Striker of The Gods

Saturday, 27 January 2034 : 18:30 CET

Estadio Ramón Sánchez-Pizjuán, Seville

Caos came to one of his favorite stadiums.

The Ramón Sánchez-Pizjuán was alive.

Red and white everywhere.

Flags hanging from the stands. Drums pounding without mercy. Flares burning beneath the night sky. Thousands of voices merging into one sound.

“¡Sevilla! ¡Sevilla! ¡Sevilla!”

The fourteenth La Liga match had arrived.

And Sevilla did not want another ordinary football match.

They wanted a night.

They wanted revenge.

They wanted the violet storm to finally stumble.

Sevilla FC es uno de los clubes históricos del fútbol español. Tiene su sede en Sevilla, Andalucía, y disputa sus partidos como local en el Estadio Ramón Sánchez-Pizjuán, uno de los estadios más reconocibles del fútbol español.

Su identidad está profundamente relacionada con la ciudad de Sevilla, la pasión de Nervión y una tradición europea especialmente fuerte. En la historia real del club destacan sus numerosas conquistas de la UEFA Europa League, competición en la que se convirtió en uno de los equipos más exitosos de Europa.

Para esta historia, Sevilla llega al encuentro como un equipo que sabe que no puede competir con Caos únicamente mediante talento individual.

Su plan es diferente:

presión, intensidad, velocidad, duelos físicos y el poder de su estadio.

El capitán Jesús Navas representa la conexión entre el Sevilla histórico y esta generación.

En este universo, sin embargo, el Real Madrid posee algo diferente.

Tiene a Caos.

El futbolista que ha convertido los partidos en acontecimientos globales.

El jugador de la tormenta violeta.

Y mientras Sevilla tiene el Sánchez-Pizjuán...

Real Madrid tiene al hombre que parece capaz de convertir cualquier estadio en su escenario.

The Global Pulse

The match was already number one worldwide.

#SevillaVsCaos

8.2 million posts in forty-eight hours.

Marca posted:

“The Sánchez-Pizjuán is on fire tonight. Sevilla is ready to make this personal.”

The Athletic wrote:

“Caos has been unstoppable. But with this crowd behind them, Sevilla might create magic.”

Then the training footage appeared again.

The forest.

The dinosaurs.

The impossible acceleration.

500 mph bursts.

350,000 Newton strikes.

Caos moving through the prehistoric simulation as if the creatures were merely obstacles placed in his path.

The caption went viral.

He trained with monsters. Sevilla is about to become prey.

But social media was not united.

Not even close.

Social Media :Before Kickoff

@NervionRojo:

“Tonight is different. I don’t care about his numbers. This is Sevilla. This stadium has swallowed better teams than ours.”

@VioletStormFan:

“Bro is going to score before my food gets delivered.”

@AndaluciaFootball:

“29 minutes. That’s all I want. Give us 29 minutes of Sevilla football.”

@CaosEra:

“13 goals? 17 goals? At this point I’m starting to feel sorry for goalkeepers.”

@Sevillista_1890:

“People keep talking about Caos. Nobody is talking about what 40,000 Sevilla supporters can do to a football match.”

@MadridistaForever:

“Respect Sevilla. But Caos doesn’t care about noise.”

@FootballNerd2034:

“The interesting thing isn’t whether Sevilla can stop him. It’s whether they can keep their structure once he breaks the first line.”

@RojoHastaLaMuerte:

“If he scores, we sing louder.”

@VioletChild:

“If he scores ten, I will still watch every second.”

@NeutralObserver:

“This might be the loudest stadium Caos has played in this season.”

Then one final post appeared.

@UnknownUser_774:

“Maybe tonight isn’t about stopping Caos. Maybe it’s about seeing how long Sevilla can make him remember that he’s human.”

The post reached two million views in less than an hour.

Inside the Stadium

Jesús Navas looked around the pitch.

The flags.

The smoke.

The supporters.

The noise.

“This is our house,” he said. “The crowd is our twelfth player. We fight with everything we have. Tonight we make history.”

Lucas Ocampos nodded.

“He has destroyed us before.”

He looked toward the tunnel.

“But tonight the stadium is alive.”

A pause.

“We will not go quietly.”

Inside the Real Madrid dressing room, Mbappé looked toward Caos.

“Sevilla will come with fire.”

Caos said nothing.

“The crowd will be behind them.”

Caos tied his boots.

Mbappé smiled.

“Stay cold.”

Then his expression changed.

“Then unleash everything.”

Xabi Alonso waited in the tunnel.

When Caos approached, he placed a hand on his shoulder.

“This place is alive.”

The roar from the stadium shook the corridor.

“Control it.”

Caos looked toward the pitch.

“I will.”

Xabi smiled.

“Then let the new power flow.”

High above the stadium, the three maids watched from their private box.

Zeraphina wore black with violet details.

Keyla wore violet.

Michaela watched the crowd with a quiet smile.

Zeraphina looked down.

“Sevilla wants chaos.”

Keyla laughed.

“They have no idea.”

She looked around the stadium.

“This crowd is insane.”

A drumbeat thundered through the stadium.

Keyla smiled wider.

“This will be fun.”

The Match

The whistle blew.

And the Sánchez-Pizjuán exploded.

Sevilla pressed immediately.

Not cautiously.

Not politely.

They attacked the ball.

Every tackle was met with an eruption.

Every interception received an ovation.

Every time Caos touched the ball, thousands of whistles came from the stands.

For the first ten minutes, Sevilla looked fearless.

Ocampos chased every loose ball.

Navas organized the defensive line.

The midfield compressed around Caos.

Real Madrid couldn’t simply walk through them.

The stadium kept singing.

“¡SEVILLA! ¡SEVILLA! ¡SEVILLA!”

Caos received the ball.

Three players surrounded him.

He passed.

The crowd booed.

He received it again.

Another challenge.

Another whistle.

For twenty-nine minutes, Sevilla created something rare.

Resistance.

Not enough to dominate.

But enough to make the match feel alive.

Then Caos received the ball in his own half.

He stopped.

The stadium screamed.

Caos looked toward the sky.

His mother.

One breath.

Then—

500 mph.

He disappeared.

The Triassic Vortex activated.

Then came Rauisuchian Fury.

His body spun through the air with prehistoric violence.

One Sevilla defender went down.

Then another.

Then another.

The defensive line collapsed around him.

Nine Sevilla players were left behind.

Caos emerged from the chaos.

Seventy-four meters.

He planted his foot.

His body twisted.

The strike came.

350,000 Newtons.

The ball accelerated toward goal at approximately 818 km/h.

The net snapped backward.

The Sánchez-Pizjuán went silent.

Only for a second.

Then the La Liga commentator shouted:

“CAOS! FROM SEVENTY-FOUR METERS! SEVILLA HELD THE STORM FOR TWENTY-NINE MINUTES—AND NOW THE STORM HAS ARRIVED!”

1–0.

Caos didn’t celebrate.

He simply looked upward.

Sevilla responded.

They attacked.

They had to.

The crowd demanded it.

The counter came in the 34th minute.

Ocampos pushed forward.

The ball moved through midfield.

Caos appeared in front of the attack.

Plateo Crush.

The ground shook.

The counter collapsed.

The ball rose.

Caos jumped.

His body rotated.

720 degrees.

A standing backflip.

From 53 meters.

He struck the ball in mid-air.

The shot flew into the upper corner.

2–0.

The La Liga commentator almost laughed in disbelief.

“ANOTHER ONE! A FIFTY-THREE-METER BACKFLIP VOLLEY! SEVILLA CAME WITH FIRE—CAOS HAS ANSWERED WITH LIGHTNING!”

Caos landed.

For a moment, his eyes lowered.

His father.

The silence.

The words that came too late.

Then he looked forward.

The third came.

Then the fourth.

Sevilla continued attacking.

That gave Caos space.

And space was becoming a death sentence.

The fifth came from distance.

The sixth came after a Herrera Snap.

The seventh came after a Sauropod Stomp disrupted the entire defensive structure.

The eighth came just before halftime.

The scoreboard changed.

SEVILLA 0–8 REAL MADRID

Caos had scored six.

He had assisted two.

But Sevilla’s supporters kept singing.

That mattered.

Caos looked toward the stands.

Thousands of people were still waving flags.

Still screaming.

Still refusing to surrender the night.

Second Half

Sevilla returned from the dressing room attacking.

The match became even more open.

More dangerous.

More chaotic.

Caos smiled.

The Sauropod Stomp sent a shockwave through midfield.

Then the Herrera Snap.

A pass that seemed to bend around reality.

Then another.

Then Caos accelerated.

500 mph.

Full pitch.

He crossed the halfway line before the defenders could react.

Thirty meters.

Forty.

Fifty.

The ball rose.

Caos turned his back toward the goal.

Then jumped.

Higher.

Higher.

57 feet.

His body folded backward.

The chilena came.

He struck the ball above everyone.

It flew toward the goal.

The La Liga commentator screamed:

“THE CHILENA! FIFTY-SEVEN FEET IN THE AIR! HE HAS TURNED THE SKY INTO HIS OWN FOOTBALL PITCH!”

The ball crashed into the net.

Caos landed.

He looked toward the sky.

This one was for the child.

The child he had never held.

The child who would one day inherit his blood—

but not his destiny.

Sevilla finally scored.

The Sánchez-Pizjuán erupted.

One goal.

The supporters celebrated as if they had won.

Caos simply watched.

Then Sevilla scored again.

17–2.

For the first time all night, the stadium celebrated twice.

Not because they believed they could win.

Because they had refused to disappear.

The La Liga commentator said quietly:

“Sevilla have suffered tonight, but they have continued to play. They have continued to attack. They have continued to believe.”

Then Caos received the ball again.

The storm resumed.

The final whistle came.

SEVILLA 2–17 REAL MADRID

Caos:

13 goals.

4 assists.

28th consecutive Man of the Match.

Another impossible night.

Another stadium left trying to understand what had happened.

But Caos didn’t celebrate wildly.

He walked toward the center circle.

Stopped.

Raised one finger toward the sky.

His mother.

Then he pressed his fist against his chest.

His father.

The stadium lights reflected across his face.

For several seconds, the entire scene became strangely quiet.

Then the crowd began applauding.

Not all of them.

But enough.

After the Match

The social media world exploded again.

@LaLigaWatcher:

“13 goals and 4 assists. At some point statistics stop looking like statistics.”

@SevillaRojo:

“We lost 17–2. I’m still proud of the fight. That’s football.”

@CaosArchive:

“28 consecutive MVPs. This is becoming absurd.”

@NervionForever:

“Tonight hurt. But the Sánchez-Pizjuán never stopped singing.”

@FootballHistorian:

“Sevilla scored twice against the most dominant version of Caos we’ve seen. That will probably be forgotten by tomorrow, but it shouldn’t be.”

@VioletStormFan:

“THE 57-FOOT CHILENA. I AM DONE.”

@RandomMadridista:

“Someone check if the goal nets survived.”

At the private exit, Zeraphina waited.

She looked at him.

“Thirteen goals.”

Caos smiled slightly.

“The world is already calling this your most spectacular performance.”

He looked back toward the stadium.

The red and white lights were still visible through the corridor.

“It was for her.”

Zeraphina knew who he meant.

Caos touched his chest.

“And for the child who will soon enter this world carrying both royal blood and cosmic chaos.”

He paused.

Then quietly added:

“But the child will decide what that means.”

Zeraphina said nothing.

She simply walked beside him.

Behind them, the Sánchez-Pizjuán was still singing.

The fourteenth match of La Liga had ended.

17–2.

Another stadium conquered.

Another record broken.

Another thirteen goals added to the myth.

But the storm was changing.

It was still savage.

Still unpredictable.

Still terrifying.

Yet somewhere beneath all that power, something human was beginning to matter more.

A mother.

A father.

A child.

Caos had made a mess out of these fools 

And a man trying to become something greater than the destruction everyone expected from him.

To be