Striker of The Gods

Making history

After lifting the World Cup with the 39-feet chilena that broke Wembley and half the planet’s understanding of physics, particularly the ones that thought that it was impossible for anyone to do so, Caos returned to Madrid a god who had grown bored of Olympus  and other pantheons that did not compare to his greatness. That is to say that there was something in his heart that did not fit the normativity of those who disliked him. As for his friends, they were expecting him to come over to the party.

430 goals in one club season.

25 in a World Cup.

1,617 career goals.

Zero injuries.

158.7 km/h official top speed (training now exceeded 450 km/h).

7–8 consecutive Ballons d’Or by acclamation.

Every major individual and team honour the game could offer.

He had broken nearly everything worth breaking.

To play football was not just breathing, it was his chaotic background playing in his mind, as if it were as normal as the moon light.

And that silence  the terrifying quiet after total domination, that no one could actually dream of or even think of, finally forced him to look at the few peaks still standing above him as slowly as he could to see a star in their heart, smiling inside.

In the mansion’s private war room (once a simple media lounge, now lined with screens, tactical boards, and handwritten lists only he and the three maids could see), Caos began to replan his entire existence and future, trying to make what he desired one step toward becoming the best in what he does.

The maids sat with him through the long night  Zeraphina sharpening knives that didn’t need sharpening or even more than other would expect, Keyla stress-baking at 3 a.m., Michaela quietly updating spreadsheets with calm precision and mostly done by those desire. Justice was nothing to him. Even more now, he had no one apart from them.

Caos (voice low, eyes glowing faint violet as he stared at the master list on the holographic screen):

I have eaten every record they said could not be touched.

But some mountains still stand.

And I am tired of mountains that do not bleed when I strike them.

He began writing  not with a pen or anything else that you can imagine, but with the same merciless focus he used on the pitch and that should be the one.

Unbroken Records & New Obsessions

All-Time International GoalsCurrent: 87 (including World Cup).

Target: Surpass Pelé’s mythical 1,000+ official and unofficial tally to go ahead of history.

Plan: Play every single international window until age 50. No rest. No rotation. Colombia will become the first nation to score 200+ goals in a single World Cup cycle  all from one man that could shake the universe and everything in it.

Single Calendar Year GoalsCurrent peak: 430 in a season.

Target: 500+ in a true calendar year (club + country).

Plan: Overlap La Liga, Champions League, and international tournaments with zero off-days that they could dream of or even tend to. The body that survived 10,000 daily touches and 450 km/h training sprints will now be pushed into permanent Eclipse mode of the caothic night in the mode of what it means to be alive and dead at the same time.

Undefeated Season + Treble of TreblesNo team in history has ever won every single competition without dropping a single point.

Plan: 2033–34 will be the Perfect Eclipse Season. Every match won. Every competition claimed. Zero draws. Zero losses. The season the word “defeat” is retired from football dictionaries. Now, it was his time to churn the universe to create what it means to know.

Longevity Beyond the StormMost players decline after 30. Ronaldo’s body eventually betrayed him. Messi’s genius softened and taken overboard. The thing is, most of these loved it quietly. Take it with everything you. He would say to himself. NOW, this is your turn.

Plan: Play at absolute peak until at least age 35, then reinvent as player-coach who still drops 50 goals per season. The first man to win Ballon d’Or at 34 while sprinting 400+ km/h in training.

The Final Personal RecordsResolve the father mystery completely  force Rafael “El Fantasma” Caos into the light, not for reconciliation, but for closure.

Build something that outlives football: The Caos Foundation  academies in every forgotten corner of Colombia and Spain where children train under the same singular regime that created him.

Leonor. The one record that still hurts. He would not be a simp… he would be fair…He would not chase her. But he would become undeniable  so that if she ever looked back, the gap between them would be measured in galaxies, not metres.

Zeraphina watched him write with dark, proud eyes.

Zeraphina:

You have already done the impossible. Now you want to make the impossible look small. I love this version of you. The one who looks at a mountain of trophies and still says “not enough.” That is even more loving. But it is a pity. You should tell them that you stil love her. Anyway, she will not come back.

Keyla (mouth full of fresh tart, grinning fiercely):

500 goals in a year? Undefeated season? Another crazy idea? You’re going to make the rest of football retire out of embarrassment and shame. That is my man. I’m here for it. Just don’t forget to eat while you’re rewriting existence again to see what is beyond it.

Michaela (softly, always the anchor):

You are planning your life around the few records still standing… but you are also planning it around the one thing no trophy can fill and sense. It looks like no one could ever compare to you. You are really something, you know? I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU

(quiet smile)

We will be here for every sprint, every late night, every moment the weight feels too heavy. Even if she cannot.

Caos leaned back, staring at the glowing list.

The violet in his eyes burned brighter than it had since the World Cup final.

Caos:

I once played to fill the hole my mother left.

Then to prove something to a father who hid.

Then for a princess who chose a crown.

Now… I play for the only thing left that still scares me.

The version of myself that has nothing left to break.

He stood.

The ball rolled to his feet instantly, as if eager for the next impossible chapter.

Outside, Madrid slept under a quiet sky.

Inside the mansion, four souls prepared for a new war  not against defenders, but against the last few records foolish enough to still exist.

The storm had not ended.

It had simply found new mountains worth destroying.

This is worth talking about.

This is to be done.

To be continued…