God Of football Chapter 510: Instant Impact [Dragon gift: Adam Bullis]

Chapter 510: Instant Impact [Dragon gift: Adam Bullis]

The door creaked open with a gust of wind behind it.

A man stepped into the dim bar in Córdoba, dust on his boots, a jacket slung over one shoulder.

He shook off the outside air, then walked straight to the counter.

“Una cerveza, por favor.(A beer, please?)”

The bartender didn’t answer right away—his eyes were glued to the television screen above the shelves of bottles, where players in red and white were already re-erging from the tunnel.

The man followed his gaze.

A large flatscreen hung over the bar, brightening the room in pulses of red and green.

Tables had filled out, locals clustered together, pints half-finished, all heads turned toward the match.

“Gracias,” the man muttered as he took his drink and leaned against the bar, eyes now fixed on the screen as well.

“They’re keeping Olmo on,” soone a few stools down said, a middle-aged guy with a Valencia scarf half-tied around his neck.

“He’s been good, but I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit of Izan drifting in.”

“True,” another replied, arms crossed, “but they won’t shift much unless Denmark force their hand. We’re leading.”

The first man, newly arrived, raised an eyebrow.

“What’s the score?”

“Uno-cero. Lamine scored before the break. Zubindi with the assist.”

A low whistle. “Zubindi, huh? Man’s stepping up.”

“He had to. No Rodri this ti.”

Silence hovered for a few seconds before the conversation naturally found its way to the shadow hanging off the edge of every lineup talk.

“Izan’s still on the bench, right?” soone muttered behind them.

A few turned their heads.

A younger guy at the table in the corner nodded, eyes still glued to the screen.

Yeah. They say he missed camp. Personal reasons or sothing.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” the bartender finally chid in.

“Feels off watching them without him.”

The man with the scarf chuckled.

“What? A year ago, half of Spain didn’t know who the kid was.”

“And now?” said the one from the corner.

“Now, we’re looking for him even when he’s not supposed to be there. That says sothing.”

“Can’t lie though,” another added. “Olmo’s done well. The midfield looks tight. But with Izan… It’s just different. You don’t know what’s coming.”

“Unpredictable,” soone agreed.

“I call it chaos,” the bartender said, cleaning a glass without looking up.

“The kind that makes a defender sweat before the ball’s even played.”

There was a pause—everyone watching as the players took their positions onscreen once more.

The cara panned down the Spanish bench.

Izan was there. Sitting. Silent.

One leg stretched, one foot tapping the ground ever so slightly.

A few fans behind the dugout waved, but he didn’t break his gaze from the pitch.

Then the comntators returned.

“And we’re just about ready for the second half here in Murcia.”

“Spain with a one-nil lead thanks to a mont of brilliance from Yamal. No changes yet from either side.”

“But keep your eyes on that bench. Izan is still there. And if the cards line up…”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the other comntator chuckled, cutting in, “Right now, it’s about finishing the job.”

A brief silence.

Then ca the word.

“Kickoff is the word from the referee, and we are underway here once more in Murcia.”

………..

Even though they were returning from the break, the tempo never dipped.

Spain returned to the field with confidence, their passes zipping through the blades of grass like they’d left no business unfinished in the first half.

But Denmark weren’t folding.

Whatever words had been exchanged in their dressing room at halfti had sharpened their edges.

Their midfield pressed harder now, their backline stepped up.

They weren’t out of it—not by a mile.

Spain prodded, shifting play from left to right, trying to break down the wall of red shirts camped outside the box.

A flick from Nico.

A surge from Lamine, and yet, Denmark held.

Then ca the first scare.

In the 53rd minute, a loose ball found Olmo at the edge of the box.

One touch, two strides before following up with a curling shot.

It bent beautifully past the defender—but it was just not enough as the Danish keeper threw himself to his left, fingers stretched just far enough to tip it wide.

The Spanish crowd groaned in collective disbelief.

“¡Vamos, Vamos!” Lamine shouted as he clapped his hands, jogging toward the corner flag to take it.

There was fire in his eyes now—he was feeling the ga.

Every touch from him felt electric.

Every movent left defenders guessing.

A quick one-two with Zubindi, and Lamine exploded past his marker down the right.

Cross after cross swung in—low, high, teasing.

Nothing landed, but each one pulled more panic into Denmark’s box.

In the 61st minute, he switched flanks and picked up the ball again.

This ti he went solo— a feint, drop of the shoulder, and bang—a shot rifled from the edge of the area.

The keeper pald it away, but it rattled Denmark.

They were backpedaling.

On the touchline, Luis de la Fuente crossed his arms.

He watched for a few minutes, eyes locked on the clock.

Then, at 69 minutes, he turned.

“Izan. Warm up. You too, Ferran.”

The bench stirred.

Izan stood up calmly, taking a bib from the assistant, and jogged to the touchline.

The Spanish crowd picked him out imdiately and cheered, so rising to their feet, chanting his na.

He gave a slight nod and began his warm-up routine—short strides, lunges, lateral shuffles.

Down by the corner flag, a Danish player chased a wayward pass and tapped it off Cubarsi, sending the ball out for a corner.

Izan jogged toward his seat, removing his bib and then kneeling to tape his ankles as the fourth official prepared the board.

He fastened the tape snugly, pulling it tight.

Then—

A roar split the stadium.

“¡Goooooooooool!”

Izan’s head snapped up.

Across the pitch, one of the towering Danish centre-backs had already peeled away toward the corner flag, arms spread wide as teammates rushed after him.

The replay hit the big screen within seconds— a perfectly tid run, a leap over Zubindi, and a thunderous header that left Unai Simón rooted.

1–1.

Izan exhaled, yanking his tape tight.

The Spanish crowd buzzed, mixed with groans and tension.

The scoreboard updated as the Denmark players continued to celebrate with the small crowd of Danish fans in a section of the stands who were all for it as their team wasn’t backpedalling anymore.

Back on the touchline, the fourth official’s board lit up.

19 – OFF.

10 – ON.

Dani Olmo jogged off, slapping hands with Izan as the change was made.

A second substitution followed—Ferran Torres on for Oyarzabal, who had filled in for Morata for the match.

Izan stepped onto the pitch with nothing but clarity.

He jogged into the space in front of Pedri, tapped his boots against the turf, and picked up his first touch barely twenty seconds later—an easy drop-off to Zubindi, but it was enough.

The gears were moving.

The cara tracked him as he settled in, the fans waiting to see glimpses of what they were getting addicted to courtesy of Izan.

“He hasn’t been here long,” one of the comntators said, “but Spain looks… different when he’s on the pitch. Like sothing’s waiting to happen.”

Izan imdiately started taking the fight to the Danish player.

When he received the ball next, he was already spinning away from pressure, dragging a Danish midfielder with him before releasing Ferran down the flank with a reverse ball no one saw coming.

Ferran cut in, and had his way with a shot towards the danish keeper but the latter proved vital to his team once more, punching the ball down and reclaiming the loose ball before it could spill further.

Izan drifted deeper, pulled the ball under his studs, waited for a press that never ca, then glided forward like he was skipping stones over water.

He fed Zubindi with a disguised side-pass, received it back, then flared it out wide to Lamine with a sweeping switch.

It didn’t stop there.

Lamine squared up his marker, and Izan, never still, ghosted toward the right.

Now the crowd rose as Lamine slipped the ball behind into a pass for Izan.

The ball kissed the inside of his boot before he burst down the right flank, dragging two defenders with him.

One tried to clip his heel but missed before the second stepped in to contain him, yet he was also left lunging at air.

The sideline blurred beside him as the box lood closer.

He slowed, just slightly, and drove to his left before cutting back to his right as he shaped to pass.

“Here cos the cutback—watch that near-post run!” one comntator warned.

But he never passed it.

The Danish keeper had read the feint.

He stepped forward, shoulders set, ready to intercept the slip-ball into Ferran, who was arriving near post.

That was the mistake.

Izan’s right foot shifted barely an inch.

His body remained shaped for a pass.

But the ball whipped off the inside of his boot—a shot disguised with surgical cruelty—driven low and hard into the space the keeper had just vacated.

The net rippled.

“¡GOOOOOOOOOOOL DE ESPAÑA! He is rising, this boy. Say hello to the future of Football.”

Chaos erupted.

Izan turned away, arms stretched to the side, face stone-cold.

Lamine reached him first, then Ferran, then half the bench.

On the replay, the Danish keeper sat on the grass, shaking his head.

He had guessed right.

And still got it wrong.

“He sold the pass. Everyone bit—including the keeper. That’s just… rude,” the first comntator said as the cara stayed on the goalkeeper.

“You know what that was? That was a lie dressed up as a cross. And once again, Izan shows why he has all that hype behind him. You can’t teach this.”

Izan was able to get up eventually after the pile of bodies, got up.

He walked with his mates towards the halfway line before turning to the Spanish fans and pumping his fist into the air.

A/N: Okay, here it the bonus chapter for the dragon gift. Have fun reading and I’ll see you with the Golden Ticket chapter and the First chapter of the following day.

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