Striker of The Gods

The Second Cup War

The first Copa del Rey match had been an execution.

The second would be a desecration, which has been the main point why they have what it takes to do what they need to do.

Football, bloody hell! This is chaos, and it is beautiful. Real Madrid have made art, Chaos have made mayhem, and the night is still young

Pre-Match The Garden at 2:47 a.m.

Caos stood motionless in the centre of the ruined backyard, moonlight casting long shadows across the craters left by previous training sessions. The anger had not cooled. It had crystallised into something purer a cold, surgical disdain that made every breath feel like contempt given form.

He closed his eyes and let the Chaos Heart speak again.

They still show up. Week after week. Teams with their little tactics, their little pride, their little hope.

They know how this ends. They have seen the 14–0, the 11–0, and the 12–0. And yet they still lace their boots and walk onto the pitch like they matter.

The disgust rose slowly, clean and sharp.

Weakness disguised as courage disgusts me more than anything.

Tonight I will not punish them with rage.

Tonight I will show them the quiet truth of their own insignificance.

I don’t really have a friend now; we still talk, don’t get me wrong. It's just life happened.

Anyways, though, while we lived close to each other (about an hour and a half), we would literally talk about anything and everything. Health scares, his job and coworkers… there really wasn’t much that was a secret. It was nice to not get judged, and IF we did judge, we stated it and laughed about it because sometimes we just do dumb things we shouldn’t have.

I used to drive to him and take her to appointments when she had back surgery which got fucked more than once; it was just genuine care that went both ways. Even now that I live in a completely different state, if she needed me, I would find a way to go down there and vice versa.

Plus, we aren’t upset that we don’t talk much anymore and don’t take it personally. Which, let’s be honest, is super hard to find with anybody.

He opened his eyes. The violet glow was steady. Controlled. Merciless.

Caos (whispering into the night):

Let them feel what it means to be forgotten while still breathing.

Copa del Rey – Round of 16

Real Madrid vs Athletic Bilbao

San Mamés roared with Basque fire. Athletic Bilbao, proud and unbreakable, had built their identity on collective soul and physical intensity. They lined up in a fierce 4-2-3-1: Iñaki Williams leading the press, Vesga and Prados anchoring midfield, Vivian and Yeray forming the defensive wall. They came to fight. To bleed. To make the violet storm at least feel their resistance.

They were met with quiet contempt.

Caos walked onto the pitch like a judge entering court. No warm-up smiles. No theatrics. Just cold, absolute presence. The Chaos Heart was open but calm, a frozen blade rather than a wildfire.

The whistle blew.

Athletic pressed with heart and fury. For twelve minutes they managed to make it ugly, physical, and chaotic.

Then Caos decided the farce had lasted long enough.

He received the ball in midfield, looked at the entire Bilbao defence with visible disgust, and accelerated to 324 mph. A Fatherless Phantom Helix left three players tangled. He then performed a new creation born from pure disdain: The Insignificance Requiem was a no-look 540° spinning trevela that made the ball vanish and reappear behind the entire defensive line before slamming into the net from 48 metres.

1–0.

No celebration. Just a slow walk back to the centre circle while staring at the Bilbao players like they were wasting his time.

Caos (internal, cold and clear):

You bleed for pride. I bleed because the world keeps offering me weakness and calling it competition.

The second goal came in the 24th minute. Bilbao tried to counter. Caos intercepted with contemptuous ease, dribbled through five players with lazy elegance, and finished with a standing 720° aerial rabona that left the entire stadium silent except for the sound of the net ripping.

2–0.

By halftime it was 7–0.

Caos had five goals and two assists. Each finish was delivered with increasing emotional distance, a quiet, surgical destruction that felt more humiliating than any rage could have been.

In the second half, he barely accelerated. He toyed with them. A 70-metre no-look, trivela assist to Mbappé. A backheel volley from 42 metres for his sixth. Then, in the 78th minute, with the score at 11–0, he received the ball at the halfway line, looked at the exhausted Bilbao players with pure, clinical disgust, and performed The Final Insignificance Strike, a slow, deliberate 39-foot chilenna that seemed to hang in the air for an eternity before tearing through the net like it personally offended him.

Final score: 13–0.

Caos walked off the pitch without acknowledging the crowd. No fist pumps. No smiles. Just cold, quiet contempt for the latest team that had dared to show up and lose so predictably.

In the tunnel, Xabi Alonso approached him carefully.

Xabi Alonso:

You dismantled them with contempt rather than anger tonight. That might be more terrifying.

Caos (voice calm, almost detached):

They were weak. They knew it. They still showed up and pretended otherwise. That disgusts me more than anything.

The stronger the opponent, the more respect they will earn. These teams… they earn nothing.

The three maids waited for him outside.

Zeraphina studied his face with dark understanding.

Zeraphina:

You looked bored out there. Like they personally offended you by existing on the same pitch.

Caos (nodding slowly):

They did. Every weak team that steps in front of me reminds me of every weak choice the world keeps making.

He looked towards the night sky, violet eyes cold and unwavering.

Caos:

Let the next ones come.

I am no longer interested in teaching lessons.

I am only interested in reminding the world what true strength looks like… and how pathetic everything else appears in comparison.

The Copa del Rey continued.

And with every passing round, Caos’s tolerance for mediocrity grew thinner.

To be continued…