Striker of The Gods

The announcement of Leonor's pregnancy did not arrive like ordinary royal news.

It detonated.

Within hours, every major newspaper in Europe had a photograph of Leonor on its front page. Television stations interrupted their programming. Social media went insane. Football commentators who had spent years arguing about Caos's goals were suddenly discussing chromosomes, royal succession, constitutional law and the possibility that the future heir of Spain might possess the same physical gifts as his father.

Markets moved.

Diplomats called diplomats.

Intelligence agencies opened files.

And somewhere in Madrid, an old constitutional lawyer apparently fainted after being asked whether a child born outside a royal marriage could inherit the Crown.

Nobody laughed.

Not for long.

Because the question underneath everything was much larger.

What exactly was going to be born?

A prince?

A princess?

A footballer?

A royal?

A child?

Or something the world had never seen before?

The answer would come later.

For now, the world only knew one thing.

Leonor was pregnant and that really mattered to Chaos like no one would ever imagine.

And the father was Caos.

Vladimir Putin sat in his private residence, watching the coverage without saying anything.

A cup of tea rested beside him.

He had been president long enough to understand that history rarely announced its intentions politely.

Sometimes it came in the form of wars.Sometimes revolutions.

But nothing alike.

Sometimes elections.

And sometimes—

a child.

Putin leaned back.

A faint smile appeared on his face.

Putin:

"This child is a gift from history."

One of his advisers looked toward him.

Putin continued.

"Spanish royal blood."

He paused.

"And Caos."

The room became quiet.

"Speed. Strength. Intelligence. An extraordinary biological anomaly."

Another pause.

"And now legitimacy."

The adviser shifted in his seat.

Advisor:

"Do you believe the child will inherit Caos's abilities?"

Putin looked at him.

"I don't know."

He smiled again.

"That is precisely why we should be interested."

Russia had already begun preparing its response.

Not publicly.

Publicly, Moscow would offer congratulations.

Friendship.

Medical cooperation.

Security assistance.

Perhaps even a royal sports initiative.

Behind those words, however, another strategy was taking shape.

Olga would become more important.

Personal relationships were often more useful than treaties.

If Caos felt threatened by the West, Russia wanted him to remember who had offered friendship before anyone else.

Energy agreements were discussed.

Military cooperation was discussed.

Youth football academies were discussed.

Everything was called cooperation.

Nobody called it influence.

That was how influence worked.

In the USA.

Three in the morning.

The Situation Room was still awake.

A screen displayed photographs of Caos.

Another displayed Leonor.

Another displayed the Spanish royal family.

A fourth contained a projection of possible succession scenarios.

The President listened while the National Security Advisor finished his briefing.

National Security Advisor:

"We don't know whether the child will inherit Caos's abilities."

Trump:

"And?"

"That uncertainty is the problem."

The adviser clicked the remote.

A photograph of Caos scoring a goal appeared.

Then another.

Then another.

"The father has already demonstrated physical capabilities outside anything previously recorded in a human athlete. If even a fraction of those traits are hereditary, this child could become the most physically exceptional person born in the twenty-first century."

The President stared at the screen.

"And if they're not hereditary?"

"Then we still have Caos."

Silence.

That answer was difficult to argue with.

The President finally leaned back.

"We don't treat the child like an asset."

The adviser looked surprised.

"Sir?"

"I said we don't treat the child like an asset."

He looked around the room.

"Children aren't weapons."

Nobody answered.

"But Caos is another matter."

The screen changed.

Caos.

Always Caos.

"Offer him partnership."

"Citizenship?"

"If he wants it."

"Facilities?"

"Whatever is reasonable."

"Security?"

"Yes."

"And Spain?"

The President thought for a moment.

"Support the monarchy."

Another pause.

"But don't tie ourselves to it."

The United States had made its decision.

Russia wanted influence.

China wanted influence.

Europe wanted stability.

America wanted access.

And Caos?

Caos wanted his child.

That difference would become important.

China said almost nothing.

That was what made its response frightening.

State media described Leonor and Caos as a symbol of cultural connection between Europe and Latin America.

The language was warm.

Beautiful, even.

Behind closed doors, however, economists, diplomats and intelligence officials began examining the situation from another angle.

Spain had a royal family.

Caos had millions of admirers.

And the child could potentially inherit both.

That created possibilities.

Sports diplomacy.

Technology investment.

Infrastructure.

Youth academies.

Colombian-Spanish projects.

Everything could become a bridge.

Nobody needed to mention the word influence.

The word was unnecessary.

The palace was different now.

Everyone could feel it.

King Felipe had aged visibly in the days following the announcement.

The problem was no longer simply whether Leonor was pregnant.The problem was what the pregnancy meant.

The Cortes was already arguing.

Conservative factions demanded immediate clarification.

Some wanted Leonor to distance herself from Caos.

Others wanted a marriage.

Some wanted constitutional reform.

Others wanted the old rules enforced without compromise.

Progressives argued that Spain could not pretend the modern world had not arrived.

And Sofía—

Sofía moved through all of it with a smile.

Perfect posture.

Perfect manners.

Perfect words.

She offered sympathy.

Support.

Concern.

And then she met privately with people who could help her.

Sofía:

"This child complicates everything."

One parliamentarian nodded.

Parliamentarian:

"Or changes everything."

Sofía looked toward the window.

"No."

She smiled faintly.

"It does both."

Leonor didn't care about the markets.

She didn't care about Washington.She didn't care about Moscow.

There was something mor important than that.

She didn't care what Beijing thought.

For the first time in her life, she had something that belonged entirely to her.

She stood alone in her room.

One hand rested against her stomach.

There was still almost nothing to see.

Yet she could feel the reality of it.

A life.

Her life.

Their life.

She whispered:

"Hello."

Nothing happened.

Leonor smiled.

Then—

she felt it.

A tiny movement.

So small she almost convinced herself it had been imagination.

She froze.

Her eyes widened.

Another movement.

Leonor placed both hands against her stomach.

"You're awake?"

A laugh escaped her.

Then she began to cry.

Not because she was afraid.

Because she was happy.

Caos had not slept properly for three days.

He had read every headline.

Every article.Every prediction.

The more you look at it, the better you love it.

Every conspiracy theory.

Someone had already claimed the child would become King of Spain.

Someone else claimed the child would destroy the monarchy.

Another person had apparently calculated the baby's future football position.

Caos stared at the screen.

"Striker."

He blinked.

Then laughed.

"Of course."

The three maids sitting nearby looked at him.

One of them smiled.

Maid:

"You've been reading these for hours."

Caos put the phone down.

"People are insane."

"You only just noticed?"

He laughed.

Then his expression changed.

The screens continued showing headlines.

ROYAL BABY

CAOS'S CHILD

FUTURE KING?

THE MOST POWERFUL CHILD IN HISTORY?

Caos stared at them.

His smile disappeared.

"They all want something."

The garden became quiet.

"Spain wants control."

His eyes hardened.

"Russia wants an alliance."

He looked at another screen.

"America wants an asset."

Then China.

"China wants influence."

Caos stood.

"And everyone wants to know what my child will become."

Zeraphina walked toward him.

She placed a hand on his shoulder.

Zeraphina:

"The world is choosing sides."

Caos looked toward the palace in the distance.

"No."

His voice was quiet.

"They're choosing before the child can even speak."

He looked down.

For a moment, the world's greatest footballer looked less like a god and more like a young father who had suddenly realized how cruel the world could be.

"They won't."

Zeraphina frowned.

"Won't what?"

Caos smiled.

It wasn't his usual arrogant smile.

It was smaller.

Almost gentle.

"They won't turn my child into a pawn."

He looked toward the sky.

"My child will be free."

The violet in his eyes seemed to deepen.

"No crown will own them."

"No government."

"No football club."

"No ideology."

"No prophecy."

He paused.

"And if they want football?"

He smiled.

"Then I'll teach them."

Zeraphina laughed softly.

"You're already planning their career?"

"I'm their father."

"That isn't an answer."

"It is to me."

The maids laughed.

For a moment, the tension disappeared.

Then Caos felt something.

He stopped.

His expression changed.

Zeraphina noticed immediately.

"What?"

Caos didn't answer.

He was looking toward the palace.

Not seeing it.

Feeling something.

A pulse.

Very faint.

Almost nothing.

He closed his eyes.

There.

Again.

His heart skipped.

A strange warmth passed through him.

Not power.

Not exactly.

Something else.

Something familiar.

Something that felt—

violet.

Caos opened his eyes.

"What the hell..."

Zeraphina stared at him.

"What happened?"

Caos said nothing.

For the first time in years, the man who had faced gods, champions, presidents and entire stadiums without fear looked genuinely confused.

Then he smiled.

Slowly.

"The kid kicked."

Zeraphina's expression softened.

"You felt that?"

Caos nodded.

He looked down at his hands.

Then toward Leonor.

And for once, he didn't think about football.

He didn't think about records.

He didn't think about becoming the greatest.

He simply whispered:

"Hello, little one."

Far away, inside the palace, Leonor suddenly felt the child move again.

She smiled.

Neither of them knew what the future held.Neither knew what governments were planning.

Not till the moment someone takes responsibility.

Neither knew what the world would eventually call the child.

But somewhere between Madrid, Moscow, Washington and Beijing, something had already changed.

The maps were beginning to shake.

And inside Leonor's womb—

a tiny heartbeat continued.