The French defenders scrambled to reset, their heads turning, searching—
But the ball was already out.
Or so they thought.
Lamine Yamal, quick as ever, lobbed it back into play from the corner, and Izan had already moved.
A flash of red near the corner flag. His body twisting mid-air, his boot stretching out—
[Control]
A touch so absurdly delicate, so precise, that the ball obeyed him as if bound by unseen strings.
The stadium gasped.
The French defense barely had ti to react before Izan shifted his weight, balancing on the very edge of the pitch, his mind calculating.
Lamine Yamal called for the ball, but the look on Izan’s face said it all.
The distance. The trajectory. The impossible angle.
A normal player would recycle possession. Play it safe. Look for options.
But Izan wasn’t thinking about passing.
His Rocket Trait flared to life.
Power surged through his veins, coiling like a spring in his muscles. The energy was sharp, volatile, teetering on the edge of control.
And then—
A snap.
A burst.
The shot left his foot like a missile.
It scread through the air, bending violently, swerving away—then back—then down—
Maignan’s eyes widened.
Peter Drury felt the mont before it even happened.
"OH, MY WORD! IZAN HAS GONE FOR GLORY FROM THE DARKEST OF ANGLES—"
Maignan lunged.
The ball dipped.
Too late.
It was past him.
The net—
No.
Jules Koundé.
A desperate leap at the goal line.
A full-body stretch, his foot twisting mid-air—
Contact.
The ball ricocheted off his boot, an inch from crossing the line.
A collective gasp from the stadium.
Maignan collapsed to his knees, his eyes trailing the ball’s flight.
Rodri. Pedri. Morata. Frozen, watching, waiting—
The ball spun wildly—as if searching for soone.
Peter Drury’s voice exploded.
"IT’S STILL THERE! NICO WILLIAMS—!"
The ball landed at Nico Williams’ feet.
A perfect storm of chaos and opportunity.
The French defense—still reeling, still gasping—couldn’t react fast enough.
Koundé, sprawled from his last-ditch clearance, his foot still hovering in the air.
Maignan, still on his knees, eyes wide, hands frozen in half-surrender.
Upacano, twisting, his body moving before his mind could process the danger.
But Nico was already set.
His right foot planted. His left leg swinging back.
He didn’t think.
He didn’t need to.
Instinct took over.
Then—
A thunderclap of contact.
Boot. Ball. Explosion.
The ball scread off his foot, tearing through the air with unrelenting fury.
A missile. A declaration. A mont etched in ti.
Maignan lunged but It didn’t matter.
The net rippled. Snapped. Even threatened to burst.
GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAL!
The stadium detonated.
A shockwave of pure, unfiltered noise ripped through the air, crashing into the players, the fans, the very walls of the arena.
Spanish supporters threw their arms skyward, scarves twisting, flags waving like wildfire.
A roar surged from the stands—not just a cheer, but a collective outpouring of belief, of defiance, of sothing more.
Spain were level.
....
Peter Drury was in his elent now, his voice soaring over the chaos, weaving poetry into the madness.
"Oh, YES! Spain rise again! When all seed lost, when France had shut every door, they found a window—and crashed through it!"
The replays flooded the screen.
Izan’s ridiculous control near the corner. The way he had calculated the impossible. The whiplash shot, powered by sothing beyond human limits.
The last-ditch clearance from Koundé.
The ricochet. The ball spinning, hanging in the balance.
Then Nico Williams, ready. The strike. The net. The eruption.
And through it all, Peter Drury painted the mont with his words.
"Football is cruel! Football is beautiful! Football is a ga of inches, of heartbeats, of monts that defy reason—and in the heart of it, Spain refuse to surrender!"
...
The ball had struck the net.
The stadium had erupted.
And Nico Williams was wheeling away, his veins surging with adrenaline, eyes locked on the Spanish fans as he sprinted toward the corner where Izan and Yamal stood.
Behind him, Pedri was already in motion, pounding toward them.
As Nico reached the corner flag, he skidded to a stop, spinning on his heel—
And there they were.
Izan. Lamine. Pedri.
They knew.
Without hesitation, Izan turned to Lamine, a mischievous grin flashing across his face.
Lamine nodded.
Nico and Pedri stepped back, giving them space—because they knew exactly what was about to happen.
Izan and Lamine raised their arms—
Left fingers touching right fingers—
Their bodies mirroring each other perfectly—
And then—
"FUSION… HA!"
The Spanish fans lost their minds.
Dragon Ball Z.
The Fusion Dance.
Executed flawlessly.
Peter Drury, his voice a crescendo of awe and delight:
"What do we have here?! A mont straight out of the pages of childhood dreams!
A celebration not just of brilliance, but of brotherhood, of the joy of the ga! Izan and Yamal—FUSING before our very eyes!"
As their fingertips touched, they froze for a second—just like the legendary ani mont—before Nico and Pedri charged in, tackling them both in a chaotic embrace.
The crowd roared.
The caras flashed.
The internet?
Already on fire.
One goal scored.
And now—one of the most iconic celebrations in football history.
The cara cut to Didier Deschamps.
Stone-faced. Arms crossed. But behind those calculating eyes, a flicker of frustration.
The French players stood in shock.
Maignan shook his head, lips pressed together in disbelief.
Koundé clenched his fists, so close to keeping it out.
Upacano exhaled hard, eyes dark.
They had done everything right.
And yet—
The scoreboard had changed.
The energy had shifted.
France weren’t in control anymore.
On the Spanish touchline, de la Fuente roared, clenching his fists, his voice drowned out by the absolute bedlamaround him.
"¡Vamos! ¡Eso es! Keep pushing!"
On the pitch, Spain’s players regrouped, their breath still heavy, their hearts still hamring—
But their eyes?
Their eyes burned.
Izan stood in the center of it all, his breathing slowing, his hands resting on his hips as he looked across the field.
A storm was coming.
And Spain was ready.
...…..
Peter Drury, still riding the adrenaline of the equalizer, let his voice soar, weaving words into sothing greater than re comntary.
"And perhaps, in the midst of all this, we forget. We forget that Izan is not even seventeen.
That Lamine Yamal, who delivered the cross, is almost the sa age. That Nico Williams, who buried the chance, is still only twenty-one.
That Pedri, the architect of so many Spanish dreams, has only just begun to carve his legacy."
The crowd still trembled from the goal, but Drury’s words carved through the noise.
"Because when they play like this when they rise in these monts, they do not feel like boys.
They feel like forces of nature. Like they belong here—not in the future, not as promises—but now, as the ones shaping history before our very eyes."
Jim Beglin chuckled, but his tone was laced with "Peter, they may be kids, but they’re playing like n who’ve seen it all."
But before Drury could continue, Beglin’s voice sharpened.
"Hang on Peter—Mbappé—driving forward! Seems like he also wants to make a statent"
Kylian Mbappé, the very embodint of speed and devastation, surged down the left flank, his every touch sending alarms through the Spanish defense.
The French captain had seen enough. No hesitation. No second thoughts. He wanted the ball. He wanted to break the ga open again.
But Dani Carvajal was waiting.
Mbappé feinted right. Carvajal mirrored him.
A touch inside—Carvajal didn’t bite.
Then Mbappé burst forward, but Carvajal lunged in—clean, decisive, ruthless.
Boot to ball.
A crunch. A perfect tackle.
The Spanish crowd erupted, sensing what was coming next.
Carvajal didn’t just stop Mbappé. He turned defense into attack in a single heartbeat.
Before the French defense could reset, he whipped his head up and—whipped the ball forward.
A crossfield pass, spearing through the pitch, lasering toward Izan in the middle.
The stadium held its breath.
One touch.
Then another.
Izan took it in stride, his body flowing with the ball like they were one.
He barely looked as Tchouaméni closed in. A dip of the shoulder, a sudden burst forward—gone.
Nico Williams peeled away to the left.
Lamine Yamal sprinted up the right.
Pedri trailed just behind, watching, waiting.
But Izan?
Izan was in full stride now, tearing through the midfield, the ga unfolding in front of him.
Then—
He looked up.
The mont hung in the air—a second stretched impossibly thin, the weight of the stadium pressing down on every heartbeat.
Izan’s gaze flicked forward.
Maignan—off his line.
A calculation. A realization. A decision made in the space between breaths.
His left foot planted. His right foot rose—the perfect disguise.
To the world, to the French defense, even to his own teammates—it looked like a pass.
His body language scread it. A shift of weight, the posture of distribution—textbook deception.
But before anyone could blink, before they could even process what was happening—
Ding, [Rocket Trait: Activated]
THWACK.
The sound cracked through the night like a gunshot.
A strike of raw, unfiltered violence.
The ball didn’t just travel—it detonated.
It streaked through the air, cutting through the floodlights like a missile, carrying the sheer, unrelenting fury of a player who had seen the opportunity and refused to hesitate.
Jim Beglin barely had ti to react.
"Oh—OH MY WORD!"
Peter Drury’s voice spiraled upward, rising, rising, RISING.
"IZAN FROM DISTANCE—THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!"
The ball twisted mid-flight, a vicious knuckle effect making it wobble—veering left, right, then dipping suddenly, violently.
Maignan’s eyes widened—too late.
He threw himself backward, his body arching, hands stretching—
The ball scread past him.
For a fraction of a second, ti froze.
Then—
CRASH.
The ball smacked against the underside of the crossbar with a deafening CLANG, ricocheting downward.
The entire stadium watched, breathless—
Did it cross the line?!
Maignan twisted in midair, desperately clawing at thin air—
The ball bounced off the turf—
Then ripped into the net.
GOOOOOOOAAAAAAL!
A goal of the gods. A goal only the audacious dared to dream of.
The stadium ERUPTED.
The Spanish players sprinted toward Izan, disbelief carved into their faces.
Pedri had both hands on his head.
Lamine Yamal stood frozen, mouth open in sheer awe.
Nico Williams was already pointing at Izan, screaming.
The crowd was shaking the very foundation of the arena.
Peter Drury, in his elent, voice a hymn of footballing madness:
"STOP THAT! STOP THAT RIGHT NOW! THIS IS NOT NORMAL! THIS IS NOT HUMAN!
IZAN—FROM THE DEPTHS OF HIS IMAGINATION—HAS JUST LAUNCHED A MISSILE INTO ETERNITY!"
The Spanish bench erupted as the replay flashed onto the screen.
"Dios mio" De La Fuente muttered while grasping for hair on his bald head.
The pass feint. The strike. The physics-defying knuckleball. The sheer, rciless execution.
And through it all, Maignan’s outstretched hand—helpless.
Izan in celebration, ran towards the corner flag, pointing towards the stands before planting his foot down and pointing to his thigh.
As if recognizing sothing, the cara cut to stands, searching for sothing before the cara finally landed on him.
Cristiano Ronaldo
His face?
A knowing smile. A nod of respect.
Legacy recognizing a new legacy.
The fans seeing his face on the large screen scread even louder as Izan was crashed into by his teammates.
It was now, Spain 2-1 France.
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