"Max, Can you forcefully numb the pain in my ankle for a few minutes" Izan asked and got no response from the system for a while.
[ I can but the system recomnds it not because the backlash the host will face after this will be severe if not Career-ending]
Izan, caught between winning the final and his well-being chose the forr after the system gave its input.
[Comncing Frantic state: Host will be in a frantic state for 1 minute 30 seconds where all abilities and senses are heightened but after the state ends, the user cannot mobilize strength in his legs for a while.]
"That’s good enough" Izan said as Athletic Bilbao kicked off.
...….
The Estadio La Cartuja pulsed with raw emotion, a living, breathing beast that roared with every pass, every tackle, every desperate gasp of a fan watching their team cling to hope.
The scoreboard read 2-2, but it did nothing to reflect the storm that had unfolded over the past 81 minutes.
For Valencia, it had been a night of agony and resilience.
For Izan, it had been a battle against nature itself.
His ankle was ruined—every step he took sent a white-hot pain searing up his leg.
He could barely stand, let alone sprint, but his mind had overridden the body’s protests.
The system’s [Frantic State] had taken over. His senses burned with clarity, every movent around him unfolding like pages in an open book.
Izan took it all in, as much as he could, his head turning and scanning the positions of various players on the pitch.
"Whooooohhhh", with a large sigh, Izan moved into space, his ankle numbed to the point that it felt like it wasn’t there.
Izan moved around waiting for the mont to show the fans why he was kept on the pitch despite his injury.
Then it happened. The mont.
Dani García, overconfident and careless, let the ball roll a fraction too far.
Izan, waiting like a cheetah in the hunt, pounced in.
His movent, It wasn’t graceful. If anything it looked more desperate.
His injured foot planted down awkwardly, but he threw his body into the challenge, his left leg sweeping through the ball with the last of his strength.
He ripped possession away, sending García stumbling backward. The Bilbao players raised their hands for a foul but the referee waved play.
The world blurred as Izan forced himself upright, blinking through the pain. The ball was at his feet. He had no ti to think—only to act.
A quick glance forward.
Hugo Duro was making a run into the box. Javi Guerra peeled away to his left.
But sothing inside Izan told him—this mont was his.
He had suffered. He had endured.
And now, he would decide the final.
Ding, [New trait shard generated], the system sounded but Izan had no ti to think
[ He walks the pitch, a king untad,
A throne of turf, his na inflad.
The world bends low to watch him dance,
Each touch, a stroke—pure arrogance.
The ball obeys, his servant true,
Defenders kneel, the grass bows too.
He lifts his chin, his glare ignites,
A monarch born for floodlit nights.
Yet in his heart, a storm collides,
A hunger vast, a war inside.
For though he reigns, untouchable,
The fall is swift, inevitable]
[Ego Crown: 1 out of 10 ego plays unlocked.]
Izan felt a slight wave of energy being infused in him. Although small, in that mont, it felt like a gold mine for Izan.
Although his left foot barely held his weight as he pushed forward, dragging his broken body toward the penalty arc, Izan was still terrifying.
The Bilbao defenders scrambled, panic flashing in their eyes as they realized what was happening.
Izan was about to shoot.
Unai Simón, Spain’s number one, adjusted his stance, gauging the actions of his fellow Spain international.
The crowd sucked in their breath as Izan planted his right foot beside the ball.
A bolt of agony shot through his ankle like a dagger, forcing his body to stagger—his form broken, his balance shattered.
But still, he struck the ball.
And ti stopped or to the fans, it did.
The ball didn’t just fly—it soared, carving through the air with a vicious, dipping swerve.
Unai Simón lunged. Fingertips brushed leather but it was not enough.
The ball struck the underside of the crossbar—
Bounced down—
And kissed the net.
GOOOOOOAAAL!
"IZAN! IZAN! IZAN! THE BOY IS A HERO!"
The comntator’s voice cracked with disbelief. "ON ONE LEG! HE HAS DONE THE IMPOSSIBLE!"
The stadium detonated.
For a mont, just a fraction of a second, everything stood still.
Then—chaos.
The Valencia players exploded into celebration.
Hugo Duro sprinted toward Izan, arms outstretched, a scream of sheer joy bursting from his lips. Javi Guerra was right behind him, followed by the entire bench.
But Izan?
He collapsed.
His body pushed past its absolute limit and crumpled onto the grass. His vision swam. His chest heaved. His right leg, the source of so much agony, lay limp beneath him.
And then he felt it.
Arms.
Javi Guerra crashed into him first, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs. Hugo Duro piled on, his laughter mixing with sothing dangerously close to tears.
Then ca Gaya. Correia. Cenk. Mamardashvili. Pietro.
One by one, they all threw themselves onto Izan, wrapping him in a mass of elation and disbelief.
The fans, once doubters, once furious at Baraja for not taking Izan off, had turned into believers.
"IZAN! IZAN! IZAN!"
They scread his na, fists pounding the air, voices hoarse from the sheer madness of what they had witnessed.
So fans clutched their heads, others collapsed into their seats, overwheld by emotion.
A few had tears running down their faces, their bodies trembling from the sheer euphoria.
The comntators were losing their minds.
"THIS IS FOOTBALL! THIS IS HISTORY! THIS IS A FINAL FOR THE AGES!"
"RUBÉN BARAJA—HOW COULD YOU LEAVE HIM ON? BUT HOW CAN YOU DOUBT HIM? WHAT DID WE JUST WITNESS?"
On the touchline, Baraja stood frozen, watching his players engulf Izan, their celebrations raw, unrestrained.
He had known keeping Izan on was reckless. Suicidal, even.
But now, as the stadium worshipped the boy lying motionless beneath his teammates, he knew—
This was beyond logic.
Beyond tactics.
This was sothing only football could create.
Yet, as the realization of the goal settled, so did the consequences.
Baraja’s joy was tinged with dread.
Because now, Izan wasn’t moving.
The weight of his teammates was lifted, one by one, as they noticed it too. Izan lay on his back, his face twisted in pain, his right leg completely unresponsive.
The dical staff sprinted onto the pitch.
The celebration ca to an abrupt halt.
Izan blinked up at the floodlights, his chest rising and falling, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had given everything. Every ounce of himself.
And now, he had nothing left.
Baraja clenched his fists.
"Get Fran Pérez ready."
Izan’s night was over.
The fans, realizing this, rose as one.
A standing ovation. A farewell to their fallen hero.
As Izan was helped off the pitch, his right arm draped around the shoulders of the dical staff, his left hand clutched at his badge—
The stadium sang his na.
The sa voices that had questioned him. The sa fans that had doubted him.
Now, they worshipped him.
Because this was football.
And Izan had just written his legend.
"Take it in. Just take it all in. Because this… this is a mont we will never forget." One of the comntators spoke with emotion in his voice.
Seeing as his mate couldn’t carry on, the second comntator took over.
"A standing ovation from every single Valencia fan in this stadium. Every single one of them is on their feet, chanting his na, showing their love, their admiration, their gratitude for what this boy has just done.
And look at the Bilbao fans… stunned, frozen in silence. They don’t know what to do, what to feel.
They’ve just witnessed sothing truly extraordinary. They’ve seen a boy, barely sixteen, defy every limit of his body, his pain, and the laws of football itself to drag his team into the lead."
After a regaining his composure, the first comntator nodded at his mate, saying a curt thanks before taking over.
"Rubén Baraja should have taken him off when he got injured. We all said it. Every single person watching this match thought it was over for him.
And yet, look what he’s done. Look how he’s leaving this pitch—not defeated, not broken, but as a hero.
Izan is limping, barely able to put weight on that right foot, his face twisted in pain… but look at his hand.
Look at his chest. He’s gripping the badge. He’s still holding onto it, as if to say, ’This was for you. This was for Valencia.’"
"And listen to that sound! That ovation! His na echoing through the night in Seville! If there was ever a question about what this boy ant to this club, to these fans, this is your answer."
"Football is cruel. It’s brutal. It takes and takes and takes. But on nights like this, it gives us sothing magical.
Sothing immortal. Izan might be walking off the pitch… but he has just written his na into history. In the minds of the Valencia fans and in the annals of Spanish football."
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