The Football Legends System

That night – Nathan's apartment.

The city lights flickered through his window. Rain on glass.

Nathan sat on the floor, back against the couch, phone buzzing nonstop.

Lauren:"You were incredible."

Demir:"You freak. You pass like Modrić now?!"

Bruno:"Dinner's on you."

Nathan smiled faintly.

But then—he opened the app.

Champions League.

Real Madrid vs Manchester United – Second Leg

Three days away.

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Boom. Boom. Boom.

Old Trafford pulsed with a heartbeat louder than the city. Even on a rest day, the stadium didn't sleep. Not really.lights on in every office, boots clattering on polished tile. Something was coming.

Something big.

Manchester United had clawed their way back into 4th.

For now.

But the real battle wasn't in the league standings.

It was three days away.

Real Madrid. Second leg. Old Trafford.

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Carrington Training Ground – Locker Room

Demir leaned back on the bench, towel draped around his neck, hair still damp from the cooldown. He grinned, tossing a water bottle Nathan's way.

"Every game you play," he said with a smirk, "it's like you're on cheat mode!"

Nathan caught the bottle without looking.

A slow, cryptic smile formed on his face.

"Maybe I am."

The room laughed.

Even Bruno cracked a rare grin.

But beneath the jokes and backslaps, something simmered. The atmosphere wasn't celebratory. It was concentrated. Purposeful.

Because everyone knew—Madrid wasn't done.

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The Next Morning – Rest Day

The sun rose, but Manchester's skies remained grey. Pale light filtered through the gym's wide windows as Nathan stepped onto the turf.

Alone.

The facility was silent, save for the low hum of machines and the rhythmic squeak of rubber soles.

He wasn't supposed to be here.

But he needed this.

Control. Routine.

He laced his boots and began.

Quick touches. Inside, outside. Stepovers. Feints. Short sprints. Then turns—sharp, deliberate, explosive.

Swish. Tap. Crack.

The ball obeyed him now like it knew his breath.

But it wasn't just training.

It was sharpening a blade.

Every movement had a target in mind.

Every breath carried a name:

Mbappé.

Vinicius.

Bellingham.

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Elsewhere in Carrington – Analysis Room

Valverde leaned forward, arms crossed, staring at a slow-motion replay of Mbappé's goal in the first leg.

The step-over.The body feint.The finish.

Haaaah...

He replayed it again.

And again.

He wasn't watching to admire.

He was dissecting. Calculating.

Behind him, a voice spoke up.

"You planning to sleep here?"

Valverde turned. It was Bruno, carrying a protein bar and a bottle of water.

"You lot want revenge," Valverde muttered. "I want answers."

Bruno raised an eyebrow.

"And what's the answer to Mbappé?"

Then a smirk.

"Don't let him run."

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Manager's Office – Tactical Briefing

Amorim stood at the head of the room, whiteboard behind him littered with magnets and arrows.

Coaches flanked him, notes in hand. Coffee cups everywhere.

Amorim circled the board once, then tapped a red magnet labeled "Nathan".

"We rebuild through him," he said, voice low and certain. "Madrid will expect the boy from the Bernabéu."

He turned.

"They won't be ready for the one who came back."

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Later That Night – Nathan's Apartment

Nathan sat on the edge of his bed, TV on but volume muted. On-screen, a live broadcast showed Real Madrid's plane landing at Manchester Airport.

The cameras zoomed in:

Mbappé stepped off first—hood up, headphones on, casual smile.

Modrić followed, waving to a child with a United jersey.

Then Bellingham—stoic, locked in, ignoring every question thrown his way.

The royal bus rolled through the airport gates, swarmed by cameras and chants.

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Training Ground – The Day Before the Match

The stadium echoed with soft thuds. Final drills. Set piece rehearsals. Defensive shape routines.

But Nathan didn't touch the ball that day.

He sat in the stands for a while. Alone.

Watching.

Down on the pitch, Demir and Zirkzee practiced one-touch passes.

Bruno argued with Amorim about pressing triggers.

Valverde worked with the assistants, gesturing animatedly at the chalkboard.

Nathan rested his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the grass.

He pulled out his phone.

One new message.

Lauren:"I'll be at Old Trafford tomorrow. Proud of you no matter what."

He stared at the screen for a moment. Then locked it. Slipped it back in his pocket.

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Carrington – Morning Session

The video room was dim. Only the glow of the screen lit the players' faces. Amorim stood in front, pointer in hand, freezing a frame of Madrid's defensive line.

"Mendy," he said, tapping. Click. "Pushes high but doesn't recover fast enough."

Click.

"Carvajal," he continued, switching slides, "gets dragged too far inside. Leaves space behind."

He turned to the room.

"Nathan. Demir. You two stretch the pitch. Pin them wide, force them to react."

Demir gave a quiet nod.

Nathan leaned forward, eyes glued to the screen

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Then—Rrrrnnng.

His phone lit up. Lauren.

He hesitated for a moment. Then answered.

"…Hey."

Her voice was warm.

"Just wanted to say… don't be nervous."

"I feel this massive weight," he said quietly. "Like I need to change something big tomorrow. Like… it's now or never."

There was a soft silence.

Nathan smiled faintly, his chest heavy.

"…Lauren," he said.

"I'll see you after the match."

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Tactics –

– High press in the opening fifteen minutes. – Nathan moving between the lines, ghosting where they least expect.– Test Courtois with long shots. Make him move early.– Cut off the ball before it reaches Mbappé.

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Tunnel -

The lights buzzed above. The air was thick. Madrid's players lined up just across the divide.

Bellingham bounced lightly on his feet, headphones in.

Vinicius stretched, glanced at the United players with a smirk.

But Nathan didn't look at them.

He wasn't here for the names.

Ding!

[Congratulations!]

[The requirements to unlock a Random Legendary Spirit have been fulfilled]

[You have 200 points – Would you like to unlock a Random Legendary Spirit?]

[Skill Unlocked!]

[Congratulations!]

[You've acquired: Spirit of Rivaldo – Magical Left Foot & Impossible Shots!]

Nathan whispers:

"Ri… Rivaldo?"

FWEEEEET!!

The referee's whistle ripped through the air.

The match had begun.

Old Trafford shook—not from wind or rain, but from raw human noise. A roar that thundered down from 70,000 lungs and rattled through every inch of the historic ground.

"LET'S GO, UNITED!!"