome to Arsenal, Izan."

The engagement exploded instantly.

Meanwhile, Izan was led towards another area—one final step before his unveiling at the Emirates. The first meeting with his new teammates.

....

After the contract was signed and the official media duties were completed, Izan was led toward the heart of the training ground—the locker room.

This was the moment that made a transfer feel real: stepping into the squad, meeting new teammates, and finding his place in an already well-structured team.

As the door swung open, the atmosphere inside was lively but controlled.

A few players were already gathered, some sitting on the benches, others standing, engaged in casual conversations.

When Izan stepped in, the talking slowed—not in an awkward way, but with the natural curiosity that came with a high-profile signing.

Jorginho was the first to approach. The Italian midfielder was one of the more vocal leaders in the squad, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone who had seen it all.

He extended a hand, his expression warm yet appraising.

"Welcome to Arsenal, my friend."

Izan took the handshake firmly and, to the surprise of a few, responded in fluent English.

"Thanks, man. Happy to be here."

A few heads turned at that. Though most knew Izan had played in Spain, the ease with which he spoke English was unexpected.

Jorginho raised an eyebrow, visibly impressed.

"Your English is good."

Izan smirked slightly. "Gotta be ready for everything, right?"

A chuckle spread through the room. The ice had been broken.

More players came up next. Martin Ødegaard, the captain, introduced himself with a firm handshake, his tone friendly yet serious.

"Good to have you here, man. Looking forward to playing with you."

Bukayo Saka, ever the energetic presence, leaned in. "Nah, we need to see how sharp you are first."

A few laughs followed, but the underlying message was clear. Respect was given, but it had to be earned.

And then, Declan Rice stepped up. His grin was wide, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Ahh, here he is! The Heartbreaker."

Izan raised an eyebrow, but Rice wasn’t done. He patted his chest, feigning an exaggerated sigh.

"You know, I’ve had a tough summer, mate. I thought bringing it home was finally happening. And then…" His hand gestured toward Izan, his eyes narrowing in mock disappointment. "You. Ruined. Everything."

The room erupted in laughter. Saka clapped his hands, Ødegaard shook his head with a knowing smirk, and even the usually reserved Ben White let out a chuckle.

Izan, completely unfazed, tilted his head slightly.

"You played well, man," he said with a shrug. "Just not well enough."

That earned a few "Oooohs" from the squad, with Rice doubling over dramatically.

"Nahhh, that’s cold!" he laughed, pointing at Izan. "I can’t wait to kick you in training."

Izan chuckled, shaking his head. "We’ll see about that."

There was a moment of understanding there—a competitor recognizing another competitor.

The introductions continued. Gabriel Jesus, Tomiyasu, Ben White, Partey, Havertz.

Each player welcomed him in their own way, some with nods, others with quick jokes. It was a team with clear chemistry, and Izan was stepping into something strong.

As the small talk faded, Mikel Arteta entered the room, his presence immediately commanding attention.

"Alright, everyone," he said, clapping his hands once. "We’ll have plenty of time for introductions, but Izan has something else to get to."

That was the cue. The unveiling at the Emirates awaited.

With one last glance around the room, Izan exhaled and followed the coaching staff out.

Updated from freewёbnoνel.com.

The real journey was just beginning

...

The convoy pulled up outside the Emirates, and even before Izan stepped out, he could hear them.

The low hum of thousands of voices—restless, eager, waiting.

Arsenal had kept everything tight-lipped, no leaks, no advance teasers. Yet somehow, word had spread like wildfire.

As he walked through the tunnel, flanked by club officials, the energy became palpable.

The stadium wasn’t just half full. It was more than that—and growing. Fans continued streaming in, filling the stands, the lower tiers packed while the upper levels saw clusters growing by the second.

Some waved Spanish flags, others had homemade banners welcoming him. And despite the sheer number of people, the Emirates was silent.

Holding its breath.

And then—

Izan stepped onto the pitch.

A/n: sorry for being late with this one. I was down with a cold since the morning so I couldnt write anything. Anyways Have fun reading