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They referred to him as insane.
 He was too young, they claimed.
 Too crazy.  It's too poetic.  Too fixated.

 However, they failed to comprehend.

 Goals are not the reason Daniel "Caos" Gómez plays.  He rewrites history via his plays.
 He scores hat-tricks in eleven minutes at the age of fifteen.
 He outtrains titans, outruns legends, and rips over Europe like a prophesy at the age of sixteen.
 He doesn't talk when he trains.  uses Latin to write.  Dreams that burn.

 "I'm not playing here.  Football is what I'm here to make kneel.

 Pain, however, simmers beneath the stadium lights and growing celebrity: A rival who was once a dear friend.
 The death of a mother still stings.
 A girl who never turned around after dancing in the rain.

 Caos must now decide if he wants to claim immortality at the expense of his humanity.

Or will he strike the heavens—and shatter the gods?

 Start reading now if you love:

Mythic sports drama

Genius MCs with fire in their veins

Emotional rivalries and broken love

Football as poetry and war

Obsession, grief, ambition, legacy

Tags:
Sports, Football, Mythic Rise, Tragic Past, Legendary MC,
Coming of Age, Rivalry, Dark Romance, Training Arc, 
Late Love, Champions League, Football Royalty, 
Obsession to Greatness, Modern Epic, Latin Vibes, Poetic Hero, God Mode, Real Madrid

Striker of the Gods

As he gets to the dressing rooms, he takes a shower all alone. Every drop felt like an eternity for him. Every coalition felt like a flame burning his heat. In truth, it was not just a body in pain, but it was a soul trying to grasp his reality. For no one loved him. It was a letdownfor him to feel, but however, it felt like he created a new fortitude in his being: DEUS MACHINA PAIN.

He gets a call as soon as he gets out of the shower.

He breathes violently and speaks up.

"Tell me, sir. How may I help you? I am at your disposal and willing to do it," says Caos in a commanding tone despite being naked with an overexaggerated physique and 7 ultra-super toned abs, making his 6-foot-0-inch figure more towering than a 10-foot man.

"Congratulations, Caos. You get a trip to Qatar with our nation." Says Álvaro Mejía, laughing while cracking a joke and then turning utterly serious. You're not just a player—you're a force. Spain needs you."

Caos's lips curved into a grin, the weight of his solitude lifting, if only slightly. Qatar—a new stage, a new battle, another chance to prove himself against Maat's shadow and to answer Salma's dare. "I'm in," he said, his voice steady, a god forged in pain ready to conquer. "Tell them Caos is coming."

Caos hung up, the phone heavy in his hand, his breath steadying as he dressed. The dressing room's silence pressed against him, but Deus Machina Pain pulsed in his veins—a god forged in solitude, ready for Qatar.

The dressing room at the Bernabéu was a crypt of loneliness, with frigid, unforgiving tiled walls and an air heavy with the smell of liniment and perspiration. The vapor from the shower curled like a veil, and the scorching rush of the water reflected Caos's inner fire. His tall form was shadowed by the dim light from the locker room, his sculpted physique and seven abs a sculpture of force and anguish. Madrid, a city that admired him but was unable to reach the emptiness within, buzzed beyond the walls, its pulse weak but constant. The buzzing of the phone was his lifeline, drawing him out of the furnace of his mind and into a world that needed his turmoil. Caos was chaos, pain, and power, and the world would know his name.

47. The Call to Qatar