255. Celta de Vigo

The 2033–34 Season  La Liga, Matchday 28

Thursday, 10th may 2034  11:40 CET

Estadio Abanca Balaídos, Vigo

As he arrived at the stadium, more people feared that no one would be able to win.

PUTO CAOS. QUE MIERDA TIO.

ESTAMOS JODIDOS.

HAHAHAHA

CAOS!!! CAOS!!! CAOS!!

APLASTALOS!

APLASTALOS!

APLASTALOS

Celta Vigo vs. Real Madrid

The people of Vigo had spent the entire week arguing about one question. FEAR! What is fear? I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain. what can we do with FEAR? but nothing can be done with it. We need someone to carry it.

Could anyone make Caos work for a victory?

They knew the answer was probably no. That did not stop them from discussing it.

At the cafés around Balaídos, supporters debated formations. On sports programmes, former players examined footage of Caos's movements. Online, someone had edited together his latest training session: impossible sprints, shots that made the training goal shake, and footage from the prehistoric simulations in which he fought dinosaurs.

The caption was simple.

They prepared a defence. He prepared with monsters.

The video had spread across Spain.

It's just so terrifying, inevitable and unknowable.

The fact everything just ends, leaving behind a void where life used to be

No religion can explain it.

It's like falling asleep, but permanent and irreversible, you don't know what's on the other side.

Life is so delicate, you never know when it could end.

It could be violent and loud.

It could be silent and a gradual fade.

It could be anything.

I don't wanna live forever either.

Reincarnation feels wrong.

I hate this stupid fear that contributes to my difficulties in being optimistic in life.

Celta Vigo's manager had watched it, too. He had not found it particularly useful.

A dinosaur was a different problem from a footballer, even if the footballer could run at five hundred miles per hour.

He stood in the dressing room with a tactical board behind him. His players were listening, some with their arms folded, others still pulling on their shirts.

“We cannot spend ninety minutes staring at him,” he said. “If he receives the ball, we close the nearest passing lanes. The second defender covers the inside. The third protects the space behind us. Nobody leaves his position just because Caos starts running.”

One of the midfielders raised his hand.

“And if he gets through all three?”

“Then the next player does his job.”

The midfielder lowered his hand.

The manager looked around the room.

“I know what you're thinking. We've all seen the numbers. But if you start playing against his reputation, you've already lost. Watch the ball. Watch your teammates. Make decisions. That's all I can ask.”

Their captain nodded.

It was a reasonable plan. The players understood their roles, and they had trained for the movements Real Madrid used most often. Whether they could execute those movements under pressure was another matter.

Across the stadium, Real Madrid were finishing their preparations.

Mbappé sat on the bench, tying his boots, while Caos stood near the dressing-room door and watched a replay of Celta's last match.

“You're studying them again?” Mbappé asked.

“Yes.”

“You know you could just run past everyone.”

Caos turned off the screen.

“I could.”

Mbappé waited.

“That's it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don't know. Maybe tell me that you've discovered some new way to make football even more ridiculous.”

Caos looked at him for a moment.

“I've discovered that their left-back moves too far inside when the ball reaches the opposite wing.”

Mbappé stared at him.

“You are genuinely impossible to talk to.”

“You asked. That would be the least that we could do. At LAST, just let them know.”

“I did. That was my mistake.”

Xabi Alonso entered the room before Mbappé could continue.

“Enough. Listen. We should do something about it. It cannot be just idealization.”

The players turned toward him.

“Celta will try to crowd the centre. If they do, use the wings. If they press high, play behind them. Don't force the ball into Caos simply because he's there. Make the right decision.”

His gaze settled on Caos.

“And you. If they send three players toward you, remember that there are ten other men on your team.”

Caos nodded.

“I know.”

“Good. I'd like to see some evidence.”

Mbappé grinned.

“I'd like to see that, too.”

Caos glanced at him.

“You'll get your evidence.”

“That's what worries me.”

They walked toward the tunnel together.

High above the pitch, Zeraphina sat with Keyla and Michaela in the private box. Her hand rested over her pregnant belly. She had been quieter than usual during the journey to Vigo, though Keyla had managed to fill most of the silence with complaints about the stadium's coffee.

Now, as the teams began to emerge, Keyla leaned forward.

“Celta look serious.”

“They should,” Michaela replied. “It's a football match.”

“I know that. I'm saying they look as though they've spent the whole week preparing to fight a natural disaster.”

Zeraphina smiled.

“They've prepared for Caos.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

Michaela laughed.

Zeraphina kept her eyes on the pitch. She knew how the world saw Caos. They saw the speed, the strength, the records, the goals. They saw a man who could turn a football match into something no one else could recognise.

She saw the man who sometimes forgot to eat when he was thinking about a new experiment.

The man who could spend hours working on something and then walk into the kitchen to ask whether anyone wanted ice cream.

She wanted him to win, of course.

She also wanted him to remember that there was a life waiting for him after the final whistle.

The referee called the captains together.

The match was about to begin.

Carlos Martínez's voice came through the stadium broadcast as the players took their positions.

“Real Madrid arrive in Vigo with Caos once again at the centre of attention. Celta have prepared carefully for this match, and the opening minutes will tell us whether they can make that preparation count. They cannot afford to chase the ball without a plan. Against this Madrid side, one mistake can become a goal very quickly.”

The whistle sounded.

Celta kicked off.

For the first few minutes, their approach worked.

They moved the ball quickly between the midfielders, refusing to allow Madrid to settle into a comfortable press. When possession changed hands, their nearest players immediately closed down the receiver. Their defensive line stayed compact, and the midfielders kept checking Caos's position.

In the fourth minute, Caos received a pass near the centre circle.

The first defender approached him. A second covered the route toward the penalty area. The third remained several metres behind, ready to intercept a pass or cover a run.

Caos looked toward the left wing.

The nearest defender shifted his weight.

Caos passed backwards.

A few supporters cheered. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. They had forced him to abandon the attack.

Celta moved forward again.

For several minutes, the match remained competitive. Madrid controlled more possession, but Celta were disciplined enough to prevent clear chances. Their defenders communicated constantly, pointing out runners and adjusting their positions whenever Caos moved away from the ball.

Then, in the fifth minute, everything changed.

Caos received the ball from Kroos just inside his own half.

The nearest midfielder moved toward him. The left-sided defender closed the central route, while the third defender began tracking his movement from behind.

Caos looked up.

For an instant, his expression changed. He thought of his mother.

He did not linger on the thought. The ball was at his feet, the defenders were moving, and there was a match to play.

He accelerated.

At five hundred miles per hour, the distance between him and the first defender ceased to matter. The man turned too late. Caos carried the ball past the second defender before the third could close the gap.

The move he called the Triassic Vortex was brutally simple in its purpose: acceleration, a change of direction, and a final movement that left the defenders unable to recover their positions.

He crossed the halfway line.

Then the thirty-metre mark.

The goalkeeper advanced, trying to reduce the angle.

Caos struck from approximately eighty-eight metres.

The force behind the shot reached the fictional limits of his current power system—350,000 newtons—with the ball travelling at 863 km/h.

It hit the net before the goalkeeper could react.

Celta Vigo 0–1 Real Madrid.

Carlos Martínez raised his voice.

“Caos has found his opening! Celta had three players moving to close him down, but the acceleration was simply too much. An extraordinary strike from distance, and Madrid take the lead!”

Caos jogged toward the halfway line.

Mbappé caught up with him.

“You know, some of us actually enjoy having the ball.”

“You'll get it.”

“Promise?”

“If you make the run.”

Mbappé shook his head.

“I should stop talking to you before matches.”

“Probably.”

The Frenchman laughed and returned to his position.

Celta's manager stood near the touchline, his hands on his hips. He was frustrated, but he did not shout at his defenders. They had followed the plan. The problem was that the plan had been designed for a footballer, and Caos had done something that barely belonged to the sport anymore.

He called the captain over.

“We stay compact. Don't let the first goal change everything.”

The captain nodded and passed the message to his teammates.

Celta resumed with determination.

Their next attack came down the right. A quick exchange of passes drew Madrid's left-back forward, and the winger slipped behind him. The cross reached the striker, whose shot forced Courtois to make a difficult save.

The home crowd rose.

For a few seconds, Celta had given their supporters something to believe in.

Caos watched the attack develop and then looked toward the space Celta had left behind. Their confidence was returning, but so was the risk of pushing forward.

The next time Madrid won the ball, Caos dropped deeper than before.

Celta's defensive midfielder followed him.

Caos passed to Kroos and continued moving. The midfielder hesitated, unsure whether to follow or protect the centre. That hesitation opened a lane.

Kroos found Bellingham.

Bellingham passed into the space.

Caos was already there.

He struck first time.

The ball flew into the top corner.

Celta Vigo 0–2 Real Madrid.

“Madrid have doubled the lead,” Martínez said. “And look at the movement before the finish. Celta were watching Caos, but they lost track of the space around him. Against a player who moves as quickly as he does, even a moment of hesitation can be decisive.”

Celta's manager called for his midfielders to hold their positions.

They tried.

It became harder with every passing minute.

Caos scored again after intercepting a pass, then added another following a combination with Vinícius. His next goal came from a long-range strike, and another arrived when he used the Herrera Snap—a rapid, precise release that gave the goalkeeper almost no time to react.

The score climbed.

Celta's defenders began to argue about who should close him down. One wanted to follow Caos wherever he went. Another insisted that doing so would leave too much space for Madrid's other attackers.

Their captain intervened.

“Stop arguing and look at the ball!”

The players returned to their positions.

For a while, the defence improved. Celta forced Madrid to move the ball around the outside, and the goalkeeper dealt with several crosses. But every time the defensive line shifted to cover one threat, another appeared.

Caos did not rely on the same trick twice.

When the centre was crowded, he passed wide. When Celta's defenders spread out, he attacked the gap between them. When the midfield stepped forward, he ran behind it.

His teammates began to understand the pattern. They no longer waited for him to do everything. Bellingham moved into the spaces Caos created, Vinícius attacked the left flank, and Mbappé kept making runs behind the defensive line.

Madrid's goals came from the entire team, even if Caos remained the overwhelming force behind the result.

Celta managed to create another dangerous attack near the end of the first half. Their striker collected a pass on the edge of the box and turned away from his marker, but his shot struck the outside of the post.

He swore under his breath.

His captain clapped his hands.

“Again! Keep going!”

Caos heard him from a distance.

He respected that.

By halftime, the scoreboard read:

Celta Vigo 0–20 Real Madrid.

Caos had scored fifteen goals and provided five assists. His teammates had scored the other five.

The numbers were absurd. The football had become something Celta's defenders could barely process. Yet they walked toward the tunnel together, speaking to one another, trying to work out how to make the second half less painful.

Their captain stopped near the sideline and looked back at the pitch.

They had conceded twenty goals.

He still wanted to play the next forty-five minutes.

That mattered to him, even if the scoreboard suggested it should not.

SECOND HALF

Xabi Alonso did not celebrate the score in the dressing room.

He waited until everyone had settled down.

“Keep playing properly,” he said. “Don't switch off because we're ahead. Don't force shots when a pass is better. And remember that the people beside you are part of the match.”

Mbappé glanced at Caos.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

“I'm making sure.”

“You're very concerned about my education.”

“Someone has to be.”

Xabi interrupted before the conversation could go further.

“Both of you. Focus.”

The players returned to the field.

Celta had made two substitutions. Fresh legs gave them a little more energy, and their manager asked them to attack whenever the opportunity appeared. They could not recover the match, but they could still play for their supporters.

The opening minutes were more open than the first half.

Celta pressed higher, and Madrid found space behind the midfield. Caos scored after a quick exchange with Bellingham, then again following a cross from Vinícius.

His next goal was stranger.

A pass arrived behind him near the penalty spot. He adjusted in the air, turned his body, and struck a chilena from seventy-four feet. The ball flew over the defenders and dropped beneath the crossbar.

The goalkeeper could only turn and watch.

The crowd reacted with a mixture of disbelief and applause.

Martínez raised his voice.

“What a finish! The ball arrives behind him, and somehow Caos still manages to turn it into a shot. You can prepare for his speed, you can prepare for his strength, but there are moments when a goalkeeper simply has no answer!”

Caos landed and looked toward the private box.

He thought of the children growing inside Zeraphina and Leonor. He wanted them to be strong, but strength alone was never going to be enough. He wanted them to have choices. He wanted them to know that they could become whatever they wished without owing him a career, a trophy, or a legacy.

He raised a hand toward them.

Zeraphina returned the gesture.

Keyla leaned toward Michaela.

“That one was for the children.”

“I know,” Michaela said.

“He's going to teach them football, isn't he?”

“Probably.”

Keyla sighed.

“Then I hope they inherit his talent and your patience.”

Michaela laughed.

On the pitch, Caos returned to the centre circle.

Celta scored in the sixty-third minute.

Their midfielder won the ball near the touchline and sent a long pass behind Madrid's defence. The winger reached it, cut inside, and crossed low toward the striker.

This time, the finish was clean.

Courtois could not reach it.

Celta Vigo 1–24 Real Madrid.

Balaídos erupted.

The striker ran toward the supporters, shouting with relief. His teammates followed, embracing him. Their captain arrived last, smiling for the first time in several minutes.

Caos stood near halfway and watched the celebration.

Mbappé came alongside him.

“You're smiling.”

“They scored a good goal.”

“We're winning by twenty-three.”

“And they scored a good goal.”

Mbappé studied him for a moment.

“You really mean that.”

“Yes.”

The Frenchman looked toward Celta's players.

“Fair enough.”

They returned to their positions.

The goal did not change the match's direction. Madrid continued to attack, and Caos added more goals, mixing his speed and power with passes that allowed his teammates to finish. He used Plateo Crush to disrupt the defensive line, then shifted the ball toward the opposite wing when Celta's defenders gathered around him.

He had learned something from the match.

Celta's formation had not been foolish. Their players had communicated, adjusted, and created chances of their own. The problem was the difference between the demands of their plan and the abilities of the man they were trying to contain.

Caos understood that difference.

He also understood that power could make a person careless. If he treated every opponent as an obstacle to be destroyed, he would stop seeing what was actually happening in front of him.

So he kept watching.

He noticed when a defender limped after a challenge. He noticed when Celta's captain moved closer to a younger teammate who had begun losing confidence. He noticed that their goalkeeper still shouted instructions even when the match was beyond saving.

Those details mattered to him.

They reminded him that the people on the other side of the scoreline had lives that would continue after the final whistle.

Madrid scored again.

Then again.

Celta found another goal late in the match, this time after a corner produced a scramble in the penalty area. Their centre-back forced the ball over the line from close range.

Celta Vigo 2–31 Real Madrid.

The supporters celebrated as loudly as they had after the first goal.

Their players returned to the halfway line, tired but still engaged. Their manager clapped from the touchline. He had wanted a better result, of course. No one went into a match expecting to lose by twenty-nine goals.

But he had seen his players keep working when the score offered them no reward.

He would remember that.

Caos scored his final goal in the closing minutes after receiving a pass from Mbappé. He accelerated into the box and finished low beyond the goalkeeper.

The referee checked his watch.

Then came the final whistle.

Celta Vigo 2–32 Real Madrid.

Caos had scored twenty-five goals and provided seven assists. His teammates had scored the other seven goals, all assisted by him.

The result was a new chapter in an already absurd season. His individual statistics continued to grow, and the broadcast confirmed that he had received his fifty-fourth consecutive Man of the Match award across all competitions.

Carlos Martínez delivered the closing summary.

“Real Madrid leave Vigo with another extraordinary victory. Caos finishes with twenty-five goals and seven assists, but Celta deserve credit for continuing to play their football and finding two goals of their own. The result is enormous. The difference between the teams tonight was enormous, too. For Madrid, the season continues. For Celta, the work begins again tomorrow.”

Caos shook hands with Celta's captain near the tunnel.

The captain looked exhausted.

“I thought we had a plan.”

“You did,” Caos replied.

“Didn't look like it.”

“You made us change how we played. That counts for something.”

The captain gave a short laugh.

“Not on the scoreboard.”

“No.”

They stood there for a moment.

Then the captain nodded toward the pitch.

“Next time, we'll try something different.”

“I hope you do.”

Caos continued toward the private exit.

Home

Zeraphina was waiting with Keyla and Michaela when Caos emerged.

She placed a hand over her belly, and Caos bent to kiss her cheek before resting his palm gently against it.

“Twenty-five goals,” she said. “Seven assists. Fifty-four consecutive awards.”

“You've memorised the statistics.”

“Someone has to make sure you remember what you did.”

Keyla folded her arms.

“I still think the most impressive thing is that you managed to score twenty-five goals and make seven assists without anyone forcing you to pass the ball.”

Caos looked at her.

“I pass the ball.”

“Yes. Eventually.”

Michaela laughed.

Zeraphina smiled, but her expression became more serious when Caos straightened.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

She kept looking at him.

He sighed.

“Tired.”

“Better.”

“I was going to say that.”

“No, you weren't.”

Keyla pointed toward the exit.

“Can we go home before this becomes another discussion about how Caos doesn't know when he's exhausted?”

“I know when I'm exhausted.”

“Then why do you keep training until sunrise?”

Caos opened his mouth, thought about it, and closed it again.

Michaela laughed.

“That's what I thought.”

They walked toward the car together.

For once, Caos did not check his phone. He did not ask Erebus for a laboratory update or begin discussing the next training session. He listened while Keyla described an argument she had seen online, and he asked Michaela about the foundation's latest work.

Zeraphina stayed close to him.

After a few minutes, she slipped her hand into his.

“You know,” she said, “the world will always want more from you.”

Caos looked at her.

“More goals. More records. More power. Another impossible thing tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“But you don't have to give it everything.”

He squeezed her hand gently.

“I know that, too.”

She searched his face.

“Do you?”

Caos was quiet for a moment.

Then he answered honestly.

“I'm learning.”

That was better than another promise.

At the mansion, he would eat with them. He would spend the evening listening to their stories, laughing at Keyla's jokes, and letting Michaela tell him about the things she had been organising. He would ask Zeraphina how she was feeling and listen to the answer instead of immediately returning to his work.

There would be time for the next match.

There would be time for the records, the training, the experiments, and the questions about what he might become.

But his children would not be born into a life where their father was always somewhere else, chasing the next achievement.

He had seen enough of what absence could do to a family.

He did not intend to repeat it.

And when the car pulled away from Balaídos, Caos rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes.

For the first time that evening, there was nothing he needed to prove.

To be continued…