Striker of The Gods

La Ligam Matchday 26

Saturday, 8 may 2034 : 12:30 CET

Reale Arena, San Sebastián

Real Sociedad vs. Real Madrid

The Reale Arena was full long before the players came out.

Blue and white covered the stands. Flags moved above the supporters, drums echoed through the stadium, and every time the announcer mentioned Real Madrid, the whistles grew louder.

El estadio fue inaugurado en 1993 y cuenta actualmente con capacidad para 42 300 espectadores. Anoeta es de propiedad municipal y es el estadio donde disputa sus partidos como local la Real Sociedad de Fútbol y la Real Sociedad B, equipo de la Primera División de España y la Segunda División de España, aunque también se celebran en él ocasionalmente conciertos musicales, partidos de rugby y jornadas deportivas, entre otros eventos.

Real Sociedad had prepared for this match for weeks.

Their manager knew the usual approach against Caos was useless. Giving him space allowed him to accelerate. Pressing him carelessly opened passing lanes. Leaving a defender alone against him was practically surrendering the ball.

So they had worked on something different.

A compact defensive block. Two players ready to close the space around Caos. A defensive midfielder positioned to cut off passes into the centre. The fullbacks would force him toward the touchline, where the team could surround him before he reached shooting range.

It was a reasonable plan.

The difficulty was that Caos had spent his life finding ways through situations other people considered impossible.

In the tunnel, Kylian Mbappé glanced at him.

“Have you seen their formation?”

Caos adjusted the tape around his wrist. “Yes.”

“And?”

“They’ll try to send me wide.”

Mbappé waited for more.

Caos looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing. I was hoping for a little more analysis. Je donnerai tout pour gagner la Ligue des champions, le championnat et la Coupe de Espagne. ”

“You want the tactical report?”

“I want to know whether we’re going to spend ninety minutes watching you score from the other side of the stadium.”

Caos smiled.

“If you get bored, make a run.”

Mbappé laughed and shook his head. “You know, sometimes I regret asking you questions.”

“You’ll survive.”

Xabi Alonso approached them before the teams entered the pitch. He had a tablet under his arm, though he had already gone through the match plan with the players.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “They’ll try to isolate Caos near the line. If that happens, don’t stand and watch. Move into the spaces they leave behind. We have more than one way to hurt them.”

His eyes moved toward Caos.

“And don’t turn this into a personal contest.”

Caos raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“You say that now.”

“I’ll try to remember it when they start kicking me.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Mbappé laughed again. Xabi gave him a brief look, and the Frenchman immediately straightened.

“I’m listening, Mister.”

“Good. Then play football.”

The players walked out.

The stadium shook with noise.

In the private box, Zeraphina stood beside the glass, one hand resting over her pregnant belly. Keyla had already taken her phone out, while Michaela watched the teams warm up.

“Look at them,” Keyla said. “They look so serious.”

Michaela glanced at her. “It’s a football match.”

“I know. But look at Caos. He looks like he’s going to an ordinary training session.”

Zeraphina watched him stretch his legs before speaking.

“He’s concentrating.”

“You can tell?”

“I live with him.”

Keyla lowered her phone. “Fair enough.”

Michaela smiled, then returned her attention to the pitch.

“Do you think they’ll manage to slow him down?”

Zeraphina considered the question.

“For a few minutes, perhaps.”

“And after that?”

“After that, we’ll see what he does.”

She said it without arrogance. She knew Caos better than most people, but she also knew that he could be unpredictable even when he had already decided what he wanted to accomplish.

The referee checked his watch.

The whistle sounded.

Real Sociedad kicked off.

THE FIRST HALF.

Sociedad began cautiously. Their centre-backs passed the ball between themselves while the defensive midfielder dropped toward them. Real Madrid advanced without committing everyone forward.

For the first three minutes, the match looked almost ordinary.

Then Caos moved.

He did not rush toward the ball. He drifted into the gap between Sociedad’s midfield and defence, watching the defensive midfielder turn his head toward Mbappé.

That small movement was enough.The pass came from Toni Kroos. Caos received it with his right foot and turned before his marker could close him down.

Every player was surprised by this decision. 

Two Sociedad players approached from opposite sides.The first tried to block his route toward the middle. The second moved to cover the line.

Caos let the ball roll between them.

For an instant, both defenders hesitated. They had expected him to choose one direction.

He chose neither.

His acceleration carried him through the gap, and the stadium’s noise changed into a mixture of whistles and startled shouts.

The La Liga commentator raised his voice.

“Caos has found the space between them! Sociedad are trying to close him down, but he’s already through the first line!”

A third defender stepped forward.

Caos pushed the ball beyond him.

The defender turned, but there was nothing to chase. Caos had crossed the remaining distance before he could properly regain his balance.

The goalkeeper came off his line.

Caos struck.

The ball tore through the air at a recorded speed of 861 km/h. It crossed approximately eighty-seven metres before hitting the net.

The goalkeeper had barely moved.

For a moment, the stadium seemed confused about what it had just witnessed. Then the Real Madrid supporters erupted.

Real Sociedad 0–1 Real Madrid.

Caos turned toward his teammates. Mbappé reached him first and slapped him on the back.

“You couldn’t have waited until I made my run?”

“You were behind me.”

“I was making a run!”

“Then you were making it too late.”

Mbappé stared at him, then laughed despite himself.

“Unbelievable.”

At the touchline, Sociedad’s manager called his players over during the next stoppage. He was visibly frustrated, but he did not shout at them.

“Keep the shape,” he told his defensive midfielder. “Don’t chase him individually. If you leave the middle open, he’ll find another way through.”

The midfielder nodded, breathing heavily.

The manager looked back at Caos.

They had conceded one goal. That was all.

They still had a match to play.

The game resumed, and Sociedad changed its approach. Their defensive midfielder stayed closer to the centre-backs, while the nearest winger dropped back whenever Caos received the ball. Instead of trying to win possession immediately, they attempted to restrict his choices.

For a few minutes, it worked.

Caos received the ball near the right touchline. One defender blocked the route forward, another protected the inside channel, and a third watched Mbappé’s movement behind them.

Caos stopped.

The defender in front of him lowered his centre of gravity, waiting for the acceleration.

Caos passed backwards.

The ball reached Kroos, who moved it across the pitch to Vinícius Júnior. Sociedad shifted with the ball, their defensive line moving left.

Then Mbappé ran behind the right-back.

Vinícius found him with a diagonal pass. Mbappé entered the box and shot across the goalkeeper.

The net moved.

Real Sociedad 0–2 Real Madrid.

Mbappé ran toward the corner, arms spread. When Caos caught up with him, he pointed at the scoreboard.

“See? I can score too.”

“I never said you couldn’t.”

“You implied it.”

“I really didn’t.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Not everything.”

Mbappé waited.

Caos walked away.

“Caos!”

The Brazilian and French players laughed as they returned to their positions.

For Sociedad, the goal was more troubling than the first. They had concentrated on Caos, and Real Madrid had used the space that concentration created.

Their manager began shouting instructions. The midfielders moved closer together, and the fullbacks stopped advancing so aggressively.

The match continued.

Caos scored again after intercepting a careless pass in midfield. His next goal came from a combination with Jude Bellingham, who drew two defenders away before returning the ball into the space Caos had already occupied.

Another followed after a corner. Sociedad cleared the initial cross, but Caos recovered the loose ball outside the penalty area and drove it through a crowded defence.

The goals came quickly.

Yet not every attack ended with a shot. Sometimes Caos passed to a teammate. Sometimes he slowed down long enough for the opposing defence to move, then attacked the gap that appeared. When Sociedad committed more players to stopping him, Real Madrid found space on the opposite side.

The defenders began arguing among themselves.

One wanted to press. Another insisted they should stay back. Their captain tried to bring them together, but every time they adjusted their positions, Caos found something else to exploit.

At the twenty-ninth minute, Sociedad finally managed to create an attack of their own.

They recovered the ball near the halfway line and moved it quickly toward the right flank. The winger beat his marker and crossed low into the box. Their striker reached the ball ahead of the centre-back and redirected it toward the near post.

Thibaut Courtois reacted late but managed to get a hand to it.

The ball struck the post and bounced away.

The home crowd rose to its feet.

For the first time that evening, Sociedad had come close to scoring.

Their striker held his head in frustration.

Courtois stood up and shouted at his defenders to pay attention. Caos watched the entire exchange from the other side of the pitch.

He understood why Sociedad had created the chance. Their attack had been quick, direct, and uncomplicated. They had stopped worrying about Caos for a few seconds and concentrated on the goal in front of them.

That was what they needed to do.

He almost admired them for it.

The next time he received the ball, he did not immediately accelerate. He looked toward the defenders, then toward the midfielder who had been following him throughout the match.

The man was exhausted.

Caos could see it in the way he planted his feet, in the extra moment he needed to turn, in the way his eyes kept returning to the ball instead of checking the runners behind him.

Caos moved the ball to Bellingham and ran forward.

The midfielder followed.

That was his mistake.

Bellingham returned the pass into the space the midfielder had abandoned. Caos collected it in stride, crossed into the box, and shot before the centre-back could close the angle.

Another goal.

The La Liga commentator spoke over the roar of the crowd.

“Sociedad have worked hard to contain him, but that is the problem with defending Caos. You cannot watch the ball and forget the space around you. He has seen the opening before the defence has realised it exists.”

At halftime, the scoreboard showed a result that looked almost absurd even by the standards of Caos’s matches.

Real Sociedad 1–21 Real Madrid.

Sociedad had managed one goal shortly before the interval, a low strike following a quick counterattack. Their supporters celebrated it loudly. Some were laughing; others were furious. Many simply continued singing.

Caos had scored seventeen times and assisted several of his teammates’ goals.

The players headed toward the tunnel.

As Caos passed Sociedad’s captain, the man looked at him with open disbelief.

“How do you keep doing that?”

Caos stopped.

The captain seemed to regret asking, but Caos answered anyway.

“You keep giving me different problems.”

“And you solve all of them?”

“No.” Caos glanced back toward the pitch. “You nearly scored again before halftime.”

The captain followed his gaze.

“We should have scored.”

“Yes.”

There was no mockery in Caos’s voice. That seemed to surprise the man more than anything else.

Caos continued into the tunnel.

THE SECOND HALF.

In the dressing room, Xabi Alonso waited until the players had taken their seats.

“We’re winning comfortably,” he said. “That doesn’t mean we stop thinking. Keep moving the ball. If they press, use the space behind them. If they sit deep, don’t force the pass.”

He looked at Caos.

“And don’t attempt anything that makes me regret giving you freedom.”

Caos took a drink of water.

“That’s a very broad instruction.”

“It’s broad because I know you.”

Mbappé, sitting nearby, laughed into his towel.

Xabi pointed toward him.

“You too. I don’t want either of you trying to turn the second half into a competition.”

Mbappé lowered the towel.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Caos looked at him.

“Really?”

“Shut up.”

The dressing room broke into laughter, and the tension eased.

Across the stadium, Sociedad’s manager was having a much harder conversation.

His players were tired, frustrated, and struggling to understand how a game that had begun with a reasonable plan had become so one-sided.

He let them speak before addressing them.

“We cannot change the score,” he said. “We can still decide how we play the rest of this match. Stay together. Help each other. If you lose the ball, recover your positions. If you have an opportunity to attack, take it.”

One of the younger players looked down at his boots.

“It’s impossible to stop him.”

The manager was quiet for a moment.

“Perhaps. But you don’t have to solve the entire problem alone. That’s why you’re a team.”

The players rose from their seats.

When the second half began, Sociedad played with more determination. They pressed higher and attacked whenever Real Madrid misplaced a pass. They knew the result was beyond their reach, but they still wanted to finish the match with something to be proud of.

Caos noticed the difference.

Their captain was directing the defensive line more loudly. The winger who had nearly scored before halftime continued making runs, even when he received no pass. Their midfielders stopped looking toward the bench every time an attack failed.

They were still conceding goals.

But they had stopped playing as though they were waiting for the match to end.

In the fifty-fourth minute, Caos received the ball near the centre circle. Three defenders moved toward him, leaving the left flank open.

He passed to Vinícius.

Vinícius crossed the ball back toward the centre, where Caos had continued his run. The pass arrived behind him, forcing him to adjust in midair.

He twisted, struck the ball with his heel, and sent it looping over the goalkeeper.

The ball dropped beneath the crossbar.

The Reale Arena erupted in a mixture of disbelief and applause.

The La Liga commentator almost shouted himself hoarse.

“An extraordinary finish! Caos has turned a difficult ball into another goal! The goalkeeper could only watch that one!”

Caos landed, regained his balance, and looked toward Vinícius.

The Brazilian spread his arms.

“What was that?”

Caos shrugged.

“The pass was behind me.”

“So you decided to do that?”

“It worked.”

Vinícius stared at him for another second before laughing.

“You’re impossible.”

“People keep telling me that.”

The next stretch of the match was less spectacular but more revealing. Sociedad continued attacking, and Real Madrid punished the spaces left behind. Bellingham scored after a quick exchange near the edge of the box. Rodrygo finished a low cross. Mbappé added another goal after Caos drew the defenders toward him and released the ball at precisely the right moment.

Caos did not score every time he touched the ball.

Sometimes he chose the pass.

That choice frustrated the opposition more than his speed. They had begun to anticipate his shots, only to discover that the danger could move through someone else.

In the sixty-eighth minute, Sociedad scored their second goal.

Their right winger received a long pass behind the fullback, drove into the box, and sent a low cross toward the striker. This time, the finish was clean. Courtois had no chance.

The stadium erupted again.

The striker ran toward the supporters, shouting with both fists clenched. His teammates surrounded him, and even the players who had been struggling all evening smiled as they returned to the halfway line.

Caos stood near the centre circle, watching them celebrate.

Mbappé came alongside him.

“Still admiring the opposition?”

“They made a good attack.”

“We’ve scored more than thirty goals.”

“And they scored twice.”

Mbappé looked at him.

“You really don’t know how to celebrate normally, do you?”

Caos smiled. “I celebrate when there’s something to celebrate.”

“There’s a lot to celebrate.”

“Then celebrate.”

Mbappé shook his head and jogged back into position.

The game resumed, and Caos returned to work.

His next goals came from different situations: a shot after a quick turn in the box, a finish from a through ball, a volley following a clearance, and another long-range strike after Sociedad’s defensive line moved too far forward.

The defenders were exhausted. The goalkeeper had begun shouting instructions before each restart, trying to keep his teammates organised. Their captain continued encouraging them even when the scoreboard made encouragement feel almost pointless.

Caos noticed that too.

He had played against powerful opponents, faced impossible challenges, and trained under conditions that would have destroyed an ordinary athlete. He knew what it meant to continue when the body wanted to stop.

He also knew that determination did not guarantee victory.

Sometimes it only meant that a person refused to surrender the part of himself that still belonged to him.

The thought stayed with him as the match approached its final minutes.

Sociedad tried one more attack. Their midfielders pushed forward, and the ball reached the edge of the penalty area. A defender intercepted the pass, and Real Madrid launched a counterattack.

Caos received the ball just beyond halfway.

The nearest defender tried to close him down.

Caos accelerated.

For a moment, the entire field seemed to narrow around him. The defenders became obstacles, the open grass became a route, and the goalkeeper was the final man standing between him and the goal.

Caos passed the first defender, slipped past the second, and drove toward the penalty area.

The goalkeeper came forward.

Caos lifted the ball over him.

It dropped into the net.

The whistle sounded several minutes later.

Final score: Real Sociedad 2–31 Real Madrid.

Caos finished with twenty-five goals and six assists. His teammates accounted for the other six goals, with Caos assisting each of them.

He received his fifty-second consecutive Man of the Match award.

The statistics spread across the broadcast. The crowd continued to sing, and the players exchanged handshakes.

Sociedad’s captain approached Caos near the tunnel.

“I still don’t understand how you do it,” he admitted.

Caos looked at him.

“You don’t have to understand everything tonight.”

The captain gave a tired laugh.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“Maybe.”

Caos held out his hand.

The captain shook it.

“Good luck for the rest of the season,” Caos said.

“You too.”

As the Sociedad players walked away, Caos watched them for a moment before following his teammates inside.

BACK AT THE MANSION.

The journey home was quieter than the match.

Caos had showered, changed, and eaten something before finally sitting down with Zeraphina, Keyla, and Michaela. His legs were tired, though he would never have admitted it without being asked.

Keyla sat opposite him with her phone in hand.

“Twenty-five goals.”

Caos continued eating.

“Apparently.”

“Six assists.”

“Yes.”

“Fifty-two consecutive Man of the Match awards.”

He looked up. “Are you going to read the entire statistics sheet?”

“I might. I haven’t decided yet.”

Michaela laughed as she placed a glass of water beside him.

“You should let him eat first.”

“I’m letting him eat. I’m also reminding him that the rest of us have to live in a world where he does things like this.”

Zeraphina sat beside Caos, one hand resting over her belly.

“How did it feel?”

Caos turned toward her. “The match?”

She nodded.

He considered the question rather than answering immediately.

“Different after halftime. They were tired, but they kept trying to attack. Their captain kept organising them. I thought they might have given up after the first few goals.”

“Did you want them to?” Michaela asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Caos put his fork down.

“Because then there wouldn’t have been much of a match left. I want to win. I don’t need the other team to stop caring.”

Zeraphina watched him quietly.

“That’s something you should remember when our children start competing with you at everything.”

Caos looked at her.

“They’ll have to learn to lose and give up something for what they want to have or like tell me if something like that could even work,”

“They’ll also have to learn that you don’t always have to win.”

Keyla leaned forward.

“Especially at board games. I would appreciate it if you stopped destroying everyone at those too.”

“You keep challenging me.”

“Because one day I’m going to win.”

“You said that six months ago.”

“And I’ll say it again six months from now.”

Michaela laughed so hard that she had to cover her mouth.

Zeraphina shook her head, smiling.

For a while, they talked about ordinary things. The next day’s schedule. A message Michaela had received from the foundation. Keyla’s plans for a new campaign. Zeraphina’s latest appointment and the things they still needed to prepare for the baby.

Caos listened. He asked questions. He offered to help with the things that needed his attention, and when Keyla complained that he would probably disappear into the laboratory again, he promised to give them the following morning.

“Promise?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“No dragon research?”

“Not in the morning.”

Keyla narrowed her eyes.

“That answer is suspicious.”

“It’s an honest answer.”

“Those aren’t always the same thing.”

Zeraphina laughed and leaned against his shoulder.

Caos slipped an arm around her.

For all the noise surrounding him, these were the moments he wanted to protect. A meal. A conversation that went nowhere important. Keyla’s jokes, Michaela’s laughter, Zeraphina sitting beside him with their child growing inside her.

There would always be another match. Another record. Another person who wanted something from him.

He could deal with those things tomorrow.

Tonight, he was home.

GOGOGO!

CAOS!

CAOS!

CAOS!