Striker of The Gods

 Whispers Before the Run

The final whistle at Mestalla sounded like a dying gasp and crack. It could not compare to the greatness of Madrid. Caos crushed them. Caos clashed with them. Although many knew that they had no chance, they still chose to fight because they were warriors. They had what it takes to win. However, that was not enough.

On X:

Pepito21: Big mistake. Spain’s third-largest city is best savoured slowly. It’s unhurried and green. Energetic and experimental. And it feels equal parts Spanish and separate. Is Valencia worth visiting? Certainly. Just don’t rush it. For sure, you’ll come to taste paella in its home region, amble along a riverbed-turned-city-ringing park, and ooh and ahh over the pretty Old Town. But then stay a while to experience a corner of Spain that doesn’t feel too commercialised, too overwhelmed, or unsure of its future. 

Amolasteatad321: Stop making publicity for that stupid team! We have won today! WOW! Caos is the best! There is no one like him. He should be the one that no one can stop. The thing is, we are going to see in the following matches.

TOURIST2132: We ate at a different restaurant every night on our week-long trip (including Restaurant Secret and Karak), and every meal was delicious. With fewer tourists, there are minimal tourist traps – a nice change from dodging overpriced food in Barcelona.

ESPN: Caos should be formally investigated! Now, he is not credible. HE IS A BEAST!

14–0.

Valencia’s players lay scattered across the pitch like soldiers after a massacre. Some were on their knees. Others simply stared into the night, broken. The home fans who had come to defy the storm were now silent witnesses to something that no longer resembled football.

Caos stood motionless at the centre circle, violet energy still crackling faintly across his skin. The anger inside him had not cooled. It had crystallised sharp, heavy, and growing heavier with every match.

Xabi Alonso walked onto the pitch alone, waving away the staff. He stopped a few metres away from his captain, studying him with the quiet intensity of a man who had seen legends rise and fall.

Xabi Alonso:

Come here, Daniel.

Caos approached slowly. The two men stood face to face in the middle of the devastated pitch while fireworks exploded uselessly overhead.

Xabi Alonso (voice low, steady, but carrying real weight):

You are no longer playing the game. You are punishing it.

Fourteen goals. Fourteen executions. Every time you touch the ball, it looks like you’re trying to erase something from existence.

(places a hand on Caos’s shoulder, grip firm)

I know that look in your eyes. I carried it once. The anger is fuel, yes. But if you don’t control it, it will consume you. Tell me, what are you really fighting out here?

Caos met his coach’s gaze. The violet in his eyes burnt brighter for a moment.

Caos:

Everything they took from me without ever touching the ball.

Leonor chose the crown and left me standing on that same pitch where I just scored fourteen times. Sofía smiles while she sharpens knives behind her sister’s back. My father watched me become this without ever claiming me.

Every goal is a scream. Every record I break is me telling the universe that I will not be diminished. Not by blood. Not by thrones. Not by silence.

(voice dropping, almost dangerous)

I am getting angrier with every match. And I don’t want to stop the anger. I want to weaponise it until nothing can stand in front of it.

Xabi was quiet for a long moment, studying the younger man like a father watching his son walk toward a cliff.

Xabi Alonso:

Then weaponise it wisely.

The boy I first coached had fire. The man standing in front of me now has something colder. Sharper. More dangerous.

Use it. Break every record left. But don’t let the anger become the only thing left inside you. Because one day the ball will stop rolling… and you will still have to live with whatever remains.

(goes quiet, then softer)

Go home to those three girls who love you without asking you to choose. Let them remind you there is still warmth in this world.

Caos nodded once. No words. Just understanding.

Then he turned and ran.

Not toward the tunnel. Not toward the dressing room.

He ran straight out of the stadium, past the shocked security, past the screaming fans, and into the night streets of Valencia.

335 mph.

The city blurred into streaks of light and sound. He ran the entire way back to Madrid, 350 kilometres of highway, mountains, and open road, at full single speed. The sonic booms followed him like thunder chasing lightning. Cars swerved. People on the roadside fell to their knees. The anger fuelled every stride, every heartbeat.

By the time he reached the mansion gates, the anger had not lessened.

It had only grown sharper.

The three maids were waiting at the entrance, eyes wide as they saw him arrive on foot, still breathing steady, violet energy crackling around him like a living crown.

Zeraphina stepped forward first.

Zeraphina:

You ran the whole way.

We felt it. The anger is louder now.

Caos looked at them, his anchors, his flames, and for the first time that night, allowed the smallest crack in the storm.

Come on! Tell me that you are not going to give up. Every day is a new light for you. If you don’t believe that, then it would be better for you to go back to what you were. You are better than this. You told me this! You filled my head up with dreams. I believe in you.

Caos:

Then help me sharpen it.

Because the next match… I want the world to feel what I feel every time I remember what was taken from me.

The night deepened.

The anger grew.

And the violet storm prepared for war once more.

To be continued…