God Of football-Chapter 279: Italian Fortress

Gelsenkirchen was a cauldron of noise. The blue sea of Italian fans roared in euphoria, their chants shaking the stadium, while Spain’s supporters sat frozen in stunned silence.

Chiesa had buried the penalty, and just like that, all of Spain’s first-half dominance had been erased.

On the pitch, Izan exhaled, tilting his head back, his pulse steady despite the chaos around him.

His jaw tightened. He knew what this meant. Italy had tasted blood, and now they would fight like hell to rip the game away.

But he wasn’t about to let that happen.

Luis de la Fuente called out instructions from the touchline, his voice lost beneath the cacophony.

Izan didn’t need to hear them. He knew exactly what had to be done. Spain couldn’t sit back. They couldn’t let Italy dictate.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

It was time to take control.

The ball rolled back into play after the referee whistled, and Italy came flying.

Chiesa, emboldened by the goal, was the first to surge forward, forcing Carvajal into a hurried pass.

Jorginho and Barella snapped into challenges, their intensity suffocating the Spanish midfield and the fans around the stadium could see something shifting.

Izan seeing what was going on didnt flinch. Instead, he stepped deeper into his half, demanding the ball from Rodri.

And It came to him with pace, skipping slightly off the turf. Jorginho rushed forward, eager to press the former.

Izan’s first touch was soft, absorbing the impact, his body shifting ever so slightly to feint left, and Jorginho bit.

"Too easy" Izan muttered as he looked at the Arsenal ma.

With a sudden flick of his foot, Izan spun in the opposite direction, leaving the Italian midfielder stumbling.

"Lovely football by Izan, he’s absorbed the pressure and now started an attack" the commentator roared.

A pocket of space opened, just enough for him to push forward forcing Barella to come to him.

The latter lunged next, but Izan was already moving. A quick one-two with Pedri, the ball bouncing between them like clockwork, before Izan shifted gears.

A sharp burst of acceleration and a blur of red darting between blue shirts was the only thing the fans saw.

Spalletti, Italy’s coach saw the danger and immediately shouted at his players nearby but they couldn’t hear him under the cheers and gasps of the Spanish fans.

Italy’s Cristante finally tried to close him down but it was too late.

Izan threaded a pass through the smallest of gaps, slipping it to Morata inside the box.

The Spanish captain twisted, searching for an angle before firing one away.

The fan watched as the ball streaked towards goal, Donnarumma rooted to the spot until Bastoni stretched out a desperate leg, diverting the ball away.

But Spain weren’t done.

The clearance was poor, skidding toward the edge of the box, where Pedri arrived like a bullet.

A one-touch pass. Straight back to Izan.

He didn’t stop to think.

Ding, [Curler]

He struck it the first time. A vicious, bending shot curling toward the bottom corner and for a moment, time slowed, at least for some who sat on the edge of their seats.

Donnarumma, already shifting to his left, threw himself at it, the tip of his glove barely making contact but enough to send the ball skimming past the post.

Izan’s chest rose and fell with steady breaths, but his mind was anything but calm.

He had struck that ball perfectly—perfectly—and still, Donnarumma had denied him.

The Italian keeper stood tall inside the goal, shaking his gloved hands out, his towering frame radiating confidence.

The replay flashed across the stadium screens, showing the faintest of touches, the ball skimming past the post by mere centimeters.

Izan exhaled sharply, but instead of frustration, something else burned in his eyes. Excitement.

"Max, show me his trait" Izan muttered as he stared above Donnarumma’s head. " You have got to be kidding me," Izan said.

["Aegis Reflex" – The keeper enters an enhanced reflex state when facing shots inside the box.

If the shot is within six yards, time slightly slows for the keeper, allowing them to react with near-instantaneous precision.

Additionally, their reach momentarily extends beyond normal human limits, as if anticipating the shot before it even happens.

This trait makes one-on-one situations and point-blank saves feel almost impossible to beat, frustrating strikers who think they’ve already scored.]

"How do I get out of this one" Izan said as he turned towards the corner flag.

From the stands, Spanish fans groaned at the missed chance, but their voices soon rose again, chanting Izan’s name.

They had seen him dance through defenders all night and they knew if anyone could break down the Italian setup, it would be Izan.

The Italian fans, however, roared in response, banging the barriers. "Donnarumma! Donnarumma!"

The man was a fortress. But Izan had broken fortresses before.

Pedri trotted to the flag, raising a hand as he scanned the box. Laporte and Le Normand jostled for space among the towering Italian defenders. Morata adjusted his run.

Izan?

He stood outside the box, watching. Calculating.

The whistle blew.

Pedri swung it in—whipped with pace, bending away from goal.

Izan exploded forward.

Barella tried to step in, but Izan swerved around him like water slipping through cracks. His timing was perfect. His leap was clean.

The ball met his thigh, controlling it sweetly before he powered it toward the bottom corner.

The ball was fast and Precise, but then a flash of black and yellow.

Donnarumma had already reacted. Already moving before the ball even left Izan’s head.

A dive. A stretch.

The ball was millimeters from crossing the line—millimeters.

And then, his fingertips pushed it away.

The entire stadium gasped.

"WHAT A SAVE FROM DONNARUMMA! SPAIN HAVE BEEN KNOCKING AGAIN, AND AGAIN BUT THIS MAN IS KEEPING ITALY IN IT."

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The Italian keeper crashed onto the ground, ball smothered against his chest, eyes locked on Izan.

A challenge.

Izan grinned. "So that’s how it’s going to be?"

"Alright, Gigio. Let’s see just how untouchable you are." Izan muttered as he turned towards his half.

...

After spending some time on the ground, Donnarumma sent the ball into the middle of the field but the ball cycled back to Rodri, who coolly controlled it, shifting the tempo.

Izan jogged into space, heart still racing, but his mind was running, thinking about how to render Donnarumma’s trait useless.

Pedri, who now had the ball played it inside to Izan.

The latter took it on the half-turn, feeling Cristante’s breath on his neck before a flick of his boot sent him slipping into space once more.

Morata dragged Bastoni wide. A pocket of green opened up and Izan charged in.

A step. A feint. A strike.

Low. Driven. Right into the near post.

The ball was a blur—unstoppable for most.

But not Donnarumma.

The Italian giant dropped like a boulder, hand already there. A brutal palm to the ball, deflecting it out for another corner.

The Spanish bench stood in disbelief.

Luis de la Fuente ran a hand down his face. "That’s impossible."

The Italian fans reacted instantly.

"Gigio! Gigio!"

But Spain weren’t stopping.

Corner taken quickly—Rodri, first-time pass. Izan again.

One touch. Shot.

Blocked. Donnarumma again.

A third chance, Pedri feeding it through. Izan lifted it, adjusting mid-shot—

Palm. Another deflection.

The stadium erupted.

Donnarumma was everywhere.

Izan stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the keeper like he was some kind of myth brought to life.

The fans loved it. The Spanish supporters were in awe, hands in their hair. The Italian fans were roaring.

Even the commentators couldn’t contain themselves.

"Donnarumma is putting on a goalkeeping masterclass! Izan has tried everything, and still, the Italian wall stands tall!"

Izan stood still in silence as Carvajal went for the throw.

Donnarumma had denied him again and again—palming away shots that should have been goals, stretching beyond human limits to claw the ball away, moving before the strike even left Izan’s boot.

The name hovered above Donnarumma’s head in bright, golden letters. Izan could see it, taunting him.

The ability that made the impossible possible.

He had tried everything.

Power? Denied. Placement? Read before impact. Reflex shots? Donnarumma was already there.

Every time he shot within the box, it felt like time itself slowed for the Italian keeper.

The moment the ball left his foot, Donnarumma moved, stretching impossibly, bending reality to keep the goal untouched.

Izan exhaled, his breath steady despite the chaos. How do you beat something that predicts the future?

The answer?

You force it to react to something that isn’t real.

Pedri held possession near the edge of the box, scanning the field as the Italians dropped deeper, their defense tightening.

Izan took a step back.

Then another.

Bastoni tracked him, watching his movements. The Italian defender was sharp, but he wasn’t Gigio.

The moment he stepped forward, Izan was gone.

A sharp sprint—behind enemy lines.

Pedri saw it. So did Lamine.

The ball came from Pedri—a perfect, lofted pass into the danger zone.

Izan was inside six yards.

Donnarumma’s trait activated instantly.

[Aegis Reflex—Engaged]

Time slowed.

To everyone else, the ball was dropping in at normal speed.

To Donnarumma, it was as slow as a drifting feather.

He saw everything.

Izan’s angle. The potential shot choices. Every possible outcome.

And then he moved—before Izan even made contact.

A textbook reaction save. His left hand already shifting toward the bottom corner, where a volley would likely be struck.

His right foot, adjusting mid-air in case Izan went near-post.

It was over before it even started.

That’s what Donnarumma thought.

Until Izan did something that broke the sequence.

A/n: Hello guys author here. I know I haven’t kept my word with the Golden ticket chapters. I am in the middle of an exam so I can only write two a day and I don’t want to sub one out for the golden ticket chapter.

It would be unfair to you so please keep on spamming the Golden tickets and I will supply you with the chapters after I finish my exam