The Santiago Bernabéu was quieter these days, empty stands casting long shadows on the pitch, like ghosts watching from the rafters. Summer had arrived in Madrid, and with it, the winds of change. The league was lost, the humiliation of Liverpool still lingered in the air, and Schuster was gone. Fired. Cut clean, like dead weight from a drifting ship. And now, Real Madrid looked to regroup, reforge, and rise again.
And at the heart of it all stood Maradona Pérez.
He didn't feel like a teenager anymore. He felt older. Wiser. Sharper. The pain of the season's end had carved something cold and beautiful in him. He sat alone in the main hall of the Pérez estate, golden hair brushed back, azure eyes fixed on the black and ivory keys of a Steinway grand. His fingers moved effortlessly, drifting into Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2—notes rising like memories from another life.
"You always play that when you're thinking," a voice whispered behind him.
Lana. Barefoot, wearing one of his oversized linen shirts, her honey-brown hair draped messily around her shoulders. She walked in slowly, her eyes soft with sleep and affection.
He paused the piano, letting the final note linger like a held breath.
"I'm always thinking," he said without looking at her.
She leaned against the grand, studying him. "About football… or revenge?"
Maradona tilted his head slightly, a smirk forming. "Both."
They shared a quiet moment, eyes locked. It had been only weeks since they met at the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. She had been standing in front of a Mark Rothko painting, completely still, as if she were part of it. He was drawn to the stillness, the sadness, the unspoken rage in her silence. He had asked her what the painting made her feel. She had looked him dead in the eyes and said, "Like someone ripped my heart out and told me to smile."
From that moment, he knew.
Now, they moved together with the rhythm of people who had already seen too much of life. The nights were filled with whispered dreams and stargazing on rooftops. Lana talked about poetry, old American jazz, and the music she was starting to make. He told her about Madrid, about the streets that raised him and the fire that burned in his soul. She didn't talk about fame. Neither did he. They talked about purpose. They understood each other's darkness. That's why it worked.
"You'll leave soon," she said softly, breaking the silence.
He nodded. "Pre-season starts tomorrow. New coach."
Lana's eyes searched his. "You ready?"
"I was born ready," he replied. But inside, he knew—this was the true beginning.
—
The sun scorched the training grounds of Valdebebas the next morning as Real Madrid assembled for the first time under Manuel Pellegrini. The Chilean coach stood calm and distant, a notebook tucked under his arm, watching his squad like a scientist observing test subjects.
Maradona arrived early—first on the pitch, last to leave. Everything about him was sharper: his physique stronger, his footwork silkier, his vision more precise. The summer had not been one of rest. He had trained in silence, ran hills in Los Angeles while others partied, practiced with elite private coaches in hidden facilities. He had worked until his legs trembled and his lungs screamed. This wasn't about making the team. This was about taking it.
Pellegrini watched him closely. He had read the reports. Watched the tapes. But nothing prepared him for the live spectacle of Maradona Pérez in full flight. The elegance, the arrogance, the presence. He reminded him of a young Riquelme—but angrier. Hungrier. More dangerous.
Still, Pellegrini wasn't one to be impressed easily. "Let's see if he can handle the structure," he told his assistant.
—
That night, back at his apartment, the system flickered to life.
[SYSTEM UPDATE – STAGE II INITIATED]
Status: Elite Candidate Recognized
Progress Evaluation Complete
New Abilities Unlocked:
Pelé's Vision (Level 1): Unlocks intuitive passing range, pre-emptive play reading, and attacking orchestration
Zidane's Elegance (Level 1): Unlocks graceful dribbling, composure under pressure, and creativity from deep
Current Ability Panel:
Diego Maradona's Talent – GOAT-Level Core
Toni Kroos' Pinpoint Passing
Ronaldinho's Flair – 65% unlocked
Fernando Redondo's Defensive Elegance
Pelé's Vision – Newly unlocked
Zidane's Elegance – Newly unlocked
Mastery Progress:
Training Required to Unlock Full Potential
Upcoming Events Will Influence Acceleration
Maradona read the panel twice. Each name burned like destiny. He knew what this meant. No more excuses. No more patience. He was no longer just a wonderkid. He was a god in the making.
He closed the screen and reached for his phone. Lana's name blinked softly. He called.
"Hey," she answered, voice sleepy.
"I'm coming over," he said. "I need to see you."
"No you don't," she teased. "You just want to play that system panel to me again."
He smiled. "Maybe. But also… I want to hold the only thing in this world that doesn't expect me to be immortal."
She was quiet for a beat.
"I'll unlock the door," she whispered.
—
As pre-season wore on, Maradona dominated every session. Drills became poetry. Scrimmages, recitals. Pellegrini started shifting pieces to accommodate him: no longer a youth prospect, he was now the axis.
Senior players noticed. Guti welcomed him with an ironic smile and a cheeky nutmeg challenge. Casillas was more reserved but warm—his leadership style unspoken. Ramos, however, grew closer by the day. The two trained together late, stayed behind to practice long balls, defensive covers, aerial dominance. They began to bond not just through football, but fire. They were both warriors.
Marcelo became the laughter in his day, a burst of Brazilian sunshine. The group slowly shifted around him. The team was changing. Old guard leaving, young blood rising.
Off the pitch, he and Lana grew quieter but closer. Walks through the Retiro Park at night. Shared readings of Rimbaud and Neruda. She played him her first recordings. He played her old VHS tapes of Maradona Sr. They never talked about forever. Only about now.
—
One week before the first official match of the season, Pellegrini called him into his office.
"You'll start," he said plainly, eyes unreadable. "But I won't build the team around you yet. You still have to earn that."
Maradona didn't flinch. "Then I'll make it undeniable."
Pellegrini paused, then offered the faintest nod. "You're not normal, Pérez. That can be a gift… or a curse. Don't let it become the latter."
As he left the office, Maradona could already hear the stadium calling him. His name whispered in the wind, woven into the roar of Madrid's future.
He stepped outside, the sun setting behind the distant silhouette of the Bernabéu.
The calm before the symphony