Build Up of Fate
The sun stood high at its peak, blazing down mercilessly on the pitch. Golden rays rained across the field, the heat shimmering above the grass as though the world itself were on fire. Every breath carried weight, every bead of sweat clung like molten iron. It was a battlefield dressed in green.
I watched my teammates arrange themselves with iron resolve. A defensive wall stood firm — Varane, Ramos, Isco, Benzema — each one braced, faces carved with determination, eyes burning with focus. The crowd roared like a storm above us, a living sea of voices that shook the heavens.
I pulled back slightly, my legs coiled, lungs pulling in air to ready my body. The counterattack was coming. I felt it — a current running through my chest, humming with inevitability. If we blocked their free kick, the opening would appear.
Across the pitch, generals commanded: Modric and Silva, scanning the field like tacticians moving unseen pieces. And yet, Vini Jr. and I remained marked tightly by Yuri and Íñigo Martínez, defenders who clung to us like shadows.
I smirked. And then, I winked.
There — in a blind spot no one else noticed, hidden like a dagger tucked behind cloth — was Luna. Quiet, patient, ready. He was the pass. The unseen blade. The key to piercing their defense and breaking their shape apart. All I would need… was the moment.
---
Scene Shift — France
Parc des Princes, Paris
Champions League — Group A, Matchday 1
Match Time: 75:00 – 90:00
Score: PSG 4 – 4 FC Barcelona
The air was charged. The stadium rattled as the match neared its climax, every touch on the ball echoed by the thunder of tens of thousands. And then—
The ball shifted. A figure in midfield moved with precision, vision sharp, delivering a perfect pass into open space.
Commentator (shouting):
"Pass… oh my goodness, who's on the end of this one!?"
A number 10 jersey emerged, sunlight catching its sheen.
Marc Snuffy.
With a masterful knee trap, he killed the ball's momentum, silk absorbing chaos. He leaned forward, extending one palm as though commanding fate itself. And in front of him, rising with the flamboyant flair of a dancer reborn, stood his rival — Lavinho, the butterfly magician.
Snuffy (voice calm, heavy with years):
"My time is almost done… Italy remains. One last kingdom, one last throne to conquer. So … step aside."
At that moment, the heavens seemed to tear. A cry — ancient, immortal — the cry of a phoenix reborn in fire. Snuffy's aura shifted. His body language transformed, not of a man, but of a predator rising. His eyes glowed. The Flow ignited.
Lavinho smirked, teeth gleaming.
Lavinho (defiant, fiery):
"That is not the way I play! You think I'll let you brush me aside? No, Snuffy — not here, not now. This time, I'll beat you. And when I do… I'll go after Noa next."
With a sudden dive, Lavinho's hands touched the ground, his body spinning off his wrists. Rotates his wrists for control Legs stretched, whipping through the air with impossible rhythm. He launched into an air flair — his butterfly unleashed mid-spin, dazzling, flamboyant, and free.
Snuffy (eyes narrowing):
"Yes… but I won't make it easy. My Judo… against your Ginga. Let us see which endures."
Behind him, a phantom unfurled — wings of flame, a phoenix blazing brighter, feathers of hollow fire filling with burning light.
Lavinho's phantom rose too — of a butterfly. Fragile yet infinite, wings that bent possibility itself. Each tap he moves closer, with each bounce of the ball, snuffy taps it out of reach and lavinho shiftes probabilities again. Each flap of the butterfly's wings opened new paths.
Lavinho (voice low, trembling with fire):
"We've dueled countless times, Snuffy. I've stolen from you, learned from you. Every encounter made me stronger. Piece by piece… I've taken what I needed."
Lavinho tapped the ball. The butterfly flapped. Possibility stopped.
Lavinho (whispering, almost to himself):
"Looks like our dance… is over."
But Snuffy felt it — a ripple. Distortion in the air. His instincts screamed.
He twisted, heel snapping back.
Snuffy (shouting):
"Not yet, Lavi! You're one step short!"
The backheel and the ball deflects into a blind spot.
Commentator (voice cracking):
"WHAT!? That's a blind pass! No one's there—wait… wait, who's appearing!?"
The stadium trembled.
BOOM.
Space tore apart. Reality folded. A blur of honey-yellow lightning ripped across the pitch, devouring distance.
Commentator (screaming):
"IT'S HIM! JULIAN LOKI! The French prodigy! THE GOD-SPRINTER HAS ENTERED FLOW!!"
Black sclera. Yellow irises glowing like molten stars. The world bent around him, space warped as if it bowed before his existence.
Godwarp..
Loki (snarling, aura surging):
"I am the storm. The force of nature itself. But Lavinho… what I desire most… is to crush your ginga."
Lavinho's eyes widened — and then he laughed. Defiance burned in his gaze, fire and rhythm unyielding.
Lavinho (grinning):
"With all that speed… let's see how fast you can dance."
Behind him, the butterfly phantom flickered. But this time, it wasn't hollow. Its wings pulsed with real light. Reality quivered. Lavinho's eyes turned black, but deep in the abyss… a spark glowed. A flame guiding the butterfly's path.
Creativity surged. His rhythm flowed. He met Loki head-on.
Loki (voice sharp as a blade):
"Then let me show you… your weak spots."
His stance shifted — less dancer, more martial artist. Brutal rhythm, merciless precision.
Lavinho controlled the ball, his touch soft, the rhythm of samba flowing through his veins. But Loki appeared less than half a breath later — his speed a distortion in reality, as if the air itself bent to let him pass.
Lavinho drove forward, body weaving into his dribble. Around him, the butterfly phantom flapped its wings, luminous against the night sky. Each wingbeat split into smaller butterflies, scattering like fragments of light across Loki's body.
BOOM!
Loki blurred. Balance became irrelevant, his shin slicing the ball, tearing the butterfly's path apart.
Every butterfly carried insight — probabilities encoded in fragile wings. Each flutter revealed potential paths, lines of dribbling routes stretching through space. The more butterflies Lavinho summoned, the clearer the choices became. Small ones hinted at slim chances; larger butterflies pulsed with higher success, guiding him like living beacons.
Commentator (roaring into the mic):
"LOOK AT THAT! LAVINHO'S GINGA IS MULTIPLYING INTO ENDLESS POSSIBILITIES! THE BUTTERFLIES ARE SHOWING HIM EVERY PATH HE CAN TAKE TO BEAT LOKI!!"
Lavinho's eyes burned black, the spark of creativity igniting deeper. His body swayed left — butterflies surged. He feinted right — more butterflies flared alive. Reality fractured with infinite options, and the crowd could barely process the hypnotic rhythm of his movements.
But Loki was not shaken.
Loki (voice cutting like steel):
"Too slow… try again."
He lunged, and the instant a butterfly's wings brushed against his figure — it shredded. Ripped apart by space itself. Gone.
Commentator (nearly fainting):
"HE'S DESTROYING POSSIBILITY ITSELF! HE'S TEARING LAVINHO'S BUTTERFLIES TO SHREDS!!"
Lavinho's feet tapped the ball like a samba drum, the rhythm relentless, a dancer's symphony. He unleashed stepovers, body rolls, feints layered over feints. Butterflies exploded outward in clouds, weaving illusions, each one a new reality where Loki was beaten. But they were all fading slowly .
Lavinho (grinning through sweat):
"Then let's change the song… with a new rhythm and style!"
The butterfly phantom responded, flapping harder, brighter, filling the air with a storm of wings. The possibilities shimmered — infinite.
But every time Lavinho tried to slip past…
FWOOOSH!
Space distorted. Loki's speed erased the butterflies, annihilating possibility after possibility. The storm was being torn apart, one wing at a time.
Lavinho twisted his hips, his body rolling into a sudden 360. For a heartbeat, it seemed he had found the angle.
But Loki was already there.
Loki (snarling, yellow eyes cracking with pressure):
"I'm starting to see your patterns… your paths are fading."
Loki shifted, shin colliding with the ball mid-spin, ricocheting it violently and shredding another butterfly.
Lavinho landed, frustration flashing across his face, but immediately coiled again. His right leg snapped upward, serpent-like, launching into an air for the ricocheted ball with an air elastico — sharp, fluid, deadly.
For a fraction of a second, the butterfly phantom surged forward, a giant wing pointing toward salvation.
But Loki slid with terrifying precision. His speed erased the path, and the butterfly shattered.
Commentator (screaming, voice cracking):
"HE'S DEVOURING THEM ALL! EVERY POSSIBILITY LAVINHO CREATES… IS BEING ERASED BY JULIAN LOKI!!"
Lavinho quickly extands his foot to tap the ball again after the elastico .
Butterflies vanished one after another until only a single, fragile one remained.
Lavinho's chest heaved, sweat pouring, eyes wide but burning with defiance.
Lavinho (roaring, teeth gritted):
"All I need… is ONE path! Even if I must gamble everything on this!"
He flicked the ball up with his laces of the right boot — flick! — pivoting sharply off his left leg. The ball rolled off his knee, his body twisting, back turning to Loki. In the same motion, he extended his left foot, locked it out, and tapped the ball mid-air.
Commentator (shrieking in disbelief):
"A-AKA 3000!? NO—WAIT, HE'S MODIFIED IT INTO A SURPRISE SOMBRERO FLICK!!"
Lavinho spun past, the butterfly phantom soaring ahead of him — alive, free, unbroken. For a heartbeat, destiny was his.
He smiled.
Lavinho (breathless, victorious whisper):
"Now… our dance must be cut short."
But then… the butterfly dissolved.
Its wings ripped apart before his eyes. The spark guiding him flickered out. Flow snapped — the avatar fading into a hollow phantom. Lavinho's eyes returned to normal, the abyss gone, only disbelief remaining.
Lavinho (shaken):
"…No… Impossible…"
Loki (voice low, merciless, final):
"Like I said… you've already been devoured. False hope… is the sweetest way to destroy your ego."
Loki had leapt.. into the air after the sambreo flick by lavinho, foot out stretched grazing the ball at an impossible angle, hitingbit with force to the ground as it bounces it skyward.. while loki is Descending, his heel flicked. The ball ripped past his shoulder.
BOOM.
Godwarp..
With only two touches, he tore through defenders, reclaiming the ball as though physics itself bent to his will.
Loki (yelling, aura blazing brighter):
"Kaiser… you're not the only one evolving! I SEE your growth — but my ego won't let me fall behind! I've surpassed Meta-Vision… I wield the eyes of a GOD-SPRINTER!"
Vector-Eye.
Black sclera. Yellow irises splitting into glowing gridlines. Space mapped itself before him. Every player. Every distortion. Every open lane. Every vector.
And ahead of him — a ripple. A threat.
BOOM.
A wall appeared.
Ahead of Loki stood a boy — hair streaked with rainbow, freckles scattered across his cheeks, an almost lazy grin plastered across his face. But behind that grin was danger.
Pablo Cavazos.
Commentator (exploding):
"IT'S CAVAZOS! The Genius! Loki is about to collide with a WALL OF LIGHT!!"
Cavazos stepped forward, calm as a painter before his canvas. The world drained of color around him — black and white, grayscale shadows flickering. Only he retained color, a living prism in a monochrome void.
Each step he made left trails of shimmering auroras. His Flow shimmered alive.
Aurora Flow.
Cavazos (soft, almost whispering):
"Oooh… I see."
Behind Loki, the air shredded, a storm howling, space itself fracturing as though unable to contain him. His yellow eyes glowed, vector grids radiating from his gaze.
Loki (growling, low and sharp):
"You're too weak… to devour me."
They clashed. Shoulder to shoulder. Ball ricocheting between them.
CLASH.
Colors collapsed. Space bent. The field around them quivered with the force of two Flows colliding.
Cavazos tilted his gaze upward, pupils dilating. He wasn't looking at the ball. He was reading Loki's body. Timing. Balance. Shifts in his weight.
And then—
Cavazos (grinning):
"That… is my chance."
His eyes shifted again, glowing with layered light.
Meta-Eye.
(A hybrid of Predator-Eye and Meta-Vision. Both halves weaker than the originals — but together, a balance neither could match.)
He brushed his ankle against the ball. Just enough to nudge it. It bounced upward, climbing higher, hanging in the air.
Loki (snarling, voice jagged):
"It doesn't matter! I'll still reach it!"
His legs coiled like springs, and he leapt, tearing into the sky. But the shadows birthed another figure — soaring higher, body cutting through air like a blade.
The number 9 jersey.
Bunny Iglesias.
Commentator (screaming, losing his breath):
"IT'S BUNNY! THE SKY EMPEROR! HE'S MET LOKI IN THE AIR!!"
They collided mid-flight, two gods rising to claim the heavens. Loki reached upward — but Bunny pressed down, palm against his shoulder, holding him. Denying him the skies.
Bunny (voice booming, eyes ablaze):
"You're far from home up here, sprinter… This is MY sky. I am the GOD of this domain!"
With authority, he swung his leg down.
CRACK!
The ball thundered back toward earth, speed ripping the air apart.
---
Scene End — Locker Room
The whistle blew. The field dimmed.
The locker rooms filled with breathless warriors, sweat dripping, hearts pounding. Their gasps echoed like aftershocks of battle. Every man was alive with exhaustion, with adrenaline still pulsing in their veins.
But across the hall… silence.
Real Madrid's locker room sat in calm serenity. Jerseys glistened white under fluorescent lights, their aura untouched, their composure unshaken.
One figure sat dazed, platinum blonde hair plastered to his forehead, eyes distant. His mind wandered. Backwards. To the first half.
---
Flashback — Match Time 23:13
The crowd was thunder. Chants shook the stadium, a tidal wave of sound drowning the air. Real Sociedad stood over a free kick. Oyarzabal whispered into Willian José's ear, plotting, scheming — a set piece designed to fracture Madrid's wall.
The whistle blew.
Oyarzabal stepped back. José charged — faking the strike, leaping forward, peeling defenders away. Sociedad's players scattered, sowing chaos.
Then Oyarzabal struck.
The ball carved through the air, vicious, spinning like a bullet destined for the left corner. The wall jumped as one — all but Ramos.
The ball cleared, soaring past their heads. Curving. Fast. Deadly.
But in goal stood a giant. A tower. His frame unmoved, calm as a glacier. His amber eyes glowed.
Dimension-Eye.
Valentino Rossi.
Golden codes flashed across his vision, reality breaking into lines of trajectory and speed. He stepped once. Leapt high. His hand latched onto the goalpost, swinging his body upward.
His other arm stretched wide.
SMACK.
His palm stopped the shot cold. Muscles curled, absorbing the vicious spin, trapping it against his chest like a predator clutching prey.
Silence fell. The stadium froze.
Rossi (deep, unshakable voice):
"Kaiser is our sword… and I… am the shield. Together, we are exceptional."