The Football Legends System

The red sea surged in the stands. Flags waved. The weight of the night settled on every shoulder in red. The scent of wet grass, fresh boots, and adrenaline filled the air.

Rúben Amorim stood just outside the technical area, jacket flapping in the gust, his mouth already moving—

"SHIFT EARLY! WATCH THE WIDE SWITCH!"

On the other bench, Carlo Ancelotti barely blinked. Arms crossed. Calm. His gaze sweeping across the pitch with quiet calculation. He gave a nod—just one—and Real Madrid began their press.

Casemiro collected near the center circle. Quick check of the shoulder—tap. To Bruno.

Bruno turned.

Nathan dropped in.

Pass incoming.

But—CRACK!

Camavinga exploded into the lane, intercepting with ruthless timing. Ball gone. Advantage Madrid.

Tch…!

Nathan turned on his heel, bolting back.

Minute 3.

Vinícius.

Left wing.

Trouble.

He'd barely touched the ball yet—then he exploded. A blur of white and speed.

Wan-Bissaka backed off.

Too slow.

"Go with him! AARON, GO!!" Amorim bellowed.

Too late.

Vinícius burned past with a drop of the shoulder and a rapid cut inside. Ball glued to his feet.

Low cross.

Mbappé!

BOOM!

A cannon of a shot—

"ONANAAAA!!!"

THWACK!!

The stadium erupted as André Onana stretched full-body to his right, palming the ball wide with a desperate glove.

The ball skidded just outside the post.

Real Madrid weren't here to dance.

They were here to devour.

Haaah…

Nathan jogged back, breathing hard already.

His pulse hadn't calmed since the whistle.

His thoughts: fast. Too fast.

Minute 7.

Modrić took command. Vintage Luka.

Like a general in calm waters, he pinged the ball left, right, diagonally. Real Madrid flowed around him like pieces on a war map.

Rodrygo took on Shaw.

One feint. Then another.

Gone.

WHIP! Near-post strike—

Whoosh.

Just wide.

Another warning.

Nathan exhaled sharply. His fingers curled.

They're hitting fast. Too fast... Breathe. Stay in the game. Let them blow their fire now—our time will come.

Minute 12.

Bellingham received and turned, that turn was smooth.

Ball zipped into space.

Mbappé again.

Through the line.

He was too fast. Too damn fast.

One on one.

BLAM!

PUNCH!!

Onana again!

Like a brick wall in boots, he knocked the shot away with both fists.

The crowd's voice cracked with another roar.

"OOONANAAAA!!"

United's defense regrouped, shaken.

Nathan dropped back, tracking shadows, sweat forming at his brow.

"Demir!" Amorim's voice cracked like a whip.

"Stay wider right! You're narrowing too soon!"

Demir, halfway through asking for a short pass, threw up a hand in apology.

"Tch… okay!"

Nathan glanced over at him. Demir's grin was already returning.

"If we survive this wave," Demir muttered, "I'm gonna cook them."

Nathan didn't answer.

Minute 18.

Finally.

A seam.

Valverde picked the ball off a loose Madrid pass. Straight to Bruno. A flick to Nathan.

Boom.

He turned. Space.

And then he saw it.

The lane behind Madrid's backline.

Højlund was moving.

Nathan didn't hesitate. The pass was surgical—threaded between defenders with millimeters to spare.

Højlund broke in.

One touch. Control.

Two—BANG!

Courtois—SAVE!

A massive right palm diverted the shot just beyond the upright.

"AAAHHHHHH!!!" The crowd roared, hands on heads.

Corner.

United were alive.

The corner curled in from Bruno—cleared, but only half.

Valverde!

Volley!

BOOM!

Just wide!

The net rippled from the wind.

"OOOOOOOOOH—!!"

"UNITED! UNITED! UNITED!"

The chant returned. Louder. Faster.

The Theatre of Dreams had woken up.

Nathan stood at the edge of the box, hands on hips. Chest heaving. A bead of sweat rolled past his eyebrow.

He looked at the goal.

Then to the Madrid players. Then down at his boots.

He remembered Amorim's words before kickoff:

"They expect the boy from the Bernabéu. Give them the one who came back."

———

Minute 26

Possession passed between giants. Madrid touched, tapped, and moved with their signature arrogance—like the ball owed them. United responded with compact lines and sharp counters, each player alert.

Nathan pressed high, then dropped deep to track Kroos, who'd just entered after Camavinga signaled to the bench.

Tch… Camavinga's out?

Nathan caught a glimpse of the Frenchman limping toward the sideline, shaking his head in frustration. But what came next made his stomach tighten.

Kroos.

And not just any pass.

The veteran German received the ball near the halfway line and—without taking a touch—

Boom!

A diagonal ball, soaring, curling like it was sculpted mid-flight, fell like a knife into the box.

Mbappé was already there.

Chest trap—Thud!

One bounce, then—

Crack!!

Left-footed strike!

But Onana—again—

WHAM!

He dived like a shadow with wings, palm outstretched, punching the ball wide before it could scream into the top corner.

"OOOOOOONANAAAA!!"

The crowd roared. The stands shook.

Nathan exhaled hard, chest heaving.

How does he do that? Three saves already... Against Mbappé.

Before he could finish the thought, Bruno launched the counter.

Tap to Nathan.

Nathan turned on the half-turn—smooth, fluid—and cut the ball to Demir out wide.

"Demir! On your left!"

The Turkish winger didn't even nod. He knew.

Step-over. Drop of the shoulder.

Whoosh!

He slid past Mendy, then swung in a low cross with venom.

THUD!

Højlund met it on the half-volley—left foot, from inside the six-yard box!

"YES!!"

But—

CLANK!

Reece James—sliding in at the last second—cleared it off the line!

United's bench leapt. Amorim threw his arms up in disbelief.

"That was in!! Ref—come on!!"

But the goal-line tech showed the truth. Half a boot away. No goal.

Nathan's teeth clenched. He jogged back to midfield, eyes narrowing.

We're close. Too close. Just one…

Minute 41

Vinicius turned again—and for the third time—left Luke Shaw in his shadow.

Fwoosh!

The Brazilian blurred down the left and sent in a sizzling cross.

Rodrygo sprinted across the front post, backheel flick—

CLINK!!

The ball kissed the far post.

Groans spilled from the crowd like a wave. But there was no time to breathe.

Minute 43

Nathan dropped deep to collect from Bruno.

"Drive, Nate!" Demir shouted from the right.

Haaah...!

He burst forward, ghosting between Kroos and Tchouaméni like smoke.

Space opened up twenty-five yards from goal. He adjusted his body—

BOOM!!

Left-foot rocket—aimed low and fast toward the near post.

Courtois dove—palms stung—barely controlling it after a second bobble.

"Tch…"

Nathan stared for a moment, then turned away, swallowing his frustration.

So close. Again.

Minute 45+2

The last Real Madrid attack of the half.

Modrić, graceful and efficient, pinged a one-two with Kroos and released Mbappé near the edge of the box.

Nathan tracked back, lungs burning.

Mbappé didn't need much.

He turned. Curled.

"OHHHH—!!"

The ball floated like it was caught in wind—arching toward the top right corner—

But just over.

That… was too close.

FWEEEEET!

Halftime.

0-0. Aggregate 2-3. Madrid leads.

But no one walked off like it was goalless.

The stadium vibrated with tension. Chants climbed higher.

"UNITED! UNITED! UNITED!"

Onana slapped hands with Valverde.

Bruno jogged over to Amorim, shaking his head.

"Should've buried that one," Bruno muttered.

"You're getting there," Amorim said, clapping him hard on the shoulder. "Keep the tempo. More wide switches."

Nathan pulled his shirt over his face and exhaled. He could feel it—the shift in the air. The chances. The rhythm. The belief.

Behind him, he heard Ancelotti speak softly to Mbappé as they reached the tunnel.

"One," he said, "is all it takes."

Mbappé nodded once. A killer's smile on his lips.

Dressing Room – Halftime

Amorim didn't pace.

"No retreat!"

"No fear!"

He pointed at Nathan, Demir, Bruno, Valverde.

"We attack!"

Silence.

Nathan met Demir's eyes. No words needed. They both nodded.