Chapter 802: Suspicions.
At first, it was subtle, Odegaard overhitting a ball into space, Rice curling one just a fraction too far ahead.
But then it became deliberate.
The ball was being sent in ways that demanded something abnormal, as though they were testing him, trying to coax the same strange burst out again.
Izan felt it, knew exactly what they were doing.
But he wasn’t interested in chasing after every exaggerated pass.
Instead, he let most roll harmlessly away, his expression unreadable.
If they wanted to play games, he wasn’t going to indulge them.
Then came another moment.
Riccardo Calafiori collected the ball near the halfway line, and with a quick glance up, he tipped it forward into Izan’s path.
It wasn’t an overhit one this time, just the kind of ball that begged to be fought for.
Saliba was right there, pressing in from behind, his arm brushing Izan’s shoulder, body leaning in to choke the younger forward’s space.
As Izan tried to spin away, Saliba stuck his arm fully across him, bracing to hold him off, to pinch the ball before he could turn.
Normally, it would have been enough.
Saliba was no stranger to rough duels, and Izan, talented as he was, rarely overpowered him outright.
But this time was different.
Izan planted his foot, shifted his weight, and with a sudden surge, outmuscled him completely.
Saliba’s eye widened by the sudden surge in strength, trying to stabilise himself, but he stumbled, lost balance, and hit the turf before he even realised what had happened.
The shock in his eyes said it all.
He had expected resistance, but not to be swept aside as though he were made of paper.
After that, Izan, without hesitation, unleashed a missile.
The sound it made sliced through the pitch, and Raya could only track it with his eyes, rooted, powerless as the ball thundered into the back of the net, snapping against it with vicious force.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then heads turned, all toward Izan.
He stood there, shoulders heaving slightly, expression calm but unreadable, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
Around him, teammates swarmed to Saliba, helping the Frenchman back to his feet while Saliba blinked, still dazed, brushing off the grass on his sleeve.
He was no stranger to Izan’s strength; he’d wrestled with him countless times in training, acknowledging that the teenager was one of the strongest players when on the ball.
But this... this had been different.
It wasn’t a battle.
It wasn’t even close.
Saliba finally got back on his feet, rubbing at his temple with a small, almost disbelieving laugh.
"Non, non... that can’t be right," he muttered, half to himself, half to the others crowding him.
Gabriel clapped him on the back, grinning like it was all a big joke.
"Willie, don’t tell me the kid’s bullying you now. What happened to you being the wall, eh?"
But the grin didn’t stick.
Not when Saliba’s expression stayed tight, not when the Frenchman shook his head slowly, still staring at Izan like he was trying to solve a puzzle that shouldn’t exist.
Across the pitch, Declan Rice leaned beside Calafiori, arms folded, his gaze flicking between the goal where the net still rattled and Izan standing calm, detached, as if he hadn’t just sent a defender of Saliba’s calibre sprawling like a youth player.
"But that shot though," Calafiori called out, drawing Rice from his sleep.
On the touchline again, Carlos Cuesta and Arteta exchanged a glance, scenarios running in their minds, but no words were needed.
The look alone was enough to show that they both understood something unusual had just unfolded, and they needed to understand that thing.
A small nod from Arteta sealed it, and Carlos raised his voice.
"Alright, back to it. Reset. Same drills."
The players jogged back into place, though the mood had changed.
It wasn’t the casual, routine tempo of training anymore.
Every pass carried an edge, every movement just a touch sharper, like they were all subconsciously trying to match what they’d just witnessed.
The ball zipped between feet again, triangles forming, collapsing, reforming.
Izan drifted on the edge of play, receiving it in flashes, neat touches, nothing dramatic.
Then a loose ball split his way, bouncing awkwardly across the turf.
The players on Izan’s team began tucking inside, expecting a ball from Izan, but the movement that followed next wasn’t one of a pass.
Izan twisted, body coiling in one fluid motion, and launched a volley from well outside the box.
The strike cracked through the air like a gunshot, the ball bending and swerving, an arrow loosed from a bow at full draw.
For a second, it looked destined to scream into the top corner.
Instead, it cannoned off the post with such force that the metal frame rattled, humming even after the ball had ricocheted away.
A chorus of whistles rose from the sidelines.
"Madness..." someone muttered under their breath. "Nearly broke the post."
Inside the goal, Raya was frozen, his hands half-raised.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the touchline, his voice carrying with mock irritation.
"Míster, tell your favourite son to relax, eh? If he keeps hitting like that, someone’s going to end up in the hospital."
A few of the players chuckled, but Arteta didn’t.
He stood rooted, expression unreadable, his arms still crossed.
Only his eyes gave him away, narrowed, calculating.
Finally, he raised his hand, signalling.
"Izan. Off. Kai, you’re in."
Havertz jogged forward without question, sliding into position.
Izan, meanwhile, slowed to a jog, confusion flickering briefly across his face as he moved toward the sideline.
As he passed Arteta, he caught his manager’s gaze, as though he were trying to see straight through him.
After a moment of staring, the manager changed his gaze towards the pitch, but his mind was never there.
The game resumed, the ball zipping around with energy again.
But Izan didn’t return.
He remained on the side, joining the cluster of players not currently involved.
Their voices hummed around him, banter, comments, tactical reminders, but he stayed silent, his eyes on the pitch without really watching.
In his head, the thought looped.
So that really rattled him, huh? Just a shot, and it’s enough to shock him like that...
He glanced down at his boots, flexing his toes inside them, feeling the snug fit.
These things are good... sharp touch, clean strike. But they still need more give. A bit more air, more flex. Adidas’ll need to loosen them up; otherwise, long games will be a problem.
He was mid-thought when a voice cut through from behind.
"Izan."
He looked up. Arteta was standing just a step away, arms folded, the tone clipped but calm.
"When we get back to the hotel, conference area. Just you and me."
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Izan gave a short nod. "Sí, míster."
Arteta lingered for a second longer, then turned back to the pitch, resuming his silent watch.
After about a quarter of an hour, Carlos Cuesta began gathering the players, clapping his hands and barking instructions to wrap things up.
Groups peeled off toward the bus, some still buzzing about what they’d seen, others shaking their heads like they couldn’t quite process it.
Izan crouched, pulling off the gleaming HIM10 Predators, sliding his feet into the worn, comfortable slides waiting by the bench.
He sat there for a beat, letting the cool air hit his socks, before standing and falling into step behind the rest of the squad.
The bus loomed ahead, engine already rumbling, and Izan trailed quietly at the back of the group, thoughts circling.
So he wants answers. Figures. But what exactly am I supposed to tell him...?
Back in the hotel, Izan stepped out of the shower, towel hanging loose around his waist.
Droplets traced their way down his skin, but he barely noticed.
His movements were steady, methodical, almost mechanical, like each step, each reach for his shirt, each rub of the towel against his hair, was being performed without thought.
It wasn’t that he was tired. Not exactly.
It was that his focus was elsewhere.
If someone were to hover above the cosmos, to peel back the veil of the ordinary, they would see what no teammate, no coach, no fan could: Izan wasn’t just moving through his room.
He was inside, locked in quiet conversation with the system.
A thin hum filled his head, a frequency only he could feel.
[SYSTEM ONLINE.]
Izan sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands clasping together, eyes staring blankly at the carpet.
He didn’t bother with pleasantries.
"What do I say now?"
His voice was low, careful, though in this space it didn’t matter whether he whispered or shouted; the system always heard.
"Arteta’s going to ask questions. About today. About... whatever that was. What do I tell him?"
A beat of silence. Then, the answer came, clipped and logical.
[RECOMMENDATION: PARTIAL DISCLOSURE.]
[STATE: PHYSICAL GROWTH, ADJUSTMENT TO NEW BOOTS. EXPLAIN IN TERMS OF NATURAL DEVELOPMENT + EQUIPMENT FACTORS.]
[RESULT: PLAUSIBLE. MINIMIZES SUSPICION.]
Izan frowned slightly, turning the advice over in his head.
"So I just blame the boots and say I’ve been working on conditioning? That’s it?"
The system gave a quiet buzz, but Izan wasn’t taking that explanation. No sane person was.
"That has got to be the wackiest shit I have ever heard," Izan muttered, out loud in his mind, as he resumed control of his body.
"Still feels weird," he chuckled before dressing quickly.
With his phone shoved in his pocket, he left the room, the soft click of the door echoing behind him as he moved down the corridor.