Striker of The Gods

When he arrived at the airport, he got his Louis Vuitton football out of his backpack, getting to dribble through the airport.

He sprints at a speed of 200 km/h, breaking his former record, where he amazed Madrid.

He performed a Ronaldo chain, in which he got his ball to gleam and have mirage images.

People wondered what he had been doing with his ball, looking at Caos.

Some others said

”Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.” Says one of the pedestrians who sees him pass down.

”Que me has dado un susto. Ostia tio. Que os has hecho con este balloncito.” Says one of the policemen.

”Ciao, Caos. Corri. Poi le fare. Andiamo. Hala Madrid.” Say some of the passersby.

The crowd roared, but Caos was already moving, his mind on Iceland, on the untamed land awaiting him. He slowed to a jog, the ball still dancing at his feet, and made his way to his gate, the world buzzing in his wake.             

”Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. That is why I am Chaos, for abyss cannot look back into me,” says Chaos, looking at each of these people while performing elastico chops and body feints.

At home, he finds that there is no one to find. Looking for his maids,

Hours later, he arrived at his home, the adrenaline of the airport still thrumming in his veins. The house was eerily silent, the usual hum of activity absent.

 “¿Dónde están?” he called, expecting his maids to appear with their usual warmth. But the halls were empty, the lights dim. He set his Louis Vuitton ball on the marble floor, its faint gleam reflecting in the quiet.

Caos wandered through the rooms, his footsteps echoing. His mind, still alight with the fire of victory and the promise of Iceland, began to churn. Where were his maids? Had something happened while he was away, lost in the euphoria of the World Cup? He checked the kitchen, the living room, and the garden—nothing. A faint unease crept into his chest, but he pushed it aside. Chaos thrived in uncertainty.

He paused in the living room, his eyes falling on a note tucked under a glass on the coffee table. His name was scrawled across it in hurried ink. Caos picked it up, his fingers tracing the paper, sensing the weight of something new—a mystery, a challenge, another verse in his unfolding legend.

To be continued..