Striker of The Gods

The Santiago Bernabéu roared under a molten sunset, its stands a sea of white and blaugrana banners clashing like rival tides. The air crackled with the scent of sweat, freshly cut grass, and the faint tang of beer spilled in the excitement. Floodlights bathed the pitch in a stark glow, casting long shadows that danced with every movement. The crowd’s chants rolled like thunder, a relentless pulse that shook the stadium’s bones. This wasn’t just a match; it was El Clásico, the crucible where legends were forged and rivalries burned eternal.

 Upon entering the field, he shakes hands with Maat, grinning at him. The referee’s whistle cut through the din, signaling the captains to meet at the center circle. Caos’s boots sank into the lush turf as he approached Maat, Barcelona’s talismanic midfielder. The crowd’s roar faded to a dull hum in his ears, the world narrowing to the man before him. Their shared history hung heavy, a storm cloud ready to burst. Maat’s eyes, sharp and unyielding, met Caos’s, and for a moment, the stadium vanished—only the weight of their past remained.

“Let us see who is the best. Whoever wins this match will raise the La Liga cup. Chaos will win La Liga again,” says Chaos, burning from the very core of his being.

“Order comes out of chaos, as that which does not kill us makes us stronger,” says Maat, looking at Chaos.

At minute 67, Maat scores a free kick, given to Barcelona for what Asencio did to Lamine.

“That is how Madrid should pay for it. We are going to win,” says Lamie, selling his forgeries to his people.

“Cono Madrid. Madrid, Cabron. We are going to take this victory,” says Pedri, looking at Bellingham.

“Barca players are a bloody hell pain in the ass. Not going to play with it. Nuff said. Let us continue,” says Bellingam, taking glances at Courtois.

In the 87th minute, Caos scores a 60-yard goal, shocking everyone. Suddenly, a Barca fan gets on the pitch, trying to kill Caos. Gladly, he got caught and sent to court for what he attempted to commit.

Caos’s gaze found Maat across the field. For a fleeting second, Maat’s mask slipped, revealing not anger but something closer to fear—a crack in his composure that spoke of their shared history. Caos turned away, his mind racing with words he’d never spoken aloud.

”The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for. But perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing,” says Caos.

At the end of the match, he gets to greet every Barca player.

To be continued…