Striker of The Gods

The First Thunder

The Santiago Bernabéu trembled before a single ball was touched or even heard from the distance.

Opening match of the 2033–34 season. Real Madrid versus Málaga. The strong vs. the weak. The stands were a sea of white and violet, the new unofficial color that had spread like wildfire since Siberia. Banners unfurled with messages that spoke louder than any sponsor:

“CAOS IS HOME,” “THE STORM RETURNS,” “430 WAS ONLY THE BEGINNING.”

Caos stood in the tunnel, eyes closed like he was about to unleash absolute chaos, Chaos Heart pulsing in perfect rhythm. The 300 mph sprints through Siberian snow, the 700 km/h shots that turned concrete into tunnels, and the night with Olga Mokosh—all of it had forged something new. Something colder. Sharper. More absolute. More chaotic. More dangerous.

Xabi Alonso placed a hand on his shoulder and changed. In that sense, this could not take on the main shape and transition over the main welcome of Madrod.

Xabi Alonso:

They think last season was the peak. Show them it was only the warm-up.

The team lined up behind him: Mbappé with that mischievous grin, Vinícius already dancing on the balls of his feet, the rest of the squad watching their captain like he was something between myth and man.

The whistle blew.

From the first touch, it was not a football match.

It was a coronation.

Málaga came out with a deep, organized 5-4-1 compact, compact, disciplined, and determined not to become another statistic. They lasted exactly seven minutes, and no one seemed to admire them from the distance. In that sense, no one can take it up for what it was.

If taking the train, be aware that you need to buy a ticket with a specific destination. Once I changed my mind and hopped off another station and couldn’t leave without paying for another ticket or going back to the appropriate station. Also, once you’re in the train, stay alert for which side of the train the door will open. Sometimes it is on the left and other times on the right. If you take too long, you may miss the exit.

The Central Station is called ”Maria Zambrano,” and it’s connected to both the Malaga metro system and speed trains to other cities in Spain. Once in Maria Zambrano, you will go down to the metro station that’s called ”El Perchel” (it’s literally inside of Maria Zambrano; you just go downstairs). From there, you can get anywhere.

Caos received the ball in his own half. One touch. Then the storm awakened.

He exploded forward at 312 mph, faster than he had ever shown in an official match that everyone was waiting for. The Málaga defenders looked like statues as he carved through them. A Leonor’s Eclipse Vortex left three players spinning in place. Then the Fatherless Phantom Helix balled, wrapping around his body like a ghost before he unleashed a 65-meter cannonball that ripped the net from its moorings and sorrows.

1–0.

The Bernabéu detonated.

But Caos did not celebrate. He simply walked back to the center circle, violet eyes glowing brighter, Chaos Heart feeding on every scar, every throne, every silent father, and ambitious sister.

He felt the weight of their expectations, the mix of joy and despair swirling in the air around him. With each heartbeat, the memories of his past surged, fueling his resolve to conquer not just the match but also the demons that had haunted him for so long that no one could see but him.

The second goal came in the 14th minute.

A Málaga corner was cleared. Caos took it down on his chest, spun 360° mid-air, and launched the Siberian Oblivion Strike, a 700 km/h knuckleball from 58 meters that left the goalkeeper frozen in place as the ball tore through the top corner like it had a personal vendetta and Kratos-like style that the best footballers could see.

2–0.

Mbappé ran up beside him, laughing in disbelief.

Mbappé:

Bro… You’re not even sweating. What the fuck did they feed you in Russia?

Vinícius (grinning wildly):

He didn’t just come back. He came back angry. I love it.

By halftime the score was 7–0.

Caos had scored five and assisted two. He moved like a violent singularity, every touch a new trick, every sprint a defiance of physics. The Málaga players looked haunted. Some were openly asking to be subbed off.

In the second half, Caos became something else entirely.

He dropped deeper, becoming playmaker and destroyer at once. A no-look 40-meter through-ball assist to Vinícius. A backheel rabona volley from 35 meters for his sixth goal. Then, in the 78th minute, with the score at 11–0, he decided the night needed poetry.

From the center circle.

One touch to set the ball.

He sprinted 25 meters, planted his foot, and launched into the Great 39-Foot Chilean once again, the same impossible strike that had won the World Cup. The ball left his foot with such violence that it seemed to tear a violet scar across the night sky before slamming into the top corner with a sound like thunder breaking.

12–0.

The final whistle blew.

The Bernabéu did not cheer.

It was worshipped.

They knew that he was the best.

Caos stood alone at the center circle, arms spread, violet eyes blazing as the entire stadium chanted his name like a prayer. The maids watched from a private box: Zeraphina proud, Keyla screaming, and Michaela quietly emotional.

But as the fireworks exploded overhead, Caos looked up toward the royal box.

It was empty.

Leonor had not come.

Somewhere in the Palacio Real, a pregnant princess watched the highlights on loop with tears in her eyes, hand on her stomach, whispering to her unborn child about the father who had just reminded the world why even crowns feared him.

And in the shadows, Princess Sofía smiled a cold, calculating smile.

The first match of the season had ended.

But the real war had only just begun.

Well, Caos… the storm had just begun.

To be continued…