The Football Legends System

Chapter 32 – A Real Wonderkid

"Naaaaathan! Naaaaathan! Naaaaathan!"

The chant thundered across Elland Road like rolling waves crashing against the cliffs. It wasn’t just noise. It was something deeper—defiant, raw, alive. The kind of roar that pulled a boy out of despair and reminded him he still mattered.

Nathan stood near the corner flag, chest heaving, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were wide, not with disappointment—but with something new.

Pride.

He had just missed. Missed again. A beautiful lofted ball from Marco, perfectly timed, perfectly weighted. He had been one-on-one. All the space, all the time... and still, the lob had drifted just wide. Inches.

But instead of silence or groans—came this. A stadium screaming his name like he’d already won something.

He turned slowly, letting it wash over him.

"So this is what belief sounds like..."

Tyler jogged over, panting. "You almost chipped Ramsdale. You madman."

Nathan cracked a grin, eyes still on the crowd. "Maybe."

Tyler laughed, voice hoarse. "Next time, bury it. No mercy."

---

+1 Minute into Injury Time...

The corner flag rippled in the breeze as Marco placed the ball down with trembling fingers. His shirt clung to his back, soaked, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Across the pitch, the sea of white and red churned like a living organism — some fans were biting their nails, others screaming instructions, others frozen with hands over their mouths.

Nathan jogged toward the penalty area, sweat dripping from his chin.

He didn’t feel tired.

Not anymore.

His legs burned, yes, and his lungs ached—but beneath it all... something surged inside him.

"Is this adrenaline?" he wondered.

No—this was more than that.

It was something deeper.

Maradona...?

No. Not exactly.

This... was his.

"Marco!! Near post, high!" Nathan shouted, cutting through the chaos.

Marco gave the faintest nod, then raised his arm.

The whistle of wind. The roar of the crowd. The thunder of footsteps in the box.

Whoosh!!

Marco struck the ball—clean, spinning, slicing through the air like a guided missile.

Boom!

Bodies crashed together in the box. Jerseys tugged. Arms flailed. Saliba jumped. Cooper leapt. But rising above them all—was Nathan.

He timed it perfectly. A ghost slipping through the cracks of reality.

Thud!!

The ball connected with his forehead with a sickening smack. His neck snapped forward—Haaahh!!

Straight down the center, the ball hurtled toward goal like a comet.

The goalkeeper reacted on instinct—Smack!!

He punched it away!

"Ahhhhhh!!"

The collective scream of thousands filled the Emirates as the ball ricocheted off the keeper’s gloves and fell—chaotically—to the edge of the box.

Tyler Brown was there!

Crack!

He hit it first-time, low and hard!

It struck the shin of an Arsenal defender—Clink!—and spun out wide for a throw-in.

And then—

Pweeeeeeeet!!

The final whistle.

The sound echoed like a gunshot across the stadium.

Arsenal 4 – 1 Leeds.

But for a moment... nobody moved.

Then came the applause.

It started softly. Hesitant.

From the Leeds supporters who had traveled miles, soaked in rain, humiliated by the scoreline—but lifted by something else entirely.

Then... it spread.

Even among the Arsenal faithful—who had seen legends grace this pitch—hands began to clap. Slowly. Respectfully. Genuinely.

"Naaaaathan!!!"

The chant thundered down from the away end.

"Naaaaathan!! Naaaaathan!!"

He stood there, chest heaving, staring at the grass beneath his boots.

His hair matted to his forehead. His knees bruised. His limbs screaming.

But in his eyes... there was fire.

Nathan lifted his head.

The floodlights above seemed almost holy, bathing the pitch in a divine glow. The chants of his name washed over him—not like praise, but like recognition.

He looked over at Marco, who was kneeling on the pitch, panting, but smiling—shaking his head in disbelief.

---

The final whistle had long blown, but the echoes of the crowd still rang in Nathan’s ears.

"Naaaaathan! Naaaaathan!"

He could still feel it — the rhythm of their chants pulsing in his chest like a second heartbeat.

As he stepped through the tunnel into the away locker room at the Emirates, sweat dripping from his brow, his legs burning with exhaustion, he half-expected silence. After all, they had lost. 4–1. On paper, it wasn’t close.

But the moment the door closed behind him—

Thud!

Tyler Brown leapt onto Nathan’s back like an overexcited kid, arms around his shoulders. "Man, you did it... you brought hope back to the entire team!"

"Hah... Tch," Nathan laughed, shaking his head as he straightened up. "Pretty sure we still lost."

"Lost the score, yeah," Marco said, tossing his boots into his bag. "But we didn’t lose the crowd. Or ourselves."

All around the room, the air buzzed — not with shame, not with regret — but with something different. Something brighter.

Grayson entered with a towel draped over his shoulder and a rare smile tugging at his usually hard-set face.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"We lost," he said, his voice low but clear. "Yes. But today... we learned we can stand toe-to-toe with anyone. Thank you, Nathan."

A few players clapped.

Then suddenly, Ellis shouted from the bench, "Oi! Oi! Look at this!"

He held up his phone, turned the screen to everyone — and there it was.

Nathan’s goal.

That flash of genius.

The replay showed him spinning past Saliba like a phantom, cutting in, slicing through Arsenal’s defense, then that savage left-footed drive into the top corner—

BOOM!

The locker room exploded.

"Holy sh*t, I still can’t believe he scored that!"

"Bro, you cooked him alive!"

"I swear I heard Saliba apologize mid-dribble."

Laughter.

Applause.

And amid it all, Nathan sat quietly, drying his hair, a half-smile curling at the edge of his lips.

He wasn’t used to this — not really. Not the praise. Not the spotlight. But... it felt good. Not because of the attention, but because he’d earned it. On his terms.

"This is just the beginning," he said, voice calm but laced with steel. "I’m hungrier than ever."

The room fell quiet for a beat.

Then Tyler grinned. "Damn right."

[Sky Sports – Match Reactions]

"Did you see what Nathan Perry did against Arsenal? Who is this kid? That goal? That footwork? Reminded me of a young Hazard... no, even more raw. This kid’s got something special."

[BBC – Match of the Day]

"A goal that might be one of the best this season — not just in the Championship, but in all of English football. Nathan Perry. Remember the name."

[FourFourTwo Magazine]

"Maradona in the body of a young man from Leeds?"

A full-page headline with Nathan mid-dribble, eyes alight, mouth curled in defiance. The article beneath it detailed every movement, every feint, every glimmer of genius that had shaken the Emirates.

Madrid, Spain – Real Madrid Headquarters

Inside a quiet office overlooking the Santiago Bernabéu, a senior club director leaned back in his leather chair. His fingers steepled, eyes fixed on the paused image of Nathan’s goal on a massive screen.

He pressed a button.

Click.

The play resumed. Nathan beat Saliba, curled the ball in — perfection.

Click.

Pause again.

"Seems like there’s a real wonderkid in the Championship," the director murmured. His voice barely above a whisper. "Keep an eye on this boy."

His assistant nodded without a word. They both knew what this meant.

Manchester, England – Carrington Training Ground

Inside a sleek, glass-paneled meeting room, laughter bounced off the walls.

"€60 million?" a Manchester United executive scoffed. "I’d pay that right now!"

He turned to his staff with a grin. "He’s better than Garnacho. And don’t look at me like that — I mean it."

One of the scouts muttered, "His balance... his speed... and the way he sees space — like he’s already two passes ahead."

The head of recruitment leaned forward. "Contact Leeds. Quietly."

Back in the Leeds locker room...

The celebration had simmered down. Most of the players had changed, a few already heading to the media zone.

Nathan stayed behind, tying his shoes slowly, lost in thought.

His fingers moved, but his mind lingered on the pitch — on the crowd, on that moment where he felt... alive.

He remembered the look on Saliba’s face — surprise, maybe even fear. The Arsenal keeper diving in vain. The fans screaming. The pulse in his ears, the fire in his lungs.

It wasn’t just the goal.

It was everything.

He stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and started walking toward the tunnel.

Grayson passed him by the door. "Perry."

Nathan paused. "Coach?"

Grayson looked him over, then said with a smirk, "Try to sleep tonight. You’ve just made a lot of powerful people nervous."

Nathan chuckled. "Good. Let them worry."

Later that night...

The hotel room was quiet.

Nathan sat by the window, the city lights of London sprawling beneath him.

His phone buzzed every few seconds — Twitter notifications, Instagram tags, clips, edits, fan messages, articles, rumors.

He ignored them all.

Instead, he watched the reflection in the glass — a boy who had finally stepped out of someone else’s shadow... and into his own legend.

Somewhere deep inside, he could feel it again — that strange sensation, that flicker from the system that had awakened within him during the match.

The Spirit of Maradona.

It hadn’t faded.

If anything... it felt stronger.

He touched his chest.

There was no notification. No pop-up screen.

Just heat.