Chapter 1 : The Cruel Fate

The hospital room was bathed in the pale glow of fluorescent lights, their cold hum doing little to drown out the grief that hung in the air. The scent of antiseptic clung to every surface, sterile and unfeeling, a stark contrast to the heartbreak unfolding within its walls.

Johan Cryuff sat still, unnaturally still, his legendary frame hunched over as he cradled the fragile weight of his grandson. His breath was shallow, his hands—hands that had once dictated the rhythm of football's greatest symphonies—trembled against the soft white fabric that swaddled the newborn. His wife, Danny Coster, sat beside him, her body wracked with silent sobs, her face streaked with tears.

It was July 4, 2000.

A day that should have been one of celebration, of new life. But instead, it was a day marked by loss. The child in Johan's arms had entered the world at the cost of his mother's life. His father—gone before he could ever hold him. A cruel exchange—life for life—leaving behind only absence, only echoes of what should have been.

Danny's fingers, delicate despite the years, traced over the baby's tiny face. "He's perfect," she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might break the fragile moment.

Johan swallowed hard, his throat tight, his chest heavy. He had known loss before. He had seen it, felt it. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this. The weight of it threatened to crush him, yet in his arms, the smallest, most fragile thing he had ever held anchored him to the present.

The baby stirred, shifting in his swaddle, his impossibly tiny fingers flexing before curling into a fist. Slowly, as if sensing the presence of the man who held him, his emerald-green eyes fluttered open. Johan felt his breath catch. Those eyes—so bright, so aware—seemed to stare straight into his soul.

Danny let out a choked sob. "Johan…" she whispered, gripping his arm. "His eyes. They look just like—"

"Her eyes," Johan finished for her, his voice hoarse. His daughter's eyes. The same piercing green, the same quiet intensity.

Danny wiped at her tears with trembling hands. "He needs a name," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Johan inhaled sharply. A name. Something to give him an identity beyond tragedy. Something strong. Something that would carry the weight of the past but push him toward the future.

For a moment, his mind flickered back to the pitch, to the game that had defined his life. He had always believed in the poetry of football—the beauty of movement, the intelligence of space. He had spent his years crafting players, molding them like artists shaping clay. But this… this was different.

This was not just a player. This was a legacy.

"Nico," he murmured, the name forming on his tongue like it had always belonged there. "We'll name him Nico."

Danny let the name settle between them, testing the weight of it. Her lips parted, and then, with a slow nod, she whispered it back. "Nico."

The baby stirred again at the sound of his name, his tiny mouth opening in a yawn before he settled back into Johan's chest. It was as if he, too, accepted his fate.

Johan tightened his grip, pressing a gentle kiss to the infant's head. "He'll carry the name Cryuff," he said softly, his voice laced with something unshakable. Determination. Hope. Love. "And one day… the world will know it."

Danny exhaled shakily and rested her head against Johan's shoulder. They were broken, yes. But in their arms, wrapped in soft white fabric, was the promise of something new.

Outside, beyond the hospital window, the city of Barcelona slept beneath a blanket of stars. And somewhere, in the quiet depths of the universe, fate shifted, adjusting the course of history.

A new Cryuff had arrived.

And the world would never be the same.

______________

Five years had passed since that fateful night.

The grief that had once shadowed Johan and Danny's hearts had not disappeared, but time had softened its edges, making room for something new—joy. Love. The laughter of a boy who had become the light of their world.

Today was July 4, 2005. Nico Cryuff's fifth birthday.

The morning sun poured through the grand windows of their Barcelona home, casting golden rays across the wooden floors. The house, once too quiet, now buzzed with warmth.

At the dining table, a boy sat, his emerald-green eyes scanning the pages of a thick book, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the cover. His silky black hair, always impossibly neat despite his bursts of energy, framed a face that was almost too perfect—cute yet strikingly beautiful, a blend of boyish charm and ethereal elegance.

Danny Coster stood by his side, hands on her hips, watching him with the affectionate gaze of a grandmother utterly smitten.

"You should be playing outside, mi amor," she chided, ruffling his hair. "Not burying your nose in books all morning."

Nico turned his head, offering her a small, knowing smile. "But Grandma, I like learning." His voice, still carrying the softness of childhood, was laced with a maturity beyond his years.

Danny sighed dramatically, plopping into the chair beside him. "Of course you do. You're already in eighth grade! At this rate, you'll be running the world before you even lose your first tooth."

Johan, seated across the table with a newspaper in hand, smirked. "That wouldn't surprise me," he muttered, folding the paper and glancing at his grandson. "The way he absorbs knowledge, it's unnatural."

Danny leaned in, cupping Nico's cheeks in her hands. "And with this face? Oh, Nico, you're going to break so many hearts in the future." She sighed dramatically again, shaking her head. "I fear for the poor girls."

Nico's face scrunched up in mild embarrassment, a slight pink hue dusting his porcelain-white skin. "Grandma…" he groaned, trying to pull away, but Danny was relentless, peppering his cheeks with kisses.

Johan chuckled, watching the exchange with quiet amusement. He had always been a man of discipline, of structure, but with Nico, he found himself softer, more patient. The boy was special—he had known it since the day he first held him. And now, five years later, he saw it more clearly than ever.

A mind sharper than steel. A heart untouched by arrogance. And talent… talent that had yet to be truly discovered.

Danny finally released Nico, giving his hair one last playful tousle. "Alright, birthday boy. What do you want today? Anything at all."

Nico's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Can I have ice cream for breakfast?"

Johan raised a brow. "Ice cream? At this hour?"

Danny clapped her hands together. "Absolutely not—" She paused, pretending to think. "—Unless, of course, you give your dear grandmother a hug."

Nico grinned, standing on his chair to throw his arms around her. Danny melted instantly, squeezing him tightly. "Fine," she sighed. "Ice cream for breakfast it is."

Johan shook his head, muttering, "We're raising a genius, not a spoiled prince."

Danny smirked. "Why not both?"

Laughter filled the room, a sound that had become the heartbeat of their home.

Outside, the city of Barcelona stretched beneath the summer sky, unaware that within the walls of this house, a boy was growing—a boy who, one day, would change the world.

But today, he was just Nico Cryuff. Five years old. Brilliant. Beautiful. And, for now, simply a child loved beyond measure.

________

The warm Barcelona sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the lush green grass of the backyard. The air carried the scent of summer—freshly cut grass, faint traces of salt from the distant sea, and the warm aroma of Danny's baking wafting from the open kitchen window.

Nico stood barefoot on the soft earth, his tiny fingers clutching a worn-out football almost too big for him. He had found it tucked away in a dusty old cabinet in Johan's study, its surface scuffed and faded from years of use. Something about it had called to him, as if whispering secrets only he could understand.

Curious, he had taken it outside.

The first kick was clumsy, the ball rolling away in a slow wobble. But something stirred inside him—the way it moved, the way his foot connected with it, the way it felt like an extension of himself. So he tried again. And again. Until, without realizing it, he was lost in it—lost in the rhythm of touch and movement, of control and balance.

Johan stepped onto the patio, a cup of coffee in hand. He had been reading, but the distant sound of a ball rolling across the grass had pulled his attention. His gaze settled on the small figure in the yard—his grandson, alone with nothing but a football and an endless sense of curiosity.

He watched.

The boy's movements were raw, untrained, but there was something there. A natural ease. A silent conversation between foot and ball, even in its simplest form.

Johan took a slow sip of his coffee, a knowing glint flickering in his eyes.

Nico didn't notice him at first. He was too focused, chasing the ball, experimenting with his touch, giggling when he accidentally tripped over it. Then, at some point, he paused, turning his head toward the patio. His emerald-green eyes met Johan's.

"Grandpa," he called, breathless, a wide smile stretched across his face. "Come play with me!"

Johan chuckled, setting his cup down before stepping onto the grass. "Alright, show me what you've got."

Nico beamed, nudging the ball toward his grandfather with his tiny foot. Johan trapped it effortlessly, his movements smooth and effortless, years of muscle memory making it second nature. He nudged it back, watching as Nico scrambled after it with pure delight.

For the next hour, the backyard became a stadium, the ball their only language. Johan showed him little tricks—how to stop the ball, how to pass properly, how to strike it just right. And Nico, ever the quick learner, soaked in every word, every movement, repeating them over and over again until they felt natural.

Danny peeked from the kitchen window, a knowing smile on her lips. She had seen that same look in Johan's eyes years ago—the look of a man seeing something special.

Finally, Nico came to a stop, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked up at his grandfather, his expression serious, his little chest rising and falling with excitement.

"Grandpa," he said, his voice unwavering, filled with something unshakable. "I want to be a footballer."

Johan studied him for a long moment, searching his grandson's eyes for hesitation, for doubt. But there was none.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.

Nico nodded. "More than anything."

Johan exhaled slowly, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair. He had spent his entire life in football, had seen thousands of players, trained hundreds of talents. He knew better than anyone that football was not just a game—it was an obsession, a world that could give as much as it could take.

But as he looked at Nico, at the fire in his young eyes, at the way he clutched the ball as if it were already a part of him, Johan knew.

Football had already chosen him.

A slow, proud smile spread across Johan's face. He crouched down, placing his hands on Nico's small shoulders.

"Then we'll do it properly," he said firmly. "No shortcuts. No easy way out. If you want to be a footballer, you'll train like one."

Nico grinned, nodding eagerly. "I'll do whatever it takes!"

Johan chuckled, ruffling his hair. "Good. Then we start tomorrow."

Nico's smile stretched even wider, his heart pounding with excitement. Tomorrow. His journey would begin tomorrow.

Danny, still watching from the window, sighed to herself, shaking her head with amusement. "Well," she murmured softly, "there goes my little scholar."

She had a feeling she would be baking a lot more celebration cakes in the years to come.

Outside, beneath the golden Barcelona sky, a boy had found his calling.

And the world of football would never be the same.

___________

The sun hung low in the sky, drenching the backyard in golden light as Johan and Nico played. The ball moved between them effortlessly, each pass and touch blending into a rhythm, as if the sport was an unspoken language only they could understand.

Johan had always been patient with him, teaching him not just how to control the ball, but how to think, how to move, how to see beyond the obvious. Today was no different—until something changed.

Nico felt it before he saw it.

A strange dizziness washed over him, his vision flickering as if reality itself was stuttering. His legs wobbled beneath him. He tried to call out to his grandfather, but before the words could leave his lips—

Everything went dark.

A void.

No sound. No warmth. No air. Just nothingness.

Nico's breath quickened. Panic clawed at his chest. Where was he? What was happening? His body—could he even feel his body? His fingers twitched, but there was no sensation, no ground beneath him.

Then, out of the abyss, something moved.

A shape emerged from the darkness. Ethereal. Towering. Its form shimmered like light and shadow intertwined. It had the shape of an angel—broad, feathered wings extending from its back, radiating an unearthly glow. But where its face should have been, there was only emptiness. A void within a void.

Nico's breath hitched as the being drifted closer, silent yet commanding, its presence suffocating yet strangely gentle.

Then it touched him.

A single hand against his chest.

A warmth—no, a fire—spread through his veins, rushing through his body like an unstoppable current. His muscles tensed, his skin burned with an unfamiliar energy, his mind pulsed with something vast, something incomprehensible.

The being embraced him.

Not with arms, but with a presence—an overwhelming sensation of power, of something far beyond human understanding.

Then it spoke.

A voice, deep and resonant, yet not of this world. It didn't come from its mouth—because it had none. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"I have given you a gift."

Nico's mind reeled. He tried to speak, to ask what it meant, but the being continued.

"I will take it back after your death, so you do not have to worry about me taking it now."

A gift? What gift? What had changed?

Nico tried to move, to look at himself, but the void allowed him no control.

Before he could voice his confusion, the being took a step back, its form beginning to dissolve, as if it had already fulfilled its purpose.

"Utter the word 'System' when you gain consciousness," it said, its voice fading. "And good luck."

The darkness collapsed.

A rush—like falling, like being pulled back through existence itself.

And then—

A gasp.

Nico's eyes snapped open, his small chest heaving. The blue sky above him. The sound of birds chirping. The scent of grass.

He was back.

Johan was crouched beside him, his face lined with worry.

"Nico! Are you alright?"

Nico sat up slowly, his heart pounding, his body tingling with something unfamiliar. He remembered the words.

He hesitated.

Then, in a whisper, he spoke.

"…System."

And everything changed.