Striker of The Gods

The real deal about Paris

Paris. Théâtre du Châtelet. December 2032.

The city of lights shimmered under winter frost as the football world gathered once more to crown its king. Everyone was anticipating his participation. It was more than obvious that he would take part in this. The thing is, the red carpet bled into the night like spilt ambition. Cameras flashed like artillery. Legends, heirs, and billionaires moved through the grand entrance in tailored armour.

Caos arrived alone.

No entourage. No flashy car. Just a simple black suit that somehow looked forged from midnight and violet lightning. The ball from the World Cup final  as  the one that had flown 39 feet in that impossible chilena rested in a glass case carried by a quiet attendant behind him. He had insisted it be present. The weight of expectation hung in the air as he navigated the throng, each step echoing the triumphs and trials of his past. This night was not just a celebration of sport; it was a testament to the dreams that propelled him forward, a reminder of the relentless pursuit of greatness that had shaped his journey. Now, he was about to make history. Heavens and earth would observe him.

The moment he stepped onto the carpet, the entire world seemed to inhale.

Reporters surged. Security strained. Whispers turned into a roar.

Inside the theatre, the atmosphere was electric and uneasy. Mbappé and Vinícius sat near the front, already clapping as he entered. Arda Güler, now a superstar, nodded with deep respect. Even Harry Kane offered a reluctant but genuine salute from across the aisle.

Then the Spanish royal delegation arrived.

King Felipe. Queen Sofía a. Princess Sofía, wearing a silver gown that screamed future queen. And Leonor.

Leonor, in deep emerald, the same shade she had worn the night she chose Spain. Her eyes found Caos instantly across the crowded hall. For a fraction of a second, the mask of royalty cracked. Pain. Love. Regret. All of it raw and unguarded.

Sofía noticed. Her smile remained perfect, but her fingers tightened on the arm of her chair.

The ceremony began.

Host after host praised the impossible. 430 club goals. 25 in the World Cup. 1,617 career goals. The greatest single season in history. The 39-foot chilena that broke physics and hearts alike.

When Zinedine Zidane stepped onto the stage to announce the winner, the room was already on its feet.

Zidane:

There is no debate left. There is only reverence.

The Ballon d’Or 2032 goes to… Daniel Caos.

The theatre erupted.

Caos rose slowly. No smile. No theatrical celebration. He walked to the stage with the same calm fury he carried onto every pitch now. The golden orb felt heavier than any trophy he had lifted.

He stood at the microphone, violet eyes scanning the room — lingering for a long moment on Leonor, then on Sofía, then on the empty space where his mother should have been.

Caos (voice low, carrying to every corner without effort):

I have broken every record they told me could not be broken.

I have scored more goals than most careers contain. I have won this award so many times they no longer count them — they simply bow.

But tonight I stand here thinking of the records that still remain.

The ones no one writes down.

He looked directly at Leonor.

Caos:

The record of a love that chose duty over chaos.

The record of a sister who smiles while sharpening knives in the dark.

The record of a father who watched from shadows instead of standing in the light.

I will break those too.

Not with goals.

With time. With refusal. With the same storm that just won a World Cup while carrying every ghost I own.

The room was silent.

Leonor’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She did not look away.

Sofía’s perfect mask held, but her knuckles were white.

Mbappé and Vinícius stood first, clapping with fierce pride. The entire hall followed. Even those who hated him could not deny the weight of the moment.

Later, during the private reception, Sofía approached him.

Sofía (voice sweet poison wrapped in silk):

Congratulations, Caos. Another throne for the man who collects them. My sister made the right choice for Spain. History will remember her sacrifice fondly.

Caos looked at her for a long second, the same cold, surgical look he gave defenders before destroying them.

Caos:

History will remember the sister who recorded herself plotting against her own blood.

Smile all you want, Sofía.

One day the crown you hunger for will feel exactly as heavy as the one your sister chose over me.

He walked away without waiting for a reply.

Later that night, back in the quiet of a Paris hotel suite, the three maids waited for him : Zeraphina, Keyla, and Michaela as their loyalty a quiet fire in the cold room.

Zeraphina poured him a drink. Keyla had smuggled fresh pastries from a late-night bakery. Michaela simply sat close, offering silent presence.

Caos (staring out at the Paris lights, golden orb on the table besides him):

Another Ballon d’Or. Another record.

And still the only thing I truly wanted… chose the throne instead.

The storm did not rage that night.

It was simply planned.

The next mountains were already in sight.

And this time, they would not be allowed to stand.

Now, he is going to be the real storm as the eye of the universe.

To be continued…