Striker of The Gods

The Fourth Thunder 

The anger that had burned like violet fire through the first three matches had not vanished. It had simply cooled, hardened, and transformed into something sharper, a crystalline contempt.

Caos stood alone in the garden again the night before the fourth La Liga match. The mansion was quiet. The three maids had given him space after the long night of release. He breathed slowly, letting the chaos heart speak without rage this time.

They are so… weak. Fucking dumb people.

The thought was not born of arrogance. It was born of disgust.

They run, they tackle, they pretend to fight. But there is no heart behind it. No refusal. No chaos. Just bodies going through motions, hoping the whistle saves them. They disgust me. Not because they lose — everyone loses to me now. But because they accept it before the match even begins.

He opened his eyes. The violet glow was calm. Controlled.

Caos (whispering to the night):

Tonight I will not punish them with rage.

I will show them what true strength looks like… and let them feel the disgust of their own weakness.

La Liga  Matchday 4

Real Madrid vs Real Sociedad

Can Real Madrid score? They ALWAYS score.

It’s cleared, Caos, with the shot, Uranos!!

Name-on-the-trophy!”

You HAVE to feel this is their year now. Is this their moment?

Mbappe, into Sheringham, AND Real Madrid HAS WON IT! The team HAS REACHED THE PROMISED LAND!”

Real Madrid are champions of Europe again, and nobody will EVER win a European Cup final more dramatically than this. Champions of Europe, champions of Spain, winners of the Copa del Rey, EVERYTHING their hearts desired.

Down and out? Not a bit of it; they are NEVER out.

The Reale Arena in San Sebastián was packed with tension. Real Sociedad, proud and organized under their current coach, had built a reputation for disciplined football. They lined up with a solid 4-3-3: Oyarzabal leading the attack, Zubimendi anchoring the midfield, and Le Normand and Elustondo in defense—men who believed in structure and collective effort.

They were about to learn the difference between structure and singularity.

Caos walked onto the pitch with cold, calm eyes. No glowing fury. No visible lightning. Just quiet, absolute dominance radiating from every step.

The whistle blew.

Real Sociedad pressed with intelligence. Zubimendi dropped deep to cut passing lanes. Oyarzabal tried to exploit spaces. For nine minutes they held a respectable shape.

Then Caos received the ball.

He moved at a measured 298 mph—fast enough to be unstoppable, calm enough to be surgical. He looked at the Sociedad players with visible disdain as he carved through them.

A simple Fatherless Phantom Helix left three midfielders spinning. He then delivered a no-look 52-meter try that curled viciously into the top corner.

1–0.

No celebration. Just a slow walk back to the center circle, his face showing open disgust.

Caos (to himself, internal):

They train for years… And this is what they offer? Pathetic.

Vinícius ran past, grinning.

Vinícius:

You look like you’re offended they even showed up.

Caos (coldly):

They are wasting my time.

The second goal came in the 21st minute. Sociedad tried to build from the back. Caos intercepted with contemptuous ease, dribbled past four players with lazy elegance, and finished with a casual 40-meter cannonball that nearly broke the net.

Ohhhhhhh yeah, beauty!! What a hit, son! WHAT A HIT! What a piece. This is insane.

It looked impossible, but CAOS made it possible.

Hello, hello. Here we go, it’s Caos Daniel.

And it’s CAOSSSSSSSSSS!! Oh!! Stunner! Absolute stunner!

2–0.

By halftime it was 6–0.

Caos had scored four. Each finish was delivered with growing disdain. After his fourth goal he stood over the ball, looking down at the exhausted Sociedad players with visible contempt.

Caos (quietly, but loud enough for nearby players to hear):

You call this football? You train every day just to become footnotes in my season. Disgusting.

Mbappé and Bellingham exchanged glances, proud but slightly unsettled by the coldness.

In the second half, Caos barely needed to accelerate. He toyed with them. A no-look assist to Mbappé. A standing backflip volley from 35 meters for his fifth. Then, in the 82nd minute, he received the ball at the halfway line, looked at the entire Sociedad defense with pure disgust, and performed a slow, deliberate Leonor’s Eclipse Vortex before launching a 65-meter strike that left the goalkeeper on his knees.

Final score: 11–0.

Caos walked off the pitch without acknowledging the crowd. No smile. No fist pump. Just cold, quiet contempt for the weakness he had just dismantled.

In the tunnel, Xabi Alonso approached him carefully.

Xabi Alonso:

You played with absolute control today. But that look in your eyes… It’s not just focus anymore. It’s disgust.

Caos (voice calm, almost detached):

Because they are weak. They accept their place before the match even starts. They train hard just to lose beautifully. It offends me.

(eyes narrowing)

The stronger the opponent, the more respect I will show. These teams… they don’t deserve it.

The three maids waited for him at the private exit.

Zeraphina studied his face.

Zeraphina:

You looked… cold out there. Like they personally insulted you by existing.

Caos (nodding slowly):

They did. By being so easily broken.

He walked toward the car, the violet storm calmer on the surface but deeper and more dangerous than ever.

The season continued.

And with every passing match, Caos’s tolerance for weakness grew thinner.

To be continued…