The Football Legends System

FWEEEEEEET!

Chelsea surged forward—pressing high, snapping at heels, dragging United into a furnace from the very first breath. Mud flew. Bodies collided.

But United didn't panic.

They waited.

Minute 7

Nathan stood near the sideline, scanning the chaos. His lungs burned from the early sprint. Shaw intercepted a loose pass, glanced once, then—

THWUMP!

A long ball sailed through the cold London night.

There.

Nathan darted into space, shoulder-to-shoulder with Reece James. The ball dropped perfectly—skimming off the slick grass.

One touch.

His boot caressed it, and suddenly the glow inside him flared again.

[Luis Díaz Dribbling] — ACTIVE

He didn't even think. His body knew.

Tch—tch—WHIP!

He flicked the ball through the legs of the first defender with a blur of motion.

"Oi!" the Chelsea fans shouted from the sidelines.

Before the second could step in, Nathan rolled the ball behind him, spun, and reappeared on the other side.

The third defender lunged—

Too slow.

Nathan feinted left, then exploded right. Fwip!

Grass tore under his boots.

Three defenders beaten in seven seconds.

Stamford Bridge gasped as one.

He neared the box. No time to shoot.

But Zirkzee—there!

Nathan didn't look. He just curled his foot around the ball and drove it hard and flat across the grass.

SKRRRT!

A low cross tore through the six-yard box.

Zirkzee arrived.

THUMP!!

First-time strike.

Ball. Net.

GOOOOAAAAALLLLLL!!!

United's bench jumped as one. The away end erupted.

1–0.

Nathan turned toward the stands, arms spread, eyes blazing.

He jogged back, brushing past Bruno, who gave him a smirk.

"Three defenders? In one breath?"

Nathan exhaled through his nose.

"Still got legs left."

—

Minute 15

But Chelsea—Chelsea never stayed down long.

Sterling danced down the right, dragging Wan-Bissaka into no man's land.

Step-over—whoosh.

Wan-Bissaka bit.

Gone.

Sterling burst forward and fired in a cross—loose, spinning—

THWACK!

It struck Martínez's thigh and ricocheted toward the edge of the box.

Enzo Fernández was already stepping in.

Boom!

A bullet from range—struck clean and low.

Onana dove—too late.

THUD! Net.

1–1.

Stamford Bridge shook.

Enzo didn't celebrate. He just pointed to the badge and jogged back.

Valverde muttered, "That was too easy."

Casemiro slammed his boots into the ground. "We have to win the second ball."

—

Minute 28

Bruno spotted it—a flicker of space behind the fullback.

"Nathan—GO!"

Thump!

A high pass arced through the rain, shimmering under the lights.

Nathan sprinted to meet it.

He didn't trap it.

He danced with it.

One bounce—he shifted his weight, and the fullback bit.

Fwip! A body feint left the defender clutching air.

The second came in fast.

Nathan didn't stop.

He spun with the ball, tight as a coil, brushing past the challenge like a man possessed.

TCH-TCH!

Boots scraped. Breath caught.

"Oi, someone stop him!!"

But Nathan was inside the box now.

The angle tightened.

No one to pass to.

He drew his foot back.

Now—

BOOM!!

A low shot, curling, skimming across the wet grass toward the far post.

The keeper dove—glove stretched—

Too late.

THUMP!

Back of the net.

GOOOAAAAALLLLL!!!

The away fans went berserk.

Nathan slid on his knees, fists clenched, screaming at the sky.

Bruno tackled him from behind in celebration.

Zirkzee shouted, "This guy's f*cking insane!!"

Nathan rose, chest heaving.

2–1.

We're not done yet.

—————

Minute 42

Nathan knew the danger before it started.

He saw Casemiro glance the wrong way, saw Valverde hesitate for half a second, and knew.

"No—!"

But the ball was already gone.

Chelsea pounced.

Cole Palmer broke the line with a sudden jolt of pace, ghosting past the halfway mark. The crowd surged to their feet.

"Watch the pass!" Martínez roared, backing off.

Too late.

Palmer slipped it through.

Tchkk!

A smooth cut. A perfect layoff.

Nicolas Jackson latched onto it, squared up to Martínez, then skipped inside with a fluid touch.

Swish—

Martínez lunged—

Missed.

Jackson took one more touch and shot low, quick, sneaky—right under Onana's arm as the keeper dove across.

Thud!

Net.

Goal. Chelsea.

2–2.

Stamford Bridge roared like it had just come alive.

The noise hit Nathan's chest like a wave.

"What a first half!" the commentator shouted. "Goals, dribbles, drama… and there's still so much more to come in the second half!"

On the pitch, Bruno looked toward the bench and clapped twice, hard.

"Focus! We're still in it!"

But Nathan stood still for a beat, hands on hips.

Okay. Then we start again.

—

Halftime – Manchester United Locker Room

The locker room buzzed with static tension.

Zirkzee paced like a caged animal. "We let them back in."

Valverde chugged water, sweat dripping off his brow. "We've got to stop those runs. They're flooding the middle."

Casemiro sat quietly, replaying the mistake that led to the turnover.

Amorim stood in front of them, arms folded.

"This is the Premier League," he said sharply. "This is Chelsea. They want to bury you in that second half. So ask yourself—are you going to fold… or fight?"

—

Second Half – Minute 46

The match restarted with a hum of tension, both teams moving cautiously.

Chelsea's confidence had grown. Their passes were sharper. Their pressing more coordinated. Their crowd louder.

Nathan could feel the energy shift—subtle, but real.

And then—

Minute 52

Chelsea won a free-kick deep in United's half.

Ben Chilwell stepped up, eyes scanning the box.

The delivery came sharp and curving.

Whhhrrrr—

The ball arched toward the edge of the box—not into the crowd. Behind it.

Nathan realized too late.

Boom!!

Enzo Fernández came barreling in like a freight train, his timing immaculate.

First-time volley.

CRACK!!

It screamed through the air.

Straight into the top left corner.

Onana didn't even move.

Goal!. 3–2 Chelsea.

The stadium erupted again, this time with something deeper—certainty.

Enzo pumped his fist, eyes wild.

"Vamos!" he screamed, thumping his chest.

Minute 60

Nathan dropped deep to receive, dragging two defenders with him.

A quick touch to Valverde, a give-and-go.

Tap—tap—whoosh!

He tore down the left flank, cutting inside with that Luis Díaz fluidity still glowing in his limbs.

One defender down.

Two chasing.

He slipped the ball to Zirkzee in the middle—

WHACK!

Zirkzee shot first-time again.

But—

Too high.

Thump! Into the upper tier.

"Dammit!" Zirkzee hissed, slapping his thigh.

The chance was gone.

But Chelsea didn't wait.

They pounced.

Counterattack.

Raheem Sterling launched the ball forward with a slicing switch to Palmer.

Tchooo!

The winger didn't slow.

Martínez met him near the edge of the box, but Palmer danced—right, then left.

Slip—cut—shimmy!

Martínez's feet tangled.

"Fede! Help!" Nathan shouted, chasing back.

Too late.

Palmer drew Onana off his line, kept calm, and tapped it gently to the side—

Into the empty net.

Goal. 4–2.

The Chelsea fans lost their minds.

Smoke flared blue in the stands.

Jackson jumped into the crowd. Palmer turned to the United bench, grinning with ice in his veins.

"That's how we play."

The fourth official flashed the scoreboard: 4–2. Minute 63.

Bruno dropped to a knee, hands on his thighs, blinking in disbelief.

Casemiro shouted toward the midfield, frustrated.

Nathan stood still again—hands on hips, staring at the turf.

But inside him… something shifted.

The blue glow had faded. The Díaz skill had run its course.

But not his spirit.

He looked toward the Chelsea fans jeering him.

Then toward the United supporters—silent, still, stunned.

And then toward the ball in the center circle.

He walked over, picked it up.

Held it in his hands.

His chest rose. Then fell.

Valverde came jogging over. "Hey—"

Nathan spoke before he could.

"We've still got time."

His voice wasn't loud. But it was solid.

Zirkzee nodded behind him. "Let's go."

Bruno straightened his back. "No more mistakes."

Casemiro clenched his fists. "We fight."

Amorim, still stunned, finally blinked and shouted from the sideline.

"No subs! Stay on them! Give me something before seventy!"

Nathan put the ball down at the halfway line and looked across the pitch.

They think we're finished.