Chapter 786: The Generational Bag.
The music eventually dipped, the bills fluttered to the ground, and both Izan and Miranda collapsed onto the couch in laughter.
Their hair was dishevelled, cheeks flushed with amusement, but the spell broke as Komi’s voice cut through, firm but still tinged with curiosity.
"What on earth," she began, arms folded, "has gotten you two so giddy that you’re blasting music and—" her eyes darted to the floor scattered with notes, "—showering money like this house is a nightclub?"
Izan leaned forward, catching his breath, still chuckling as he waved them over.
"Come here, come here. Let me show you."
He picked up the folder from the glass table, flipping it open and sliding the top page toward them.
Komi bent slightly, eyes landing on the Seiko logo and the neat figures printed underneath.
Her lips curved into a smile despite herself.
"Ah... so that’s it. I should have known."
She looked at Izan, her smile softening, then her expression shifted, faint lines of worry appearing on her forehead.
"But isn’t this... too much? Too heavy for one person to carry?"
Before Izan could answer, Hori swooped in from behind her, looping an arm around her mother’s shoulders.
"Too much? No way." Her tone was cheeky, matter-of-fact.
"If it were too little, how else would he buy me a car for my sweet sixteen next year?"
Izan froze, caught in her gaze, forcing a strained grin.
"Yeah, sure. A toy car, maybe."
Hori smirked knowingly, squeezing Komi’s hand.
The air lightened, but Miranda wasn’t finished.
She leaned over, gathering another folder from her bag, her expression calm but edged with the kind of satisfaction only hard work delivered.
"These aren’t the only papers," she said, her voice clear, commanding attention.
She spread out a stack of receipts and signed confirmations.
"Here are the side projects you’ve done for Saint Laurent. Not part of the main contract, just additional campaigns."
She tapped the bold number circled at the bottom. "Nine million dollars. Clean."
Izan let out a low whistle, grin tugging wider this time.
Miranda didn’t give him long to bask.
She flipped to another set of documents, this time marked with Arsenal’s crest.
Her eyes flicked between him and the others before speaking.
"And this—this is the big one. Arsenal."
She paused, as if weighing her words.
"You’ve fulfilled every single bonus requirement in your contract. And not just fulfilled, but also overrun them. Goals. Assists. Team objectives. Premier League title. Golden Boot clause. Assist leader clause. And you’re front-running for the European Golden Boot too."
The words sat heavy in the air as Izan shifted in his seat, biting his lip, a hint of pride shining beneath his attempt to remain composed.
Miranda lowered her head slightly, muttering under her breath as her pen scratched across the margin, numbers flying.
Finally, she looked up, her voice quieter but sharper, as if to slice the silence.
"Seventeen million euros. After tax. And the Ballon d’Or and UCL, as well as the European Golden Boot, haven’t yet been included."
The room fell utterly still.
Even the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background seemed louder in the pause that followed.
Komi’s lips parted slightly, Olivia blinked in disbelief, and Hori’s smirk vanished into wide-eyed awe.
But Miranda wasn’t done.
She stacked the pages neatly, as though reminding them the pile wasn’t finished.
"And that’s only Arsenal. Adidas, Saint Laurent’s full contract, and Koenigsegg..." she trailed off, shaking her head slightly. "Their figures haven’t even been tallied yet."
Silence hung over the living room.
The quartet stared on, each processing the weight of what they had just heard.
Money wasn’t new to them anymore, not with Izan’s rise, but the sheer scale of it, presented so plainly, settled in their chests like a mix of pride and disbelief.
"Okay," Hori broke the silence, turning towards her mother. "Since my elder brother decided to go on and set the bar too high, I have decided to stop schooling and enjoy the hard-earned fruits of my brother."
The other four in the room broke out into strings of laughter as Hori stared at them seriously.
"I don’t know why Y’all are laughing because I am not even kidding," Hori said, causing Izan to laugh some more.
....
The Next day, the training pitch was alive with noise.
Boots cut through the grass, balls pinging between cones, and the usual chorus of laughs and shouts that made these mornings feel like a blend of work and play.
Izan had just dropped his shoulder to spin past Gabriel, thinking he had the angle, when the defender lowered his body and clattered into him, sending him sprawling onto the turf.
The fall wasn’t graceful as Izan hit the ground with a thud, grass staining his sleeve as he rolled onto his back, blinking at the sudden sky above.
From the touchline, Arteta’s voice rang out, equal parts stern and teasing.
"Izan!" he called, pacing closer, arms folded tightly across his chest.
"I spoke to Andrea Berta this morning. Do you know what he said? He said If you keep going like this, you’ll bankrupt the club. Too many trophies, too many bonuses."
A few chuckles rippled across the pitch as Izan propped himself up on his elbows, brushing dirt from his arm as he gave a short laugh, still catching his breath.
Arteta didn’t let him off.
He jabbed a finger toward the sprawled teenager.
"So, if you’re costing us that much, the least you can do is stay on your feet when Gabriel breathes on you, eh?"
That set off the rest of them.
Saka cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Oi, champ, grass stains don’t look good in Ballon d’Or photos, you know!"
"All that money Google said he earns, and he can’t handle Gabby? Nah, refund the wages!"
Izan groaned, climbing to his feet, dusting himself off while rolling his eyes at the trio.
"You lot are comedians now, yeah? I see."
He turned toward Arteta, pointing his thumb at Gabriel, who stood a few yards away, smirking like a man who’d just won a small battle.
"Míster, tell him to go easy on me, will you? It won’t look good if I get injured. We’ve got City in the FA Cup final after the next game."
Arteta tilted his head, lips pressed tight, clearly fighting back a smile.
"Don’t worry about that. You’re not starting the next game anyway."
That caught Izan off guard. "Wait, what?"
The manager’s grin finally broke.
"We’ll nurse you properly. Rest your legs. And if by some miracle Gabriel does break you..." — his tone dipped into mock seriousness — "...the physios already said you’re a tank. What takes others a year, you’re back in two weeks. Three if you’re feeling lazy."
The squad burst into laughter again, and even Gabriel chuckled as he offered Izan a hand.
Izan took it reluctantly, muttering under his breath, "Yeah, well, tanks still dent, you know."
Arteta shook his head, smiling faintly as he turned back toward his assistants.
"Then let’s keep you polished, eh?"
......
2 days later, Arsenal met Newcastle in the 37th game of the 38-game Premier League season at the Emirates.
"Well, here they come," the commentator said, pausing just long enough for the roar of the crowd to fill the airwaves.
"The new champions of England. Arsenal secured the title at Anfield three days ago, and what a night that was, what a performance, and now they walk out here at the Emirates, with the chance to lift that trophy in front of their fans for the very first time."
The players began to emerge from the tunnel, led by the stand-in captain for the day, since many of the usual starters were wrapped in tracksuits on the bench, smiling, applauding the fans back.
"Mikel Arteta has made some interesting choices today," the co-commentator added, his tone measured but full of admiration.
"We all know Arsenal still have two finals to play—two!—in the space of the next couple of weeks, so he’s rotated heavily. A lot of youngsters and a lot of squad players have been given a start here. It’s not just about resting legs; it’s also about rewarding the players who’ve worked just as hard on the training ground all season long, but they should make sure not to lose their unbeaten status."
As the teams lined up, the main commentator picked it back up, the joy in his voice impossible to hide.
"And isn’t that the beauty of it? Arsenal have done their work. They’ve climbed the mountain. They’ve reached the summit. Tonight isn’t about pressure, but about celebration. It’s about the supporters, about these players, and about a season that will be remembered forever. The Emirates is ready, the fans are ready... and here come the champions of England, stepping out into the light of their home."
The sound swelled again as the players fanned out onto the lush green pitch, soaking in every decibel, some of them smiling in disbelief, others with the quiet composure of men who knew what it had taken to get here.
Arsenal, champions, walking out under their own roof, the trophy soon to be lifted.