God Of football
Chapter 646: Who Will Stop Them

Chapter 646: Who Will Stop Them

[Philip Stadion Media Room]

The press room was packed.

Dozens of reporters crammed into the seats, some still scrambling to set up their recorders and phones on the long table where the Arsenal stars would soon sit.

Laptops clicked with frenzied rhythm.

Voices murmured in anticipation.

The Arsenal media officer had to politely quiet a few journalists who had already begun whispering amongst themselves — speculating, theorising, waiting.

Then the door opened, and in walked Mikel Arteta, followed closely by Izan, who wore the same black tracksuit top he’d warmed down in.

Sharp and unreadable, his face betrayed little — only the faintest ghost of a smile hung at the corners of his lips.

Behind him, a UEFA official held the signature starry “Man of the Match” trophy awkwardly, unsure whether to present it before or after the questions began.

Flashes flickered like lightning, and the cameras buzzed.

Every angle wanted a piece of him.

“Right, we’ll start with questions for Izan,” the media officer said, and as soon as those words left her mouth, a forest of hands shot up.

“Izan,” a reporter from L’Équipe began breathlessly, “you’ve just broken Cristiano Ronaldo’s record for most goals in a single Champions League campaign — and you’ve done it before even playing in the quarterfinals. What are you feeling right now?”

A sudden pause enveloped the room with all the journalists poising themselves and their hands as they turned to look at Izan.

Izan leaned forward slightly and looked toward the sea of lenses.

“I am a record man,” Izan said suddenly, referencing Carlo Ancelotti’s interview.

It caused a few chuckles, but he waved his hands and continued.

“Records are made to be broken,” he said calmly.

“But when it’s someone like Ronaldo… that name, that legacy — you don’t break that by accident. I’m honoured. But I’m also aware: the job isn’t done. This isn’t the end of the competition.”

The next voice belonged to a Spanish journalist from Marca, her tone sharp but curious.

“Cristiano did it in a title-winning season. You’ve now scored nineteen, and we’re not even in the last eight. Do you think this is a sign that you’re not just breaking records, but redefining them?”

Izan’s gaze flicked sideways for a moment, as if weighing the idea.

“I’m not chasing ghosts,” he said.

“I’m just trying to play football the way I know how. If that sets a new bar… then that’s the level we have to work at moving forward. Football evolves, and I’m sure no team or player would want to be left behind.”

The sound of frenzied typing went on for a while before finally seizing as the moderator pointed towards a reporter for the next question.

One reporter stood up next, voice booming.

“After your fourth goal tonight, you were subbed off to a standing ovation from both Arsenal fans and PSV supporters. That’s rare. Did it feel… like a moment?”

Izan blinked, remembering the moment — the cold night air and the clapping from both sides of the stadium.

“I don’t know what it felt like,” he admitted.

“It’s all kind of blurry now. But I heard them. I felt it. I’ll never forget it.”

Then came the English tabloid reporter, one known for fishing.

“There are whispers that you might just be the best player in the world right now. Numbers, performances, influence — all of it. So we’ll just ask you outright: Izan, are you the best in the world?”

The room tensed as fingers hovered over keyboard keys.

This was the kind of quote that circled the world before it even ended.

Izan took a slow breath, then leaned back into his seat.

“Best?” he echoed, letting the word hang in the air.

Then: “No. Not yet.”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the room — intrigued, almost surprised by the restraint, even though his delivery was laced with quiet certainty.

“But,” he added after a pause, “I know where I want to be.”

It was a thunderclap — not arrogance, not false humility, but vision.

He wasn’t declaring himself the king even if they all knew he was.

He was telling them the throne would be earned in full, not just tonight.

“Next question,” the press officer said, sensing the room needed a moment to reset.

A woman from Cadena SER raised her hand.

“Looking ahead — between Atlético Madrid and Real Madrid, who would you rather face next?”

Izan grinned widely but didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he tapped a finger lightly on the table.

“Does it matter?” he said at last, his tone quieter but loaded.

“They’ll both need more than history to stop us.”

Laughter erupted, but coming from Izan, it sounded more like a warning than a joke.

Arteta, seated beside him, let out a small breath, a half-grin forming on his face.

He’d worked with world-class players, but this kid was something different.

The tone, the timing — cold precision with poetic timing.

A final question came in from a Dutch journalist, just as the media officer signalled the end.

“You’ve been everywhere lately — breaking records, popping up in headlines, those new pictures online too. Fans want to know — any story behind those photos? Any hint you’ll give us?”

Izan shook his head with a low chuckle.

“I give you goals. Isn’t that enough?”

The room laughed again — some genuinely, some out of disbelief.

This wasn’t just a rising star.

This was a player who could dance on the edge of madness and make it look graceful.

The session ended, but no one moved.

They just watched as Izan stood, shook a few hands, took the Man of the Match trophy without even looking at it, and walked out of the room with the same ease he had dribbled past the PSV players.

“How many more does he want?” was what was written on a reporter’s paper as they began packing.

That was a question no one could answer because deep down, they all suspected the truth.

As many as he could carry into legend.

……

The Next Morning, the football world woke up different.

Nine goals.

One reply.

Arsenal’s obliteration of PSV.

Not since the competition’s inception had a knockout-stage match ended with such carnage.

Social media boiled over.

Headlines screamed in multiple languages.

“Arteta’s Arsenal: The Juggernaut.”

“Izan Breaks Ronaldo’s UCL Record.”

“9-1: PSV Brought to Their Knees.”

Even UEFA’s official channels hesitated before posting the final score. On their pages and sites.

It felt surreal.

Too exaggerated to be real.

But there it was, immortalised in bold white font over a crimson red background: PSV 1–9 Arsenal.

The football world didn’t need time to digest.

It responded instantly.

Pundits debated through the night on post-match panels.

Radio stations across Europe were flooded with calls.

And by sunrise, the only question anyone seemed to care about was simple:

Who’s going to stop them?

Some pointed to Real Madrid.

The name alone—dripping in history—still sent a chill.

Others leaned into the chaos of modern football and placed their bets on Barcelona, the rejuvenated giant under Hansi Flick, playing their sharpest, most vertical football since the Messi-Xavi-Iniesta days.

Hansi’s high-line and pressing engine had turned heads all season, and the Catalan side looked hungrier than they had in years.

But it was the neutral fans who were loudest.

“Let Madrid win against Atleti. If anyone can handle Arsenal, it’s Madrid.”

“Nah, Hansi’s Barça is the only team with the technical edge to punish them if they leave gaps.”

“Anyone but Arsenal. These guys are monsters right now.”

On fan forums and podcasts, two tribes emerged overnight.

The believers vs the deniers.

The ones who wanted Arsenal to go all the way… and the ones who wanted someone—anyone—to humble them.

And in the centre of it all, one name kept echoing: Izan.

He’d broken Ronaldo’s legendary 17-goal mark in a single campaign, and there were still five matches left if Arsenal were to reach the final.

Six, if you count the second leg, which now felt like a formal handshake rather than a football game.

UEFA’s website bannered a new article that morning:

“Izan: The New King of Europe?”

The fan pages had already made up their minds.

Clips of his first goal were being slowed down, analysed frame-by-frame like holy scripture.

Why he chose to shoot from just past the centre when he could have gone all the way to the goal for a more sure option, and the confidence with which he shot the ball?

TikToks, reels, reaction videos—they flooded timelines.

PSV fans weren’t forgotten.

They took to their sites and pages, thanking Arsenal for a wonderful goal fest.

Even their manager had said it: “We were lucky it ended at nine.”

On Arsenal’s end, the second leg now posed no real risk.

Arteta was already rotating names in his mind.

The world had witnessed enough last night to know what this team was about.

And now, every club still in the tournament was watching.

Madrid. Atleti. Barcelona. Inter. PSG. Bayern. All of them knew what was coming.

Arsenal weren’t just marching.

They were storming in.

A/N: I will take this as the last of yesterday. I will release the first of today so we can get back in schedule for the two chapter a day release module. Alos, don’t forget to spam the Golden Tickets for your bonus chapters. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.