Striker of The Gods

The calendar turned to 2031 and the world held its breath once more to step on the scenario. Caos was twenty-one years old no longer the boy who had walked out of La Fábrica with fire in his veins to show the world that it was wrong about him being a failure, but the man who had already rewritten every law the beautiful game claimed to obey to see what it was behind the fecade.

Real Madrid wore white. More powerful. The Santiago Bernabéu wore his name on every banner to let them know what can be saved in the age of what it means to be alive. And the universe, for one merciless season, simply got out of the way to be brave…

He scored 430 goals across all competitions.

Four hundred and thirty to shake the shape of the unreal.

A number so absurd it made statisticians delete their spreadsheets and priests light candles that could not take for what he was. He was a force of nature. No one could actually see what was coming. La Liga, Copa del Rey, Supercopa, UEFA Champions League, Club World Cup every pitch became his altar, every net his confession to take on what it means to be alive or death. Defenders aged overnight. Goalkeepers retired mid-season citing “existential dread.” Commentators ran out of words and simply screamed his name until their voices cracked on the most insane code of explosions.

New tricks poured out of him like violet lightning from a storm that refused to end the ideal of what could actually be there.

The Leonor Eclipse Vortex: a 360° mid-air spin where he flicked the ball behind his standing leg, wrapped it around his body in a full rotation, and unleashed a dipping knuckleball from forty meters that bent reality itself. There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more.

He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. The ball would vanish from one side of the goal and reappear inside the net as if space had folded for him alone.

The Singular Helix Flick a no-look back-heel nutmeg that spiraled upward into a bicycle kick finish, the ball carving a perfect helix through three defenders before kissing the crossbar from the inside.ven if you cannot change all the people around you, you can change the people you choose to be around. Life is too short to waste your time on people who don’t respect, appreciate, and value you He would say these words during every match before scoring this way. He performed it nineteen times that season. Each one felt like blasphemy.

The Thronebreaker Feint a body feint so vicious it made opponents freeze mid-tackle, followed by an explosive croqueta that left the defender spinning in place while Caos was already celebrating at the corner flag. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. That is to say that something cannot take on the ideal of what it means to be in love. The Bernabéu chanted “¡Trono Roto!” every time.

He broke every record that dared exist and invented new ones just to shatter them again to let them know who he is.

Yet beneath the goals, beneath the screaming stadiums and the golden trophies stacking like monuments to hubris, a darker storm gathered in the royal corridors of the Palacio Real that wanted to take his diamond empress away from him…

It began with a single closed-door meeting.

King Felipe summoned Leonor to the private study overlooking the Sabatini Gardens. Queen Sofía sat beside him, her face carved from quiet sorrow. That is to say that no one could actually see it. The thing is, this cannot take us into conversation itself. Something was spoken before. A royal advisor a distant cousin with cold eyes and older ambitions — stood in the shadows, arms folded.

King Felipe (voice heavy, every word weighted like a crown):

Leonor… hija mía. The Cortes grows restless. The people love your footballer, yes. But they love the idea of a queen who belongs to Spain more. That means that the two hardest tests on the spiritual road are the patience to wait for the right moment and the courage not to be disappointed with what we encounter. If you continue this… entanglement with Caos, they will force the issue. The succession is not a love story. It is a contract with the nation.

The Advisor (stepping forward, voice like dry parchment):

There are already whispers of a motion to amend the line. Your sister Sofía is dutiful, stable, untouched by scandal.Music has always been a matter of Energy to me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel. I have always needed Fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio. It is music to my ears that this could happen.

The thing is, we do not know if you are going to accept. One public declaration from you that the relationship ends and the throne remains yours. Refuse… and the law is clear. You step aside. The crown cannot rest on a head that chooses a commoner over Spain.

Leonor stood motionless in her emerald dress to display her regalty, the same one she had worn the night she first gave herself to Caos for him to know how much she loved him. Her hands trembled at her sides, but her voice did not that could not take it.

Leonor:

You would threaten me with my own blood? With the sister I love? At the end of the day, let there be no excuses, no explanations, no regrets. For loving a man who has given this country more glory than any king in three centuries? What is that you need? This is not performative. You should be beautiful. Be greater.

Queen Sofía (soft, pained):

Not threaten, mi amor. Warn. The world watches. The tabloids already call you “the Princess Who Chose Chaos.” One more season of this and the Cortes will act. If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse, and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality. That depends on you. This shall not be the end for you. Choose him… and you choose exile from the throne. Choose the crown… and you lose the only man who ever made you feel alive or at least a real woman.

Caos learned of the meeting the same night that they gave it, slowly coming to the chaotic conclusion that he needed to make the difference.

Leonor came to the mansion after midnight, slipping through the side gate the maids had left unlocked to let her in as if they already knew that she would come. She found him in the bedroom, fresh from a recovery session, chest still glistening, violet eyes softening the moment they landed on her. This was natural. This was loving. This was great.

She told him everything the threat, the ultimatum, the shadow of her sister waiting in the wings that could be done witin the limits of reality.

For the first time in his life, the singular storm inside Caos went perfectly still and yet it sounded off. That is to say that the chaos inside him was bursting.

Caos (voice low, dangerous, yet tender as he pulled her into his arms):

They want you to choose between a throne and a man who has already burned every throne he ever touched. have a friend who's an artist and has sometimes taken a view which I don't agree with very well. He'll hold up a flower and say "look how beautiful it is," and I'll agree. Then he says "I as an artist can see how beautiful this is but you as a scientist take this all apart and it becomes a dull thing," and I think that he's kind of nutty. First of all, the beauty that he sees is available to other people and to me too, I believe. Yeah, I think it is bulshit that it could help us. This is not good at all. Although I may not be quite as refined aesthetically as he is ... I can appreciate the beauty of a flower. At the same time, I see much more about the flower than he sees. I could imagine the cells in there, the complicated actions inside, which also have a beauty.

(presses his forehead to hers)

I will not ask you to give up a crown for me. But I will burn the entire palace down before I let them take you away as if they were to touch our love. The pitch is mine. The goals are mine. But you… you are the only thing I have ever refused to conquer for me to love you whoelly . Because I want you to choose me freely. Even if the whole kingdom screams otherwise. It is not like I force you. For my love is true. The thing is, this cannot be shaken.

Leonor kissed him then desperate, tear-streaked, the kind of kiss that tasted of goodbye and forever at once.

Outside, the maids listened from the hallway again. This time their jealousy had softened into something heavier. Zeraphina’s hand rested on Keyla’s shoulder. Michaela’s eyes glistened with quiet understanding. They had all burned for him. Now they watched the woman who held his heart burn for something even larger that they could imagine. Not like a battle that could have no end

The 2031–32 season continued.

Caos scored his 430th goal in the final of the Club World Cup a 70-meter solo run that ended with the Leonor Eclipse Vortex from the center circle. The ball kissed the net as fireworks exploded overhead.

But in the royal box, Leonor sat with tears in her eyes, the weight of two futures pressing on her shoulders.

The crown or the chaos.

The throne or the man who had already made the world tremble.

She still did not know which one she would choose when the final whistle blew.

But the storm inside Caos had already decided.

It would wait.

It would burn.

And it would never, ever slow down.

This was not just the end.

It was beginning.

To be continued…