The Football Legends System

Chapter 43 - The Champions League Begins

—

78th Minute – Stamford Bridge

Corner kick.

The pressure had been relentless. A siege under floodlights. The kind of tension that tightened lungs and made seconds feel like hours.

Nathan jogged toward the corner flag, jersey clinging to his back, lungs dragging in heavy breaths. The roar of the away fans followed him like a drumbeat—loud, wild, desperate for one more miracle.

Haaah...

He placed the ball down and glanced into the box. Zirkzee. Bruno. Varane. All jostling in the crowd of blue shirts.

He raised his hand, then delivered.

Whip!

The cross spun in like a scythe. Kepa lunged, punched—but not clean.

Crack!

The ball ricocheted off Colwill’s knee. Chaos. Bodies everywhere.

Bruno reacted first—BOOM!—

a snap volley through traffic.

Blocked.

The rebound popped up, spinning mid-air.

Nathan didn’t shoot.

He read it.

Controlled it with his chest, calm in the eye. Time slowed as defenders swarmed.

He didn’t panic.

A glance to the right—Zirkzee.

Nathan laid it off with a subtle, soft heel flick.

Tap!

Zirkzee smashed it low.

GOAL!

3–3!

"YEEEEEAAAAHHH!!"

The United bench erupted.

Zirkzee slid to the corner flag, roaring, arms wide. Bruno punched the air. Onana sprinted to the halfway line, screaming something no one understood.

—

Final 10 Minutes

What followed was football at its purest—a storm of sweat, sprints, and near-misses.

82’ – Chelsea pushed. Mount slipped Nketiah in—Thud!—but Onana stood tall, fingertips brushing the ball past the post.

85’ – Valverde won it back. Nathan surged forward, driving into space.

"Tch! Tch!" Stepovers. Cut inside. Bruno overlapped.

Nathan slipped it through—

BOOM!

Bruno shot low—saved!

Kepa dove like a man possessed.

88’ – James thundered down the right, swinging in a dangerous cross—Crack!—headed clear by Varane. Screams. Chaos.

90’ – One final chance. Nathan had it again, outside the box.

He shaped to shoot.

Feint.

Another.

Then passed.

Zirkzee again.

Clack!

Saved by Kepa. Just.

—

Full-Time

Whistle!

A long, shrill exhale from the ref.

3–3.

Players collapsed. Some with hands on knees. Others just falling to the ground like marionettes with their strings cut.

An epic battle.

The kind of match that left scars on the body and fire in the soul.

The reporters called it:

"A footballing spectacle.""Nathan Perry—one of the Premier League’s brightest stars."

And under the hot lights, in front of dozens of microphones, Nathan stood.

Sweat still fresh on his brow. Eyes sharp.

He leaned forward, voice low, measured.

"I’m just getting started," he said."The best is yet to come. That’s a promise."

—

Three Days Later – Italy

The tone had changed.

The flight had been silent—calm, focused. No banter, no music, not even from Valverde. Just the quiet rustle of jackets, the occasional zip of a kitbag, and the low hum of a team ready for war.

Nathan sat by the window, hoodie up, watching the clouds slide by.

Tonight was different.

The San Siro awaited.

—

Arrival – Milan

The team bus crawled through tight Italian streets, the locals lining the curbs in scarves and flares.

As they approached the stadium, the San Siro.

Nathan pressed his forehead to the glass.

The view stole his breath.

"How many times did I dream of playing here?" he whispered.

"Against AC Milan... under the lights..."

He exhaled, slow.

"Tonight, I’ll be written into history."

—

Moments Before Kick-Off

Inside the locker room, Amorim paced with calm authority. Valverde bounced on his heels. Bruno sat, earbuds in, eyes closed.

Nathan laced up his boots—tight, secure, ritualistic.

He stood.

One final breath before the walk through the tunnel.

Then—ping!

A soft chime from his smartwatch.

He looked down.

[Random Skill Acquired: Benzema’s Finishing – Deadly Composure]

For a moment, time paused.

Nathan blinked, letting the name settle in.

Benzema.

The master of one-touch execution. Cold in the box. Lethal with a glance.

He grinned to himself, adjusting his shin pads.

"Benzema, huh?"

He stood, eyes narrowing.

"Perfect..."

He whispered it like a vow.

"Tonight, I’ll learn the art of the killer touch."

—

San Siro – Champions League Group Stage Matchday 1

The roar was deafening.

Red flares painted the sky above the San Siro. Chants in Italian echoed like war drums, pounding through concrete and bone. Nathan stood near the center circle, shirt clinging to his back, fingers twitching at his sides.

He had dreamed of this night.

But dreams rarely opened with nightmares.

4th Minute

It started with a mistake.

Valverde, usually so composed, tried a blind pass under pressure—Tap!—and misread the run.

"Tch—no!"

Giroud intercepted, his first touch clean. With one smooth motion, he fed Rafael Leão slicing through the line.

Leão took one stride, then another.

Then—BOOM!

A low drive. Onana lunged.

Too late.

GOAL!

Milan 1 – 0 United

The stadium exploded.

Smoke, red and white flags, fists in the air.

Nathan stood frozen.

One pass. One moment. And they were already chasing the game.

Valverde clutched his head.

Onana screamed, voice cutting through the noise. "Wake up! Talk to each other!"

Bruno punched the air in frustration.

Nathan didn’t say a word.

Focus.

He glanced at the scoreboard.

Minute four.

Still time.

Still everything to play for.

—

11th Minute

But it didn’t stop.

Milan pressed again. Like wolves with blood on their teeth.

Theo Hernandez sprinted down the left, untouched, a blur in red and black. He whipped a cross—Whip!—and Giroud rose above Varane like a tower.

Crack!

GOAL!

2 – 0!

Nathan’s breath hitched.

The ground shook beneath his boots.

The San Siro wasn’t just a stadium. It was a storm swallowing them whole.

Amorim’s face on the touchline was pale with disbelief.

"Wake up!!" he roared. "This is the Champions League!!"

Nathan clenched his jaw.

He could feel the weight shifting. The pressure building. This wasn’t like Stamford Bridge. This wasn’t the league.

This was Europe.

And Europe didn’t forgive.

—

20th Minute

Then—finally.

A moment.

Nathan received the ball near midfield, back to goal, a Milan defender tight on his back.

Tap.He turned sharply—Tch!—leaving the defender off balance.

Bruno sprinted forward.

One-two. Tup-tup!The ball returned to Nathan in stride.

He broke through the gap, the San Siro crowd howling behind him.

He saw the keeper advancing.

No panic.

No wasted motion.

Just composure.

Like Benzema.

Nathan opened his body, leaned left—

CLACK!

—then stroked it low and right, past the keeper’s outstretched hand.

GOAL!

2 – 1!!

. Nathan slid on his knees, arms spread, eyes fierce.

"Nathan scores his first European goal... with royal composure!" the commentator shouted over the feed."That’s the Benzema touch—cold, beautiful!"

Bruno grabbed him, shouting over the noise, "That’s how you do it, kid!"

Nathan looked to the scoreboard. 20 minutes gone.

We’re in this.

I’m in this.

—

37th Minute

But Milan weren’t done.

Leão again.

He danced down the left, a blur of feints and raw pace. He turned Dalot inside out, then found space at the byline.

Tap!

Cut back.

Chukwueze.

BOOM!

GOAL.

3 – 1 Milan.

Another dagger.

Nathan dropped to a crouch, staring at the grass. His heartbeat thudded in his ears.

Onana turned red with fury.

"Where’s the f*cking marking?! TALK!!"

Varane shook his head. Dalot looked rattled.

Everything was unraveling.

And yet—

Nathan stood up slowly. Breathing controlled. Eyes sharp.

Not done.

Not yet.

—

44th Minute

Just before the break, one last push.

Nathan picked up the ball near the left wing.

Tup-tup-tup!

Stepovers. A body feint. He cut inside, gliding past two defenders like shadows.

He spotted Zirkzee near the penalty spot.

Whip!

Perfect pass.

Zirkzee turned—BOOM!—and let fly.

A sharp deflection.

Thud!

The ball spun just wide.

Corner.

The whistle followed seconds later.

Halftime.

Milan led 3–1.

Amorim stormed toward the tunnel, lips tight, hand gesturing in frustration. The team followed, heads low.

—

Locker Room – Halftime

The air inside was tense.

Maps flew off the clipboard.

"Too passive! You’re letting them dictate the rhythm!"

He looked directly at Bruno. "We need control."

Then at Valverde. "You owe me a second half."

Two changes were announced.

Antony for Zirkzee.

Mount for Valverde.

Nathan sat in silence, towel draped around his shoulders. His shirt was soaked. Muscles twitching.

He stared at the floor.

But his mind?

One more shot.

That’s all he needed.

—

Second Half – 55th Minute

Mount started the move.

A neat touch under pressure. One pass to Bruno. Then a sharp ball to Nathan, breaking behind Milan’s midfield.

Nathan sprinted into space, then slowed—timing his run, dragging the defender.

He looked up. Measured.

He struck.

BOOM!!

Clean. Driven. Low.

The keeper dove—full stretch.

CLACK!

Saved.

Fingertips.

So close.

"Ahhh—so close!" Valverde gasped from the bench.

Nathan turned away, hands on hips, chest heaving.

"I won’t miss the next one," he muttered."I swear."