215.The 2033–34 Season: The Sixteenth Thunder : The Island Storm

Saturday, 13 January 2034 : 18:30 CET

Visit Mallorca Estadi, Palma de Mallorca

The island of Mallorca was bathed in winter sunlight.

But inside the Visit Mallorca Estadi, there was little warmth.

The stadium was packed.

Red and black filled the stands.

Banners hung from the terraces.

MALLORCA RESISTS.

EVEN GODS FALL.

RCD Mallorca were fighting for survival in La Liga, and tonight they had decided that survival meant something more than points.

It meant resistance.

They knew what was coming.

Everyone did.

Caos.

The violet storm.

The man who had turned football into something that sometimes looked less like sport and more like mythology.

But Mallorca had something the statistics could not measure.

Pride.

And they intended to spend every drop of it.

On social media, the social media world had already turned the match into an event.

#MallorcaVsCaos had become the number-one trending topic in Spain, with millions of posts appearing before kickoff.

The debate was everywhere.

Could Mallorca survive longer than the previous opponents?

Pero que babaridad tio.

Could they force Caos to actually think?

Es que pueden ser 

Could anyone make the violet storm uncomfortable?

The answer would come on the grass.

Not on a screen.Not in a headline.

On the pitch.

Vedat Muriqi stood in front of his teammates.

He looked around the room.

Nobody was smiling.

“We know what he is.”

A pause.

“But this is our house.”

The room became silent.

“We fight with heart. With soul. With island pride.”

Muriqi clenched his fists.

“If we lose…”

He looked toward the door.

“We lose standing.”

Dani Rodríguez nodded.

“He has destroyed everyone.”

Then he smiled.

“But tonight he is going to feel the fight of a people who never surrender.”

Nobody promised victory.

They promised resistance.

That was enough.

Mbappé approached Caos.

“Mallorca will press like madmen.”

Caos was tying his boots.

“They have nothing to lose.”

Mbappé smiled.

“Exactly.”

He placed a hand briefly on Caos's shoulder.

“Stay cold.”

Then he added:

“Play for her tonight.”

Caos looked at him.

He knew who Mbappé meant.

His mother.

And perhaps Leonor.

Perhaps the child.

Perhaps all of them.

Xabi Alonso approached moments later.

“This is pride.”

Caos looked up.

“Play with control.”

Xabi paused.

“Honor the memory.”

Then his voice became quieter.

“But don't let the past blind you.”

Caos nodded.

“I won't.”

High above the pitch, the three maids watched from a private box.

Zeraphina wore black with a subtle violet accent.

Keyla had already checked the global media feeds twice.

Michaela was monitoring the foundation's latest academy developments.

Their work never stopped.

Not even on match day.

Zeraphina looked down at the players entering the tunnel.

“Mallorca wants war.”

Keyla smiled.

“Then they chose the wrong storm.”

Michaela said nothing.

She simply watched Caos.

Because she knew something the crowd didn't.

Caos had changed.

The rewiring.The Absolute Dominion.

Caos pierced through everything without an ounce.

The conversations with Erebus.The memories of his mother.

His father's final letter.

Leonor.

The child.

He was no longer simply trying to become stronger.He was learning what to do with strength.\

To be a god among others.

The referee checked his watch.The stadium roared.

Caos stood among his teammates.

Across from him stood Mallorca.

Muriqi stared directly at him.

For a few seconds, neither moved.

Then—

the whistle.

And Mallorca attacked.

They pressed immediately.

Five players collapsing toward the ball.

The midfield closed.

Every passing lane became a fight.

Muriqi chased.

Dani Rodríguez pressed.

Mallorca did not allow Real Madrid to settle.

For the first time in several matches, Caos was not given the field.

He had to take it.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

Mallorca kept fighting.

The crowd became louder with every successful tackle.

Twenty-five minutes.

Still 0–0.

Muriqi received the ball near the edge of the box.

He turned.

One defender fell behind him.

Muriqi accelerated.

The stadium rose.

He entered the area.He shot.

The ball flew across goal—

and missed by inches.

The crowd exploded anyway.

Muriqi turned toward the stands.

They believed.

For one brief moment, Mallorca had made the impossible feel possible.

Caos stood near the halfway line.

Watching.

Thinking.

Then his eyes lifted toward the sky.

His mother's memory passed through him.

Not as pain.Not anymore.

As direction.

The Chaos Heart responded.

Violet energy moved through his body.

And Caos accelerated.

359 mph.

The field disappeared beneath him.

Mallorca's defenders turned.

Too late.

Caos received the ball inside his own half.

One defender.

Two.

Three.

He moved between them.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

The stadium stopped breathing.

Then came the movement.

The Unclaimed Legacy Vortex.

A 1080° aerial rotation.

His body twisted through the air.

The defenders lost sight of him.

He landed.

One touch.

The ball rose.

Caos was already moving.

From 71 meters—

he struck.

754 km/h.

The shot became a violet line.

It tore through the air.

The goalkeeper moved.

He never had a chance.

The net exploded.

1–0.

The commentator's voice rose above the stadium.

“Caos has found the answer! Mallorca gave him twenty-five minutes of resistance, and now the storm has broken through! What a strike! What a goal!”

Caos did not celebrate wildly.

He simply looked upward.

One finger.

Then lowered his hand.

The crowd remained stunned.

Mallorca had fought.

Caos had answered.

30th minute.

Mallorca tried to respond.

They pushed forward.

That was their mistake.

A pass was intercepted.

Caos collected the ball.

He walked for three steps.

Then accelerated.

The Self-Conquering Requiem began.

Six Mallorca players surrounded him.

Caos moved through them.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Then he stopped.

For half a second, everything became still.

Caos jumped.

A standing 720° backflip.

The ball came toward him.

His foot connected from 50 meters.

The strike screamed toward the goal.

The goalkeeper could only watch.

2–0.

The commentator almost laughed in disbelief.

Two! Caos again! Mallorca were brave, they were aggressive, they were willing to fight—but now they are facing the full weight of the storm!”

Caos landed.

No celebration.

Just that same quiet look.

The game had changed.

Mallorca knew it.

The remaining minutes of the half became brutal.

Real Madrid controlled the ball.

Caos controlled the spaces.

And once the first wall had fallen, everything accelerated.

A finish from outside the box.

A curling strike.

A volley.

A run through the center.

Then another.

By the time the referee blew for halftime—

7–0.

Caos had scored five goals.

He had created two assists.

Mallorca's players walked toward the tunnel exhausted.

But their supporters continued singing.

They had not stopped.They had lost the half.

Caos shot their chances.

He left them breathless.

They had not lost themselves.

Caos returned to the pitch.

The stadium was quieter now.

Not silent.

Never silent.

But different.

The crowd had seen the impossible.

Now they were waiting to see how much further it would go.

It went further.

Much further.

8–0

A long diagonal pass.

Caos met it without looking.

A 82-meter no-look trivela.

The ball curved beyond the goalkeeper.

9–0

A cross came into the area.

Caos adjusted his body.

A rabona volley from 54 meters.

The ball struck the net.

He looked toward the sky.

For his mother.

10–0

Another sprint.

Another impossible finish.

The stadium began to understand that they were witnessing another number that would soon become part of Caos's growing mythology.

11–0

A low strike through a crowd of defenders.

The goalkeeper never saw it.

12–0

The match entered its final minutes.

Mallorca had one final piece of resistance.

Caos stood near the halfway line.

He looked toward the empty royal section.

For a moment, his thoughts went somewhere else.

Leonor.

The child.

The future.

The life waiting beyond football.

Then the ball arrived.

Caos lifted it.

Turned.

Jumped.

And unleashed—

The Eternal Unclaimed.

A 55-foot chilena.

For one impossible second, Caos seemed suspended above the field.

Then his foot met the ball.

BOOM.

The strike crashed into the net.

13–0.

The commentator shouted over the explosion from the stands:

“Oh, what have we just witnessed! Caos in the air again! Mallorca have fought with everything they have, but that is something beyond ordinary football!”

Caos landed.

The stadium erupted.

And yet Mallorca continued.

In the final minutes, they finally found one.

A loose ball.

A quick counter.

A finish.

13–1.

The home supporters celebrated as if they had won.

Because tonight, that goal meant something.

They had not surrendered.

Real Madrid restarted.

Caos looked toward the scoreboard.

Then toward the stands.

He smiled.

One more attack.

One more acceleration.

One more finish.

14–1.

The final whistle came moments later.

RCD Mallorca 1–14 Real Madrid

Caos:

11 goals.

3 assists.

Another impossible performance.

But this time, there was something different about the aftermath.

Caos did not immediately walk toward the cameras.

He stood alone near the center circle.

One finger rose toward the sky.

For his mother.

Then his other hand closed into a fist against his chest.

For his father.

The stadium watched.

The commentator lowered his voice.

“Eleven goals. Three assists. Another extraordinary night. But look at Caos now. For all the records, all the power, all the spectacle… there are still two people he remembers when the stadium goes quiet.”

Caos lowered his hands.

The moment passed.The storm remained.

Caos would have changed everything.

The announcement came through the stadium.

His 25th consecutive in all competitions.

Another record.

Another number.

Another night added to the mythology.

But numbers were beginning to feel strangely small to him.

The three maids waited.

Zeraphina looked at him.

“Eleven.”

Caos smiled.

“I know.”

“The world is calling this the most dominant performance in modern football history.”

Caos looked toward the tunnel.

Then toward the sky.

“It was for her.”

Zeraphina knew immediately.

His mother.

Then Caos placed a hand over his chest.

“And for the child.”

His voice became quieter.

“The child who will soon enter this world carrying both royal blood…”

A faint violet glow moved through his eyes.

“…and chaos.”

The four walked away from the stadium.

Behind them, Mallorca's supporters continued singing.

They had been defeated.

But they had made Caos work for twenty-five minutes.

And perhaps, in a world where Caos was becoming increasingly impossible to challenge, that mattered.

The sixteenth thunder had passed over the island.

Another opponent had fallen.

Another record had been created.

And somewhere deep inside Caos—

the hunger remained.

Not for goals.

Not for records.

Not even for victory.

For something much rarer.

A challenge.

Something.

Anything.

That could finally make the storm feel the wind.

Come on! you can do this~

To be continued…