The weight of greatness didn't feel heavy on his shoulders—it felt necessary. By now, Maradona Pérez had learned that Real Madrid wasn't just a football club—it was a kingdom built on pride, politics, and power, where talent alone wouldn't save you unless you were also a fighter, a manipulator, a leader. At just fifteen, he had become the whisper no one could ignore. Players feared losing their places. Coaches feared losing control. Journalists feared looking foolish for doubting him. Yet through all the storm, he walked with his head high, golden hair untouched, eyes colder than ice, voice measured, body language that screamed inevitable. He was not a rising star. He was a collapsing sun, pulling everything toward him. Schuster felt it the most. His position, once secure, had become fragile ever since Maradona's debut. A few board members were already calling him "too conservative." The media had started using the word "outdated." The fans were chanting for the kid. He hated it, but even he wasn't stupid enough to pretend the boy wasn't special. At training, he kept sessions robotic, structured—tight formations, low creativity, short passes. And Maradona followed, but only with his body. His mind drifted to matches, to the rhythm of elite competition, to the space between spaces on the pitch where only the truly gifted could exist. On the third day of the week, a misstep by Schuster caused the entire team to halt—he screamed at Drenthe for losing possession in a rondo drill. "Again! You're not playing street football!" he barked. Maradona stepped forward, collected the ball, turned without looking, nutmegged the next man and curled it top corner in one motion. The whole squad froze. "Like that?" he asked without breaking stride. Raúl chuckled. Guti raised an eyebrow. Schuster said nothing and turned away.
That same night, a quiet dinner was arranged at the Pérez estate. No press. No staff. Just grandfather and grandson, two men cut from different centuries but carrying the same blood and obsession. "You've unsettled the team," Florentino said calmly as they ate. "Good," Maradona replied. "They were too settled." Florentino stirred his espresso. "You've also unsettled the coach." Maradona leaned back, dressed immaculately as always. "He'll fall eventually. You and I both know it." "There are politics, Niño. Timing matters. I can't just remove him and have the world think I did it for family." "You didn't," Maradona said with a slight smirk. "You'll do it for the club." Florentino looked at him for a long moment. "You're not humble." "I wasn't reborn to be humble." Silence stretched between them. "There's also the matter of recruitment," Florentino finally said. "Manchester United. There's a young winger we're scouting. Portugal. Explosive. Fast. Arrogant. Looks like a model, acts like a storm." "Cristiano Ronaldo," Maradona replied without missing a beat. "Bring him." "You're sure?" "I want him here. I want to beat him in training. I want to make him better. Then I want to beat him again." Florentino smiled faintly. "You two together would break Europe." Maradona sipped his water. "No. I will break Europe. He can assist."
The match that weekend was brutal. Sevilla at home. Compact, physical, known for disrupting rhythm and forcing teams into chaos. It was a trap game, and Schuster, knowing the stakes, gave the kid only one instruction: "Do whatever it takes. Just win." It was the first time he didn't try to restrict him. The Bernabéu was packed, whispers buzzing from VIP boxes to back row seats. All eyes were on the golden-haired boy wearing white. The first half was war. Sevilla targeted him, fouled him, doubled up every time he touched the ball. He was kicked, dragged, elbowed. But he didn't fall apart—he rose. Every foul only sharpened him. At the 43rd minute, he intercepted a loose pass, danced between two midfielders using Redondo's elegance, and released a pinball-quick pass to Higuaín, who smashed it in. 1–0. Sevilla equalized in the 55th with a set-piece. Bernabéu tensed. Then, in the 72nd minute, came the moment. Maradona dropped deep, turned with a Modrić-like swivel, spotted the right run, and with the outside of his left foot, played a curling ball that arced past three defenders and landed perfectly into the path of Saviola, who finished. 2–1. The stadium exploded. The fans didn't cheer for Real Madrid. They chanted one name: "Maradona! Maradona!" The match ended with another assist, another man of the match, and another headline carved into Spanish football history.
Back in the locker room, fractures deepened. Raúl clapped him on the back. Cannavaro smiled. Pepe nodded in respect. But Guti? He left early. Robben slammed his locker. Baptista muttered something about favoritism. Schuster gave his team talk with a broken tone, eyes avoiding Maradona completely. That night, the kid didn't go out. He didn't speak to the press. He went home, locked his door, and opened the system. The panel flickered to life, crisp and glowing in soft blue.
[SYSTEM PANEL – STATUS UPDATE]
Talents & Abilities:
• Diego Maradona's GOAT-Level Talent – 60% Unlocked
• Toni Kroos' Pinpoint Passing – 78% Unlocked
• Fernando Redondo's Defensive Elegance – 54% Unlocked
• Luka Modrić's Agility & Game Intelligence – 42% Unlocked
Growth Rating: Excellent
Tactical Impact: Rising
Mental Influence: High
Next Milestone: Senior Champions League Debut or First El Clásico Appearance
No new abilities added. You must master what you have. No shortcuts.
He stared at it for a long time. Not disappointed. Just fueled. He knew this was only the beginning. The game was changing, and he was the center of the shift. He closed the panel, stepped onto the balcony, and watched the Madrid skyline burn in the evening gold. His second phone buzzed. The secure line. He picked it up. One message.
"You're good. But I'm better. See you soon."
– L. Messi
Maradona didn't even blink. He put the phone down, stepped back inside, and whispered to himself, "Let the gods of this era rise. I'll tear them down one by one."