Striker of The Gods

Saturday, 20 January 2034 : 18:30 CET

Estadio de la Cerámica, Villarreal

The Estadio de la Cerámica was yellow fire.

Thirty thousand voices pushed against the evening air. Flags moved through the stands. Scarves hung from railings. The Yellow Submarine had prepared itself for war.

Cuenta con 53 623 habitantes (ine 2025). La gran mayoría de los habitantes se sitúa en el núcleo urbano, que ocupa un 10,72 % de los 55,12 km² de su término municipal. Se trata del segundo municipio con más población de la provincia de Castellón y del decimoquinto más poblado de la Comunidad Valenciana.

Villarreal knew what was coming.

They also knew they could not play normally.

So they chose chaos.

A high press. Fast transitions. Aggressive challenges. Sudden changes of direction. Anything that could break Real Madrid’s rhythm before the violet storm found it.

This was the thirteenth La Liga match.

And Villarreal intended to make it ugly.

Before the Storm

The world was already watching.

#VillarrealVsCaos had reached number one worldwide, with 6.9 million posts in thirty-six hours.

Marca wrote:

“Villarreal is going all-in. They will play dirty, fast, and unpredictable. This might be the match where Caos finally cracks.”

The Athletic followed:

“After 13, 11, 10 goals in recent matches, Villarreal is about to feel the full cosmic wrath.”

Then the training footage appeared.

The forest.

The dinosaurs.

Caos moving at nearly 500 mph through the trees.

His strikes hitting 350,000 Newtons.

Boulders breaking.

Ancient creatures in the simulation being treated like obstacles rather than opponents.

The caption beneath the leaked footage was simple.

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

Gerard Moreno had only one answer.

“This is our house. We fight with everything.”

Dani Parejo was even more direct.

“He has destroyed everyone. Tonight we make it chaotic.”

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

“They’re desperate. They’ll play fast. They’ll try to drag you into their game.”

Caos tightened the tape around his wrist.

Mbappé smiled.

“Stay cold. Then unleash the new you.”

In the tunnel, Xabi Alonso placed one hand on Caos’s shoulder.

“This is unpredictable. Control the chaos.”

Caos looked toward the pitch.

“That’s what I intend to do.”

High above the stadium, three women watched from the private box.

Zeraphina wore black.

Keyla wore violet.

Michaela simply watched the pitch.

Zeraphina smiled.

“Villarreal wants chaos.”

She looked down at Caos.

“They have no idea what real chaos looks like now.”

Keyla laughed.

“After the Triassic…”

She leaned toward the glass.

“They’re about to get eaten alive.”

The Match

The whistle sounded.

Villarreal attacked immediately.

No hesitation.

They pressed Real Madrid high and crowded Caos whenever he came near the ball.

For the first ten minutes, the match looked nothing like the previous massacres.

Villarreal fought.

Parejo controlled the tempo.

Gerard Moreno attacked the spaces.

The yellow shirts swarmed around every loose ball.

Caos received his first touch and three defenders closed around him.

He passed.

Another challenge came.

He accelerated.

Another defender arrived.

The crowd exploded.

For once, the stadium believed.

For thirty-one minutes, Villarreal managed to make the match ugly.

Messy.

Physical.

Uncomfortable.

Then Caos stopped running.

He stood in his own half.

The ball came toward him.

He caught it with one touch.

The stadium became quieter.

Caos lifted his eyes toward the sky.

For his mother.

Then he moved.

500 mph.

The pitch disappeared beneath him.

The Triassic Vortex activated.

Then came Rauisuchian Fury.

His body spun through the air with prehistoric violence, changing direction so violently that Villarreal’s defensive line simply collapsed.

One defender fell.

Then another.

Then another.

Nine yellow shirts were left behind him.

Caos was already seventy-three meters from goal.

He planted his foot.

His body twisted.

The strike came.

350,000 Newtons.

The ball screamed toward the goal at approximately 815 km/h.

The net exploded backward.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then the La Liga commentator finally found his voice.

“CAOS! IT’S IN! From seventy-three meters! Villarreal held him for thirty-one minutes—and then the storm arrived!”

1–0.

Caos turned toward the sky.

No celebration.

Only one quiet breath.

Villarreal tried to answer.

They attacked.

A counter began in the 34th minute.

Three yellow shirts raced forward.

The ball entered the center.

Caos appeared.

Plateo Crush.

The ground seemed to jump beneath the players.

The counter died instantly.

The ball rose.

Caos was underneath it.

He jumped.

His body rotated.

720 degrees.

A standing backflip.

From 52 meters.

The volley struck the ball before he had even completed the rotation.

It flew into the upper corner.

2–0.

The La Liga commentator shouted:

“ANOTHER ONE! A BACKFLIP VOLLEY FROM FIFTY-TWO METERS! Villarreal cannot even understand what they’re defending anymore!”

Caos landed.

For half a second, his eyes closed.

His father.

The silence.

The letter.

Everything that had remained unsaid.

Then his eyes opened.

And he ran.

The third came.

Then the fourth.

Then the fifth.

Villarreal tried changing formations.

It changed nothing.

They doubled him.

He passed through.

They pressed him.

He accelerated.

They dropped deeper.

He shot from distance.

They attacked.

He countered.

By halftime, the scoreboard looked almost unreal.

Villarreal 0–8 Real Madrid

Caos had scored six goals.

He had provided two assists.

But there was something different about the performance.

He wasn’t simply destroying Villarreal.

He was expressing something through every movement.

His mother’s memory.

His father’s final words.

The child he had not yet held.

Everything inside him had become motion.

The storm had memories now.

And memories had become power.

Second Half

Villarreal came out fighting.

They had nothing left to protect.

So they attacked.

That was their mistake.

Caos smiled.

The second half became something else.

The Sauropod Stomp sent shockwaves through the midfield.

The Herrera Snap appeared twice in succession, Caos directing impossible passes into spaces defenders could barely see.

Then came another run.

500 mph.

The entire length of the pitch.

He reached the final third.

The ball rose.

Caos turned his back to goal.

Then jumped.

56 feet into the air.

His body folded backward.

A chilena.

He struck the ball above the defense.

It dropped beneath the crossbar.

The La Liga commentator nearly shouted himself hoarse.

“THE CHILENA! FIFTY-SIX FEET IN THE AIR! CAOS DOES IT AGAIN! AND VILLARREAL CAN ONLY WATCH!”

He pointed toward the sky.

This one was for the child.

The child he had never held.

The child who would one day know his name.

The child who would not be born merely to inherit it.

Villarreal finally found two goals late.

The first came from a desperate counter.

The second followed a defensive mistake during another chaotic exchange.

The stadium erupted both times.

Not because they believed they could win.

Because they had refused to disappear.

Caos looked toward the scoreboard.

17–2.

Then the final whistle came.

Silence.

And then applause.

Even inside the yellow stadium, there was recognition.

Villarreal had fought.

Caos had simply become something they could not contain.

Final Statistics

Villarreal 2–17 Real Madrid

Caos:

13 goals

4 assists

26th consecutive Man of the Match

Multiple long-range finishes

Triassic Vortex

Rauisuchian Fury

Plateo Crush

Sauropod Stomp

Herrera Snap

500 mph sprint

56-foot chilena

The La Liga commentator delivered the final words.

“Villarreal came here to make chaos. They made the match chaotic. They fought, they attacked, they refused to surrender.”

A pause.

“But Caos has learned how to live inside chaos.”

Caos stood alone near the center circle.

The stadium lights reflected against his face.

He raised one finger toward the sky.

His mother.

Then he pressed his fist against his chest.

His father.

Two memories.

Two wounds.

One life.

The cameras stayed on him.

But Caos did not look at them.

At the private exit, Zeraphina was waiting.

“Thirteen goals.”

She shook her head.

“The world is already calling it your most savage performance yet.”

Caos gave a quiet smile.

“It was for her.”

Zeraphina understood.

His eyes moved briefly toward the stadium.

“And for the child.”

He paused.

“The child who will soon enter this world carrying royal blood and cosmic chaos.”

Zeraphina looked at him.

“And what will you give that child?”

Caos looked back toward the pitch.

“Choice.”

Then he walked away.

The thirteenth match of La Liga was over.

Villarreal had tried to create chaos.

Caos had answered by becoming its master.

But somewhere beneath the records, the goals, the speed, and the impossible power, another story was beginning.

A father was preparing for a child.

And for once—

the storm was thinking about something other than itself.

To be continued…