The stadium lights faded, but the noise didn't. After a whirlwind debut and a week of headlines, Maradona Pérez had become both a phenomenon and a target. Praise and criticism fell on him in equal measure, and he welcomed both. Let them talk. He didn't need silence—he thrived in chaos. But as the cameras focused and the weight of Real Madrid's badge pressed deeper into his chest, one thing became clearer: football wasn't just about talent, it was about war—mental, physical, political. And the deeper he got, the dirtier it became.
The next two games came fast—back-to-back La Liga fixtures, both carrying weight. The first, a difficult away game against a mid-table team that pressed high and fouled harder. Schuster, still skeptical, had ordered him to play simple. "No risk. Don't slow the tempo. Just stick to the plan." It was the kind of instruction that killed creativity. Maradona nodded in silence, but inside, he raged. He wasn't born to follow small ideas.
The game was ugly. Choppy. He barely touched the ball. Every time he dropped to collect, the midfield spacing was off. His movement went unnoticed. After a blocked pass attempt, Schuster shouted from the touchline: "Simplify, damn it! You're not Zidane yet!" The words stung—not because they were harsh, but because they were ignorant. He was beyond Zidane. He was a fusion of eras, walking with the ghosts of football gods behind his golden hair and cold, azure stare. Still, he didn't respond. He played the game, let the team struggle, and watched the coach sweat. They escaped with a draw.
Back in the locker room, he sat in silence, towel over his head, boots muddy, face unreadable. Guti smirked across the room. "All that hype… for what? Couldn't even dribble past their left-back."
Maradona didn't bite. He stood up slowly, walked past Guti, leaned in and whispered, "I follow the orders of fools, and we draw. Next time, I won't." Guti scoffed, but that fire in Maradona's voice didn't go unnoticed.
Three days later, at the Santiago Bernabéu, everything changed.
Schuster, reluctantly or not, gave him freedom. "Play your game. Just don't embarrass us." He didn't need to say more.
From the first whistle, it was clear: this was a different Maradona. He dropped deep to collect, turned with elegance, controlled tempo like a symphony conductor. His pinpoint passing—Kroos-level precision—sliced through the midfield. A fake turn sent one defender flying. A reverse pass led to the opening goal. Then, in the 73rd minute, he skipped past three midfielders and curled a left-footed assist behind the backline. Standing ovation. Real Madrid 3 – 0. A masterclass.
But the whispers started again. "He's too free." "He plays outside the system." "He's ignoring orders." The media loved him. The staff? Split. The locker room? Cracking at the seams.
Training that week was war.
Robben was next to crack. Jealous. Overshadowed. He lashed a ball at Maradona during a shooting drill. It smacked his thigh hard. The teen didn't flinch—just trapped it, juggled twice, then volleyed it into the top corner without looking. The players around went quiet.
"You got something to say?" Robben growled.
Maradona turned, eyes icy. "You were fast once. Now you just run in straight lines."
Boom. Silence. Raúl chuckled quietly. Ronaldo smirked. Robben stormed off. Guti watched from the bench, arms crossed. Even Schuster had to hide his smile.
That night, Maradona sat alone in his room. He hadn't slept properly in days. Fame was loud. Betrayal was louder. He needed clarity. He called up the System Panel, watching as the dark-blue interface shimmered across his mind like a mirror from the future.
[SYSTEM PANEL – STATUS: ACTIVE]
Talents & Abilities Acquired:
• Diego Maradona's GOAT-Level Talent – innate dribbling, vision, ball control
• Toni Kroos' Pinpoint Passing – elite passing accuracy, long-range distribution
• Fernando Redondo's Defensive Elegance – intelligent positioning, smooth interceptions
• Luka Modrić's Agility & Game Intelligence – tight-space control, rhythm shifting
Progress: 46% Combined Activation
Note: Full potential requires continuous elite-level training, consistent match experience, and mental growth.
He stared at the panel for a long time. So many gifts. But none of them would carry him without blood, sweat, and obsession. That's what separated the legends from the rest—not talent, but work.
He closed the panel and turned to his second phone. Investment updates had come in.
Tesla up 12%. Netflix up 9%. Amazon steady. Apple holding strong. He was slowly becoming rich while still a kid with a youth contract.
But money wasn't the focus tonight.
He walked out. Hoodie up. Head down. Took the car and drove alone to the cemetery. He stood before his parents' grave, silent, cold wind slicing through the night.
"Hey," he whispered, kneeling, "I'm still playing. Still climbing. It's loud now. Everyone's watching. But I'm not doing it for them."
He sat there for a while. No tears. Just a burning, aching calm.
Raúl found him the next morning.
"You were gone all night," he said.
Maradona didn't answer.
Raúl leaned on the railing beside him. They were on the training ground rooftop, the sky still painted with morning gray.
"People are starting to follow you. That's dangerous if you're not ready."
"I didn't come here to follow," Maradona replied. "I came to lead."
Raúl smiled. "Good. Just don't forget—leaders bleed first."
And with that, another day began.
The spotlight wouldn't leave. The pressure wouldn't fade. And the storm inside him only grew stronger. He had all the tools. All the knowledge. All the memories of a world twenty years ahead.
Now he had to turn it all… into legacy.