Chapter 1 : Death

The sun dips below the horizon, casting a golden glow over Barcelona's skyline. The city's iconic landmarks—Sagrada Família, Torre Glòries, and Montjuïc—are silhouetted against a sky painted in hues of orange, pink, and deepening purple. The Mediterranean reflects the fading light, shimmering as day transitions into night. Shadows stretch across the bustling streets of Las Ramblas and the Gothic Quarter, while the last rays of sunlight glint off the rooftops of Eixample. As the city's lights begin to flicker on, the air hums with the soft murmur of evening life—distant laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the strumming of a Spanish guitar.

The streets of Barcelona are alive as the sun begins its descent, setting the sky ablaze with streaks of orange, pink, and deepening purple. The city glows under this twilight embrace, its historic skyline silhouetted against the fading light. The Sagrada Família stands tall in the distance, its spires reaching toward the heavens, while the Mediterranean reflects the sun's final shimmer, gentle waves lapping against the shore.

Amidst this breathtaking scene, he walks.

His footsteps are steady, deliberate—one natural, the other mechanical. The soft thud of his prosthetic leg meets the pavement in rhythm with his breath, a constant reminder of what was taken from him. But to the world around him, he is just another figure in the crowd, blending into the flow of evening life.

Yet, he is not just anyone.

At 25, he had already lived multiple lives. A prodigy of La Masia, the golden boy of football, a Ballon d'Or winner before the world could even comprehend the full extent of his talent. His name had been synonymous with magic—feet that danced with the ball, weaving through defenders like poetry in motion. Camp Nou had been his kingdom, the roars of adoring fans his anthem.

Then came the accident. The silence. The darkness.

He remembers it all too vividly—the crushing realization that he would never play again, that the sport which had given him everything had been ripped away in an instant. The emptiness that followed, the weight of a future that no longer existed.

He stops at a familiar street corner, near a café he used to frequent. Once, he had sat here with teammates, laughing over café con leche, talking about matches, trophies, and a lifetime of football ahead. Now, he stands alone, his reflection staring back at him in the café window. But the man looking back is not broken. He is different—scarred, reshaped, reborn.

When football abandoned him, he turned to something else. In the depths of his loss, he found a new passion, a new battlefield. He built an empire—not with his feet, but with his mind. He crafted an AI so advanced it reshaped the world, revolutionized industries, changed the way humanity functioned. The same precision, vision, and brilliance that once guided his game now powered the future.

And now, he is one of the richest men alive.

Yet, standing here, amidst the city that raised him, the echoes of his past still whisper. The what-ifs, the moments that could have been. Would he trade it all, even for just one more game under the floodlights, the ball at his feet, the crowd chanting his name?

The thought lingers, but only for a moment. Then, he exhales, turns away from the reflection, and steps forward into the Barcelona night. Because the past may haunt him, but it does not define him. He is not just what he lost—he is what he built. What he became.

The city hummed around him—distant laughter, the scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby café, the golden glow of streetlights flickering to life. Lost in thought, he let the past wash over him, memories playing in his mind like an old match replay.

Then—a sound.

A deep, rumbling roar. Metal screeching. The unmistakable blaring of a truck horn, drowning out the city's familiar rhythm.

His eyes snapped up.

A truck. Barreling down the narrow street. Brakes screaming.

And in its path—a child.

Frozen.

Time collapsed into a singular moment. He didn't think. Didn't hesitate. His body moved before his mind could catch up, instincts forged on the pitch taking over. His feet pounded against the pavement—one flesh, one metal—carrying him forward in a desperate sprint.

He reached the boy just in time. With one final push, he threw the child out of harm's way—

Then impact.

A deafening crash.

Blinding pain.

His body lifted off the ground, twisted, weightless for a brief second before slamming onto the cold asphalt. The world spun in a blur of headlights and shadows. A distant ringing filled his ears, drowning out the gasps and shouts of the horrified crowd.

And then—silence.

Darkness crept in, but not before his life flickered before his eyes.

The orphanage. The lonely nights staring out at the Barcelona skyline, dreaming of a future no one believed in. The makeshift footballs, the scraped knees, the desperate hunger—not just for food, but for a chance.

La Masia. The first time he wore the crest, the first goal, the first taste of belonging. The teammates who became family, the mentors who shaped him, the stadium that became his home.

The trophies. The Ballon d'Or. The roar of Camp Nou, his name chanted by thousands. The feeling of the ball at his feet, the world bending to his will with every touch.

Then the accident. The pain. The loss.

The nights of grief. The empty locker room. Watching the sport he loved from the sidelines, knowing he would never step onto that pitch again.

The new life. The empire he built. The power, the money, the influence. Changing the world in ways he never imagined.

Yet, beneath it all—regret.

Not for saving the boy. That, he would do again in a heartbeat.

But for the things he never said. The moments he let slip away. The dreams he was forced to abandon.

The lights above blurred, his vision dimming, the noise fading into an indistinct hum. Was this it?

A strange calm settled over him.

Then—a voice. Distant, urgent. Calling his name. Hands pressing against his broken body.

He wasn't gone.

Not yet.

Darkness. Silence. A weightless void.

Then—light.

Blinding, radiant, endless. A warmth unlike anything he had ever felt before. He was floating, or maybe falling, suspended in something greater than himself. The pain was gone. The city was gone. The world he had known—gone.

And then he saw it.

A figure, neither man nor woman, bathed in ethereal glow. Wings, or perhaps something beyond mortal comprehension, stretched into infinity. Eyes that held the weight of time itself. An angel—or something far greater.

"Your story is not over."

The voice was neither soft nor harsh, but absolute. It resonated through his very soul, shaking the foundations of his existence.

He tried to speak, to move, but he had no body. No form. Only awareness.

"You were taken too soon," the being continued, its presence shifting like the wind. "But your destiny is not yet fulfilled. You are being given another chance. A new life. A different path."

A surge of energy engulfed him, and suddenly—he was falling.

Down. Through time. Through existence itself.

Memories unraveled, his past self dissolving as something new took shape.

The year 2000.

As he drifted through the abyss of time, the celestial being's voice resonated once more, carrying the weight of fate itself.

"You are not dead," it declared. "You have been reborn."

He felt himself being pulled forward, his very essence reshaped, his past unraveling to make way for a new existence.

"This time, you are the grandson of Johan Cruyff. He lives, and through him, you will have guidance. You will not be alone."

A strange mix of relief and uncertainty washed over him. Johan Cruyff—the genius who revolutionized football, the architect of Total Football, the man whose philosophy shaped the sport he once dominated. Now, his grandfather.

But as hope flickered, the angel's tone grew somber.

"Your father, Jordi Cruyff, is no longer among the living. He has passed on before you could know him."

The words struck deep. Jordi—once a footballer like his father, a man who lived in the shadow of a legend, now forever beyond reach. He had died before he could even hold his son.

"And your mother," the angel continued, the weight of sorrow thick in its voice, "Ilana Ivanov—once named the most beautiful woman in the world—did not survive your birth. She gave her life to bring you into this world."

A pang of grief settled in his newborn soul. He hadn't even opened his new eyes, yet he already carried loss. A mother he would never know, a father taken too soon.

Yet, the angel's words were not just mourning—they were purpose.

"This is your new beginning. A path unlike the one before. You have been given another chance. What you do with it… will be yours to decide."

As the voice faded, as the light around him dimmed, he felt himself descending.

And then—

His first breath.

Crying. Hands lifting him. A new world opening before him.

Johan Cruyff's voice—soft, yet filled with an unspoken strength—greeted him for the first time.

And in that moment, as he lay in the arms of a legend, he knew:

This time, everything would be different.