CHAPTER 666: NIGHTMARE IN THREE [1]

Phones were out, lights glowing against the low London sky.

Everyone was filming, live-streaming, or just yelling into microphones shoved in their faces.

A teenage boy in a red windbreaker shoved his hand into the air like he was holding a mic himself.

"Bro, if I’m Cuenca?" he barked, eyes wide.

"I’m calling in sick for the rest of the season. I don’t care if we’ve got Liverpool next. I’m putting my phone on airplane mode till August."

Laughter rippled behind him as a girl in sunglasses — at night — leaned in, still playing the replay on her phone.

"Look at this. Look." She tapped the screen and froze the moment Izan slipped it through Willian’s legs.

"I’ve always seen Willian do it to others, so now I know he gets how those players felt when he did it to them."

Further down, two university mates argued like they were on a panel show.

"I swear, it wasn’t even the spin. It was the calm. He spun and paused like he was waiting for someone to say ’Action.’"

"Nah, for me, it’s the scoop. The ball was gone. Four men in front of him. I saw Bassey step in, yeah? And I thought, ’He’s dead. They’ve closed him off.’"

"But it was four against who?" the other cut in.

"Izan. The one. Bro, it wasn’t a goal, it was scripture."

A tall guy in a full retro kit — long sleeves, JVC on the chest — shook his head slowly like he’d been watching the moment play on loop in his mind.

"I’ve been coming here since I was five. I saw Bergkamp. I saw Henry. But this lad?" He pointed at the stadium behind him.

"He’s like a prophecy with studs."

A couple near the back, arms around each other, gave each other a look like they were both trying to process what they’d witnessed.

"I’m still stuck on the stat, you know?" the guy said. "Seventeen years old. Seventeen. Forty-two goals in thirty league matches."

"Madness," his partner whispered.

A woman in an Arsenal bomber jacket held up her phone, playing the slow-motion lob over Leno again.

Next to them, a guy acted out the movement of Izan scoring, flicking an imaginary ball and miming defenders clawing at air.

"Like they were tryna drag him out of heaven," he called out, causing a few gasps of laughter from the people around him.

At the front, a kid with a foam finger and face paint was staring up at a massive screen playing the goal on loop.

"Mum," he whispered. "Do you think I could be like Izan one day?"

His mother smiled gently, brushing his hair aside.

"Sweetheart, even Izan can’t be like Izan again, but you could be you,"

A final voice, quiet and much older than the first, came through, drawing the attention of the young guns around him.

He wore a flat cap and a scarf that looked like it had been worn through decades of title races and another decade of drought.

"I saw the Invincibles," he murmured. "I saw Anfield ’89. I saw Wrighty. But that boy..."

He paused, watching the screen again as Izan disappeared into the crowd, arms wide, haloed in light.

"...He’s not from around here."

And that was the feeling.

From all of them.

That they hadn’t just seen a great goal.

They’d witnessed something impossible.

Forty-two goals at seventeen years of age weren’t wonderkid numbers.

No, it was way past that now.

It was a genius in his prime before it even came.

A warning, some would call it, and it was for everyone else.

Every player. Every Manager. Every team and fan.

....

[The next day]

The game at Goodison had been tight.

Liverpool left with three points, just barely, thanks to a scrappy finish in the seventy-fourth minute and a late barrage from Everton that forced Alisson into two strong saves.

It wasn’t their most convincing performance, but it was enough.

Outside, the media pen was already buzzing, microphones drawn like magnets as Arne Slot stepped forward.

His coat was zipped halfway up, his assistant a silent shadow at his side.

He gave the first nod, quick and polite, as the reporter stepped forward.

"Arne," the man began, his voice level but probing, "congrats on the win. Big result in a derby, but you created a number of chances today and didn’t quite finish them. Is that something that concerns you going into the next few matches?"

Slot took a breath, adjusting his footing slightly on the concrete beneath him.

"Of course we’d prefer to convert more of our chances," he said, his Dutch-accented English clear and measured.

"But in a game like this, the priority is always to win. You do the hard work, take the goal when it comes, and you keep a clean sheet. I’ll never complain about that."

"But still," the reporter pressed, "with Arsenal coming up in the final, you might not get as many opportunities. Does tonight’s wastefulness hurt the confidence?"

Slot offered a light shrug.

"It’s not about confidence," he replied. "It’s about learning. We’ll look back, understand why the final pass wasn’t quite right or why we took an extra touch. And we’ll train to fix it. But I believe in the group. They know what’s coming, so I don’t think you or I need to remind them."

There was a brief pause as the reporter flipped his notes, then chuckled under his breath.

"You and your assistant were spotted at the Emirates yesterday," he said.

"A bit hard to hide with that director’s box view. Arsenal versus Fulham — we all saw what happened. Was that visit part of your planning for the final?"

Slot smiled, eyes narrowing just slightly as though amused by the subtle catch.

"Yes," he admitted. "There are some things you can’t see on video. Some things you have to feel live — the way they press in numbers after a loss of possession, how their lines shift even without the ball. They don’t just run hard. They run smart. You have to be there to read it properly."

"Did anything surprise you?"

Slot took a breath, then shook his head slowly.

"Not really," he said. "But some things were... confirmed. Let’s say that."

The two men exchanged a short glance — mutual understanding beneath the surface.

The journalist took a small step forward.

"And what about Izan?"

Slot didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looked out briefly across the dimming floodlights, as though watching something that hadn’t yet happened.

"Arsenal’s attack is dangerous," he said after a moment.

"But that boy—he’s... something else. His timing, his unpredictability... you don’t train defenders for that kind of player. You prepare your team to work together. Because in a one-on-one? He doesn’t play fair. And as we saw in that one v four—no, Five, there’s little we can do but we will do all that we can for that little to succeed."

There was honesty in the tone — not fear, not even awe, just calculated awareness.

As Slot turned slightly, about to make his exit, the reporter tossed in one last question, his voice lifted over the noise of shifting crews and packing cameramen.

"So, how do you plan to take care of Izan in three days?"

Slot paused in his step.

His head tilted ever so slightly, his hands still at his sides.

And then, for the first time in the entire interview, his expression shifted — a faint grin, laced with something sharper underneath.

"I’ll let you know after the final," he said.

And with that, he walked away, a grin still faint on his face as he disappeared down the tunnel.

..........

The morning after Liverpool’s win over Everton, London felt restless.

The air was heavy with talk of finals, predictions, and possibilities, as if the entire capital was on a countdown timer.

Izan had left home earlier than usual, hoping to avoid the late morning build-up on the North Circular.

But London had its rhythm — and sometimes, it didn’t care how early you started.

He exhaled gently, fingers adjusting the volume on the car’s dash as a low beat pulsed through the speakers.

Nothing too loud, but it was just enough to blur the edge of his thoughts.

The roads were packed tightly the closer he got to the training centre.

As the traffic lights ahead blinked red, Izan’s car rolled to a smooth stop near a pedestrian crossing.

His gaze wandered for a second, following the pace of a cyclist gliding up the far lane — until a voice suddenly cut across the hum of engines and the faint buzz of morning.

"SLAY LIVERPOOL FOR US, IZAN!"

The shout came from his right — loud, raw, and full of that half-crazed excitement only football fans could deliver before 9 am.

A boy in a puffy jacket stood just past the pavement, barely out of school age, craning his neck above a group of men in suits waiting for the bus.

His grin was wide and unbothered.

He pointed — not at Izan directly — but at the car.

Sleek and unmistakable.

It wasn’t the first time the vehicle had sold him out.

Izan blinked, then reached over to press the switch.

The passenger window eased down with a smooth hiss as he raised a hand.

"Morning, boss."

The boy, older than Izan but looking like he had seen his idol, beamed.

"I knew it was you! From the Fulham game — that run? You’re a menace, man. You’ve gotta end those Scousers!"

Izan gave a small nod, amused. "We’ll see how it goes."

The light was still red for a moment too long.

People nearby were beginning to glance sideways now — not quite sure who he was, but intrigued enough by the excitement.

One man was already pulling out his phone.

Another woman leaned forward ever so slightly, her brows narrowing with slow recognition.

The corner of Izan’s mouth twitched.

The window hummed as it shut again while he settled into his seat, one hand resting lightly on the wheel.

Maybe it was time to get a less recognisable car — something basic, forgettable.

A car people didn’t point at and say, That’s got to be him.

Because if a fan ever darted into the road just to get a picture, it wouldn’t just be a delay.

It’d be dangerous — for them, for others, for him, and nothing was worth that.

The lights clicked to green, and slowly, the lane began to slither forward again.

As he eased his foot on the pedal and rolled with the traffic, Izan’s eyes flicked to the side mirror.

The boy was still grinning, arm raised in the air like he’d just won something.

His voice was distant now, but the echo lingered.

"SLAY LIVERPOOL!"

Izan didn’t smile, not fully — but something sharp glimmered behind his eyes.

Three days,he thought.

Three days to make their nightmares real.

A/N: Okay, guys. This is the last of the day. Also, I wanted to show you guys an idea of a world of football that I have been thinking about for a while (It literally came into my head right now). I didn’t have much, but I consulted with a few people and writers on the app, and they said it could be really good if explored and built really well, so I put something like a snippet below this Chapter. Read and tell me your honest opinions in the comments if I should explore it or if it is a bust. Here it is:

⨌⨌

"War didn’t end. It just changed kits."

In the world after collapse, nothing rebuilt civilisation like football. Not politics. Not weapons. Not peace talks.

Just eleven players... and a ball.

Football became the backbone of the global economy.

Clubs became kingdoms.

Players became demigods.

They don’t just earn millions.

They move markets, reshape cities, and decide which nations thrive.

Every child enters a Camp, a football development school.

It’s mandatory. If your OVR isn’t high enough, you’re sent back to the civilian track, watching your dreams die on a dusty pitch.

But if you pass the tests...

If the AI grades you, stay.

You ascend.

Everyone carries a Status Screen. A live reading of your OVR Rating—your value to the world.

A system so precise, so unforgiving, not even world governments have breached it.

Some whisper of Potential Ratings—hidden figures only the brave reveal.

A 17-year-old with a 78 is a once-in-a-decade prodigy. A 91 Potential?

That’s enough to trigger war between clubs and nations.

At the top, there are upgrades—black market enhancements, legal bio-rigs, strategic augments. One minor boost costs $10 billion.

But at that level, a single percentage decides a final.

A title.

A nation’s future.

Matches aren’t just games. They’re rituals. Battles. Global events.

The crowds scream. The earth trembles. And when the whistle blows, the world holds its breath.

This is no longer a sport.

This is no longer fantasy.

This is ASCENSION.

And the next era begins with one boy...

...whose rating will change everything.