Striker of The Gods

 The First Cup War 

The night before the first Copa del Rey match, Caos stood alone in the darkened garden of the mansion, where no one could hear his pain and determination. The thing is, no one felt his power: destroyer of worlds. No floodlights. No maids watching. Only moonlight and the faint violet glow radiating from his own skin and shape. Nothing could change what he was.

He was beyond any conception. Below consciousness level 200, comprehension is limited by the dominance of the lower mind, which is capable of recognising facts but not yet able to grasp what is meant by the term ’truth’ (it confuses res interna with res externa) or that truth has physiological accompaniments that are different from falsehoods.

Additionally, truth is intuited as evidenced by the use of voice analysis, the study of body language, pupillary response, EEG changes in the brain, fluctuations in breathing and blood pressure, galvanic skin response, dowsing, and even the Huna technique of measuring the distance that the aura radiates from the body. Some people have a very simple technique that utilises the standing body like a pendulum (fall forward with truth and backwards with falsehood). Now, he had the techniques from all religions, adapting them and changing them to his chaotic heart.

He closed his eyes and descended into the Chaos Heart.

Why do I still play?

The question echoed through the fractures inside him like wind through broken cathedrals.

Because stopping would mean admitting that Leonor’s choice was final.

Because every goal is a middle finger to the father who watched from shadows.

Because Sofía’s cold smile still burns behind my eyelids.

Because the child growing in a womb I may never hold needs to know that its father refused to kneel.

He breathed slowly, letting the pain rise without resistance.

Pain is not the enemy. Pain is the forge. Every scar from Leonor’s departure, every silent betrayal from blood I never chose, and every crown that tried to diminish me – I take them all and turn them into velocity. Into power. Into the 700 km/h scream that tells the universe, ’I am still here.’

The Chaos Heart pulsed harder, violet energy crackling across his chest like living lightning. Nothing could be greater than him. After all, he knew he was better than everyone.

Tomorrow is not a football match.

Tomorrow is war.

Copa del Rey – Round of 32

Real Madrid vs CD Leganés

The Estadio Municipal Butarque was packed beyond capacity. Leganés, a humble side fighting for survival, had turned their modest home into a fortress of defiance and conquest. Banners read “Even Gods Bleed” and “Stop the Storm”. They came ready to die on the pitch.

They were not ready for what walked out of the tunnel.

On X:

Pepe21: It’s always like this. Perez controls most of the sport media. FUCK YOU! CAOS! GET OUT! YOU ARE ON STEROIDS! You shall eat shit.

Tetas490: What did you expect? Florentino Perez said it himself in famous audios: controlling the media is a priority of Real Madrid, and they almost had all the media controlled and ”isolated Barca”. This was back in 2012 when he said this, I think, but the audios were leaked in 2021. This is a disgrace! This cannot continue.

Lamark1495: CAOS is the ultimate man! We shall dissect him! The thing is, he is too fast.

Messi43521: Man, let’s be realistic. Leganes is quite a small club that won against quite a big club. Except for us, nobody really cares how they did it because they are the underdog; they have to improve their odds somehow. The ref letting this go on is the real problem, and again, who gives a shit except us?

Anyway, we didn’t lose only because of that; we were not good. Even against Rugby FC, we should win any day of the week. Yeah, this shall continue.

Caos emerged last. The moment his boots touched the grass, the entire stadium felt the shift, like the air itself had grown heavier, charged with violet electricity. His eyes were already glowing. The Chaos Heart was fully awake.

He stood motionless during the anthem, head slightly bowed, whispering to himself like a prayer and a war cry at once.

Caos (internal, voice echoing through the abyss of his mind):

This is not for trophies.

This is for every night I ran 300 mph through Siberian frost to outrun your absence, Leonor.

This is for the father who never claimed me; I will claim everything instead.

This is for Sofía and every throne that thinks it can diminish chaos.

Today I do not play football.

Today I wage war.

The whistle blew.

The War

Leganés pressed with desperate courage  a compact 5-4-1 wall, every man ready to throw his body in front of every shot. For six minutes they held.

Then Caos received the ball just inside his own half.

He exploded.

318 mph in four strides.

The first defender who lunged at him was met with a Leonor’s Eclipse Vortex so vicious the man spun 720° before hitting the ground. Caos carved through the midfield like a violet blade through silk. From 62 metres, he launched the Siberian Oblivion Strike — a 712 km/h knuckleball that left a visible scar across the night sky before detonating in the top corner.

1–0.

The war had begun.

Leganés tried to regroup. Caos answered with psychological warfare.

He dropped deep, becoming the eye of the storm, dictating tempo while his eyes glowed brighter with every touch. A no-look, 45-metre through-ball assist to Mbappé. A standing backflip penalty that made the referee cross himself. Then, in the 37th minute, he performed something new, The Heart Fracture Requiem, a spinning 540° aerial rabona from the edge of the box that left three defenders frozen mid-tackle as the ball screamed into the net, which left them amazed.

4–0 at halftime.

In the second half, Caos turned the match into a symphony of destruction.

He sprinted the full length of the pitch at 322 mph, leaving visible sonic ripples in the air. He wrestled two defenders to the ground in the same motion he once used on polar bears. Every goal was dedicated with cold ceremony:

One finger to the sky for his mother.

Fist to the chest for the father who hid.

A long, silent stare towards the empty royal box for Leonor.

Final score: 14–0.

Caos had scored 9 goals and provided 5 assists.

As the final whistle blew, the Leganés players lay scattered across the pitch like fallen soldiers. Some were crying. Others simply stared at the sky, broken.

Caos stood alone at the centre circle, arms spread, violet energy crackling around him like a living crown. The away fans, the ones who had come to defy the storm, were now chanting his name.

In the tunnel, Xabi Alonso waited with a mixture of pride and quiet concern.

Xabi Alonso:

You didn’t just win. You performed an execution. The psychology you carry onto that pitch now… it’s terrifying. Beautiful. But terrifying.

The three maids met him outside. Zeraphina pulled him into a deep, possessive kiss. Keyla jumped into his arms. Michaela touched his chest, feeling the Chaos Heart still raging.

Zeraphina (whispering fiercely):

You turned a cup match into a declaration of war against the universe itself.

Caos looked towards the night sky, eyes still glowing.

Caos:

Good.

Let every team, every crown, every shadow understand:

The storm is no longer playing.

It is conquering.

The first match of the Copa del Rey had ended.

But the war, the real war, had only just declared itself.

To be continued…