Chapter 783: What He Is.
The Emirates faithful who had travelled north filled the away end with a roar that felt like it could split the air in two.
Flags whipped back and forth in the cold night breeze, voices breaking into unrestrained chants as the referee’s whistle marked the restart.
Izan, sliding into his position, felt the vibrations of it all through his chest.
He could almost taste the noise, the sweat, the relief and tension tangling together.
Arsenal’s players were grinning, bumping shoulders, exchanging hurried nods as though already sensing what was coming.
"Back underway at Anfield!" the commentator’s voice crackled over the stadium, riding the waves of sound.
"Liverpool with one last desperate throw of the dice."
From the touchline, Arteta clutched his hands together like a man praying, his lips moving silently.
He leaned forward, his coat pulled tight against him, eyes wide and burning with both hope and fear.
Liverpool launched forward, bodies pouring upfield, red shirts blurring as they chased one final opening.
A ball floated high, driven into the night sky, only for the whistle to slice through it before it could even touch the grass again.
It was over.
It was done.
The away end detonated into sheer delirium.
Arms shot up, fans clambered over one another, some tumbling into the rows in front but rising without care.
Chants turned into guttural screams, drums pounded, and for a moment, it felt as if Arsenal’s corner of Anfield had broken off and entered another universe entirely.
On the pitch, the bench erupted, coaches, substitutes, and backroom staff all sprinting onto the field, tumbling into hugs, grabbing whoever was closest.
"Listen to that!" the commentator roared above the din. "Anfield is being drowned out by the travelling Arsenal fans! The Gunners are the Premier League champions once more!"
Izan, not joining in the celebrations at first, adjusted the captain’s armband, pulling it tighter on his sleeve before walking towards Virgil van Dijk.
"I see you also got one," the Dutchman said, chest heaving with a thin smirk on his lips despite the sting of defeat.
"Which one, the league or the armband?" Izan said, motioning towards the cloth wrapped around his biceps, causing Van Dijk to chuckle.
"I see. You’ve got both then."
"You gave us a hard time," Izan said, his tone steady, respectful.
Van Dijk’s smirk deepened, though there was a shadow of bitterness behind it.
"You were never winning the league without us in the way. But with you here... Arsenal might have just had it already."
Izan chuckled softly, shoulders loose in contrast to the tension still hanging around the Liverpool captain.
"One could even say Arsenal will win the league because they have me."
The words hung there, not very far from the truth, as Van Dijk’s jaw tightened.
"So why didn’t you join us? Liverpool were in the lead for your signature before the season started."
Izan’s eyes glinted as he looked back at him.
"My system told me to join Arsenal, to take them to glory."
"The system?" Van Dijk frowned.
Izan, laughing, shook his head, feigning innocence.
"I said sister, not system."
Something in Van Dijk’s posture eased as if the words now made sense.
He tilted his head. "So if we found her... if she convinced you... Would you come?"
A smile tugged at Izan’s lips. "She’s turned into too much of a brat for me to listen to her again."
The Dutchman gave a small nod, resigned, before finally offering his hand.
"Congratulations, kid."
Izan clasped it firmly, only for a wave of chaos to crash around him as Arsenal fans spilt onto the pitch.
Security couldn’t hold them all back, scarves, shirts, flags, all rushing toward their hero.
Izan was jolted for a moment, almost overwhelmed, but the surprise quickly melted into laughter.
He let himself be carried by their joy, walking, hugging, raising his arms with them, not as a distant star but as one of their own.
When the tide of bodies pulled back, he jogged off toward the touchline, heading for Arteta, but he found Arne Slot instead.
.
The Liverpool manager’s face was lined with disappointment but softened with respect.
"You’re something else," Slot said, shaking his head.
"We should have fought harder to bring you here. Next year won’t be so easy."
Izan took his hand. "We’ll be ready."
He moved on, toward the puddle of Arsenal players and staff who had just untangled from their wild celebrations.
Arteta had emerged, hair sticking out slightly, face bright with exhausted pride as Izan came up beside him, breathing hard but smiling widely.
"We did it," he said simply.
Arteta looked at him for a long moment, then nodded, voice thick with emotion.
"Gracias, Izan. Thank you."
And then the two of them stood there, side by side, not as coach and player but as men who had just carved a piece of history together.
...
The door to the away dressing room swung open with a slam, and a wave of noise rushed out as Arsenal’s players piled inside, their voices went up, ragged but full of energy.
"Campeones, ole, ole, ole! Campeones, ole, ole, ole!"
The chant rattled the walls, bouncing around the cramped room as water bottles were waved in the air like flares.
The players stomped their boots, clapped out the rhythm, and some leaping onto benches to get higher ground.
For a moment, the locker room felt more like a terrace than a workplace.
Ethan Nwaneri, eyes shining, threw his arms up and yelled above the noise, "Man, I wish the trophy was here right now!"
That got a round of laughter, but before anyone could manage a response, the door creaked open again and Arteta stepped in.
The coach’s face was flushed, his coat already off, and though he shook his head at first, the smile broke out almost instantly.
"That would be unfair to our fans," he said, answering Nwaneri’s question.
His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the joy spilling out of every player, before he raised his own fist and bellowed into the chorus.
"¡Campeones!"
The chant redoubled, louder, sharper, until it almost hurt the ears.
For a few more minutes, the room was nothing but stomps and shouts, arms linked around shoulders, everyone swaying and roaring like children who had forgotten exhaustion.
Eventually, Arteta lifted his hands, waiting for the noise to die down.
"Listen," he said, his voice soft but cutting through the echo.
"I don’t have to tell you how hard tonight was. But you held on. You stayed together. That’s why we’re here." His gaze lingered, locking onto Izan for a beat longer than anyone else, before sweeping across the group.
"Now, freshen up so we can go back to London as fresh winners."
The players nodded, some still grinning ear to ear as Izan tugged at the captain’s armband, peeling it from his sleeve.
Without a word, he tossed it towards Odegaard, who caught it easily.
But the Norwegian twirled it in his hand before tossing it back, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Wear it at home sometimes," Odegaard said. "Might help you get used to leading."
The comment drew whistles and laughter from around the room.
Bukayo Saka was the first to chime in, his voice full of mock outrage.
"Look at this, eh? First Arteta’s nepo baby, now Odegaard’s favourite too? We should rename the club to Izan and Friends FC."
The room erupted again, players slapping benches, a couple of them pointing at Izan like he was courtroom evidence.
Izan just shook his head, chuckling as he bent down for his phone.
He unlocked it, the glow lighting up his face, and began scrolling as the notifications flew in faster than he could read.
Messages from teammates past and present, congratulatory posts from pundits, little voice notes from family.
One stood out: Luis de la Fuente."Enjoy this moment, Izan. Next year, I hope you’ll have the World Cup in your hands the same way you hold the Premier League now."
Izan’s eyebrows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth curving as he tapped out a reply of thanks.
He scrolled on and found Jude Bellingham, who had dropped a playful "Well done, hermano,"
Pedri, next in line, sent a string of clapping emojis while Lamine wrote something cheeky about stealing the spotlight next time.
Even LeBron James, who Izan would think found it hard to keep up with their sport, had posted a congratulatory message, ending by saying that as an investor, it was sad that Liverpool couldn’t win, but congratulations to Izan all the same.
Then came the corporate posts.
Adidas with a sleek graphic of him in their boots.
Seiko timing the final whistle to the second, and Koenigsegg with a cheeky line about speed and precision, being what won Arsenal the league, and the name of that was Izan.
Saint Laurent also followed suit, reposting a photo of him mid-celebration.
The kind of validation that used to feel surreal but now simply folded into the rhythm of his life.
He didn’t need to turn around to know someone was peeking over his shoulder.
"Have you watched enough?" Izan asked casually.
Saka, caught red-handed, leaned back against the locker.
"Don’t let it get to your head, superstar. Still a couple more trophies out there waiting, you know."
His grin was wide, his tone light but pointed.
Izan locked the screen, slipped the phone into his bag, and gave a single nod. "I know."
Then he pushed himself up, the chant of Campeones still echoing faintly in the corridor outside, and made his way into the showers, steam already beginning to fog the mirrors on the walls.