God Of football-Chapter 260: Europe!!, Here Valencia Come.

In Bilbao, the Athletic Club locker room had been a scene of unfiltered celebration.

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They had done their part—beating Rayo Vallecano 3-0 with a dominant performance.

Oihan Sancet had stolen the show with a brace, and the players basked in the glory of what they believed to be a season-defining moment.

"Champions League football, boys!" Iñaki Williams had shouted, his voice hoarse from shouting, his arms around his brother Nico.

The coaching staff, players, and even club officials had joined in, smiles, laughter, and backslaps all around.

Then, the news came.

It started as a murmur, a background noise from the television mounted in the corner of the locker room.

Some staff were still tracking live scores, but no one really paid attention—until the commentator’s voice cut through the celebrations like a blade.

"Wait, wait, WAIT! STOP EVERYTHING! THIS CAN’T BE REAL!

VALENCIA HAVE SCORED AGAIN! OH. MY. WORD. THEY LEAD 4-3 AT MESTALLA!

HERNÁNDEZ IZAN MIURA, THE TEENAGE SENSATION, HAS COMPLETED HIS HAT TRICK!"

Silence.

Dead silence.

Iñaki, halfway through a sip of water, froze. Nico turned sharply toward the screen.

Oihan Sancet’s smile faded. Dani Vivian’s fingers, which had been untying his boots, clenched.

The realization hit.

Valencia weren’t just winning.

They were overtaking Athletic Bilbao.

On head-to-head.

The celebrations stopped instantly, replaced by tension. Players shuffled closer to the screen, staring, disbelieving.

"No… No way," Oihan muttered, standing up. "It was 3-1."

"How?!" Dani García barked, shaking his head. "How the hell is this possible?!"

The television replayed Izan’s scissor kick goal in slow motion, the Mestalla vibrating with madness.

The Valencia players piling onto their young talisman. The sheer delirium in the stands. The commentator’s voice, still cracking from disbelief.

"MIURA HERNÁNDEZ IZAN! REMEMBER THE NAME! HE HAS SINGLE-HANDEDLY DRAGGED VALENCIA TO THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE!"

Then, the red card.

Izan, shirtless, veins bulging, arms spread wide. The second yellow. The sending-off. But none of it mattered.

He had done it.

And with that goal, Valencia had done it.

The camera panned to Athletic Bilbao’s points tally. 74.

Then, to Valencia’s. 74.

Iñaki’s fingers tightened around the water bottle before he crushed it, sending water spilling onto the floor.

"This… this is a joke, right?" Nico asked, his voice quieter now.

But there was no joke. No mistake. No more hope.

Valencia had stolen the final Champions League spot right out of their hands.

Coach Ernesto Valverde, who had been standing at the doorway watching the reaction unfold, let out a slow, tired breath.

He ran a hand through his hair, expression unreadable.

They weren’t just watching a football match anymore. They were watching their fate slip away.

But in Mestalla, the war was still raging.

Izan had walked off, jersey in hand, sweat glistening on his skin under the floodlights. His expression was unreadable. His night was over.

Yet, his job was done.

He had carried Valencia back from the dead. Now, it was up to the remaining ten men to defend the dream he had ignited.

As he neared the tunnel, the Mestalla rose for him. Applause. Chants. A standing ovation that shook the very foundation of the stadium.

"IZAN! IZAN! IZAN!"

Baraja met him near the dugout, grabbing his shoulders. "You’re incredible Izan. Thank you," he whispered, his voice drowned out by the chaos. Izan simply nodded with a smile before leaving.

Then, the whistle.

The restart.

Valencia—down to ten men.

Girona—throwing everything forward.

These final minutes weren’t just football. They were war.

Girona came like a hurricane.

Savinho, furious from the earlier tackle, tore down the left wing, skipping past Correira with terrifying speed.

He cut inside, lifted his head—and saw Dovbyk peeling away at the back post.

The cross came in.

Mestalla gasped.

Dovbyk met it with his forehead, drilling it down into the ground, the ball bouncing toward the corner of the net.

Mamardashvili however sprang like a panther—

A full-stretch save!

The rebound fell to Tsygankov who struck it but once again,

BLOCKED BY MOSQUERA!

Bodies flew everywhere, desperate defending, the ball hacked clear while the Mestalla roared.Three more minutes.

Under pressure, Valencia gave a corner to Girona. Another chance.

The away fans behind the goal stood, arms raised, praying.

Even Gazzaniga, their goalkeeper, rushed forward.

One last throw of the dice.

The ball swung in—

Headed away once more!

But it fell to Aleix García at the edge of the box—

AND HE HIT IT FIRST TIME.

A rocket.

A thunderbolt.

Straight for goal—

But in the middle of it all—

GAYÀ THREW HIMSELF AT IT!

The captain. The leader. His body took the full brunt of the shot, the ball smashing against his ribs and ricocheting away.

Mestalla screamed in admiration.

Gayà didn’t move for a second. The shot had knocked the wind out of him. His teammates pulled him up, slapping his back, shouting encouragement.

He clenched his fists, nodded, and turned back toward the fight.

The clock struck 90+4

This was it.

Girona had one final attack.

The ball was worked to Savinho again after the throw-in.

One-on-one with Mosquera who had been subbed on for Diego Lopez to provide more defensive coverage.

A quick step-over, then a sudden burst of speed forced Mosquera to lunge but Savinho skipped past him!

The latter was now right inside the box.

The Mestalla held its breath.

A single pass would equal a goal and he knew it.

Savinho squared it—

DOVBYK WAS THERE—

But before he could strike—

CENK OZKACAR LAUNCHED HIMSELF FORWARD— CLEARING THE BALL.

The referee looked at his watch— the Mestalla held it breath.

One last glance—

AND BLEW THE FINAL WHISTLE!

FULL TIME!

VALENCIA HAD DONE IT!

—

The stadium ERUPTED.

Bodies collapsed onto the pitch—some in exhaustion, some in pure disbelief.

Gayà fell to his knees, fists clenched, eyes wet. Mosquera pounded the ground in triumph. Mamardashvili sprinted, screaming toward the stands.

The fans?

A sea of arms. Of tears. Of limbs flailing in madness.

Beer thrown. Flares lit. Grown men weeping into their scarves.

The dream was real.

After years of suffering. After being left for dead. After all the doubt, all the struggle—

Valencia were going to the Champions League.

—-

Back in Bilbao, no one spoke.

The television showed Mestalla shaking, and the Valencia players celebrating. The Athletic players simply sat there, staring.

Some rubbed their faces. Others just exhaled.

Iñaki threw his water bottle against the wall. It exploded, water spilling everywhere.

They had lost.

They had been overtaken in the standings now, despite having the 3-point gap earlier in the live standings.

Their dream had been snatched away in the cruelest, most dramatic fashion possible.

And it was all because of one kid.

Izan.

—

As the Valencia players celebrated, Izan reappeared from the tunnel.

Jersey still off.

Sweat glistening.

The crowd saw him—

And the chants returned.

"IZAN! IZAN! IZAN!"

Izan seeing this, sprinted onto the pitch, arms spread wide as he leapt into the celebration.

His teammates engulfed him, hands slapping his back, ruffling his hair, and screaming in his ears.

Mestalla was shaking.

The noise was deafening, the stands a crowd of bodies jumping, scarves swinging, tears streaming down faces.

Hugo Guillamón grabbed Izan’s shoulders, his voice hoarse from shouting, "You’re insane, hermano!"

Mosquera pulled him into a hug. "I don’t know how you did it, but I swear I’ll never forget this night."

Gayà, exhausted, still kneeling on the grass, looked up at him with an emotional smile. "This is your kingdom now, chaval."

The cameras caught it all—the raw, unfiltered joy, the disbelief, the historic moment that would be replayed for years.

Valencia CF, written off at the start of the season, were back in the Champions League.

—

Inside the locker room, the air was thick with sweat, exhaustion, and pure euphoria. Players slumped into their seats, their bodies drained but their spirits high.

Beer bottles clinked. Water sprayed. Someone blasted music from the speakers.

Baraja, standing near the center, watched it all with a proud, almost fatherly expression. He clapped his hands once, signaling for silence.

The players turned to him, some still grinning, some still catching their breath.

"I don’t even know what to say," Baraja began, shaking his head with a smile. "But what you’ve done today, what we’ve done this entire season… it’s special.

No one gave us a chance. No one believed we would make it this far. But look at us now."

He paused, letting the moment sink in.

"For years, Valencia has suffered. For years, we’ve been fighting just to stay afloat. But tonight, we’ve brought this club back where it belongs."

Applause. A few shouts of agreement.

Baraja turned toward Izan, who was leaning against his locker, arms folded, listening.

"And Izan…"

The room quieted.

Baraja exhaled, shaking his head in admiration. "I don’t think there are words for what you’ve done tonight. For what you’ve done all season.

But I’ll say this—you’ve not only given Valencia Champions League football. You’ve given me my first European experience as a coach."

The players cheered, clapping, some chanting Izan’s name again.

Izan, ever composed, simply nodded, his usual smirk appearing. "Just doing my job, míster."

Laughter. More cheers.

Baraja smiled. "Then keep doing it. Because this is just the beginning."

[Author-san: SMH]

The celebrations continued, but in the back of everyone’s mind, they knew—

This wasn’t the end of the story.

It was only the start of something far, far greater.