The Football Legends System

Chapter 56 – The Transfer Market Report

The transfer market report was up on every screen, splashed across the biggest sports outlets like wildfire. Nathan’s name was everywhere, his price tag flashing in bold letters: €102M. He had been trending for weeks, but this? This was different.This was his reality now.

The most valuable players for November:

Mbappé – €180M

Haaland – €170M

Bellingham – €150M

And then, Nathan Berry – €102M.

The highest value jump in the entire football world this year. The analysts couldn’t stop talking about it.

"Nathan has surpassed players like Leão, Rashford, even Martinelli... and he’s still in his first season with a top club."

A commentator on a live broadcast got more passionate with every word. "Mark my words. If this kid keeps his form... we’ll be talking about him in the same breath as Zidane and Kaká. He’s a generational talent."

Nathan leaned back on his bed, staring at his phone as the notifications flooded in. It was hard to process. The screen was full of praise, but it all felt distant, like he was watching someone else live the life of a superstar.

Fans were in full celebration:

"We won an important match in the cup tonight... but more importantly, we gained a player who’ll change our history."

"We’re witnessing the birth of a legend. I want to say I lived in Nathan’s era."

He smiled faintly. But there was no pride in it. No satisfaction. Not yet. He’d seen all this before. The hype. The headlines. They were noise. His mind was elsewhere. The next challenge. The next level. The next game.

Lauren’s tweet caught his eye next:

"Always proud of you. #N8"

His heart softened. He typed a quick reply, but then put the phone down, the weight of everything suddenly heavier. He ran his fingers through his hair, looking out the window at the darkening sky. His eyes were unfocused, drifting in the spaces between thoughts. In the distance, the floodlights of the training ground illuminated the night, a reminder that tomorrow would be just as demanding as the last.

The press conference the next day was a circus.

Nathan could barely hear the questions over the endless cameras flashing in his face. Reporters shouted out his name, his club, his future. But it was Coach Amorim who stole the spotlight.

"Nathan?" The coach leaned forward, a proud grin creeping across his face. "He’s this club’s next leader. Maybe younger than some, but he inspires them. I’m learning from him too."

Nathan shifted uncomfortably, not used to the spotlight on him like that. He didn’t like the attention, not the way others seemed to feed off of it. He just wanted to play.

The questions didn’t stop, but they all blurred into one. It was the same stuff. Same praises. Same comparisons to legends.

But one caught his attention.

"Valverde," the reporter asked, "you’ve said that Nathan teaches you every day. What exactly does he teach you?"

Valverde’s grin was infectious. "He teaches me that football isn’t just about feet," he said, tapping his chest. "It’s about heart."

Nathan could feel the weight of those words settle over him. Heart.. Not just speed, not just strength.

Later that night, after the cameras had gone, after the interviews and social media posts, Nathan sat alone in his room. The hum of the city outside his window was distant, just like the world that had suddenly become so focused on him. The phone lay on the table, buzzing with new messages. He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he stood in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the lines of his face. The face that had been plastered across every major outlet. The face of a new star.

But was he really a star? Or was he just a player doing his job?

He pulled on his kit—his own personal ritual, something familiar, something grounding—and walked into the hallway. His eyes flickered to the locker room door, where Valverde, Bruno, Casemiro, and the others had gathered. They were joking, laughing, the kind of chaos only teammates could create after a win.

Nathan lingered for a moment, watching them. He could see it in their eyes—the pride, the camaraderie. They were the ones who had fought alongside him, who had pushed him to be better. They were family, in the truest sense.

But something inside him still felt distant. Not lonely, not empty—but hungry. Hungry for more than what was being offered. Hungry for the next challenge, the next step.

He slid into his locker and grabbed his boots, slipping them on with the same ease he always did. His thoughts circled back to the game. The next one. The next challenge.

The next morning, he was on the training ground before anyone else.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

His boots struck the ball with precision, each shot echoing through the stillness of the empty field. The ball flew past the net, landing just inches wide of the post. Nathan shook his head and lined up again. This wasn’t about perfection—it was about rhythm. About feeling the game in his bones.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Each strike felt like it echoed inside him. Not good enough. The voice was quiet but constant. It was the same voice that had pushed him through the academy, that had driven him to make that leap into the first team. It was the same voice that wouldn’t let him rest.

He kicked the ball again, harder this time. The ball smacked the net with a satisfying crack.

Better.

Nathan stood still for a moment, breathing hard, chest rising and falling. His heart pounded, but this time, it was different. It was right. There was something in the air, something almost tangible about the feeling of the ball at his feet, the weight of the world slowly shifting in his favor.

---

The locker room hummed with a strange energy. The buzz from the FA Cup triumph had settled into something deeper, quieter. There was no grand celebration, no fireworks. This was just the next game. The Premier League. The bread and butter of every season. The grind.

Nathan stood in front of his locker, hands tightening around the laces of his boots. His phone sat on the bench, screen dark, notifications piling up, but he didn’t care. He didn’t need to care. Not now.

His focus was sharper. The roar of Old Trafford. His mind was already on the pitch. Already on the ball. Already preparing for what came next.

Coach Amorim’s voice broke through the tension, low and steady. "Listen up," he said, his eyes sweeping the room, "I don’t care that they’re bottom of the table. I don’t care that Norwich is newly promoted. These teams play with nothing to lose. No pressure. That’s what makes them dangerous. They’ve got nothing to lose, and they’ll throw everything at us."

A few heads nodded. Players like Bruno and Valverde exchanged looks—both veterans of the game, fully aware of what Amorim meant. Nathan, however, remained still. He wasn’t thinking about Norwich’s place on the table. He wasn’t thinking about the media buzz or the stats.

He finished tying his boots, then glanced down at his phone. It was still silent. He pressed his lips together and shut it off completely. Focus. It was the only thing that mattered.

Just before he stepped out of the locker room, something in his mind clicked. A thought so fleeting it almost slipped away.

[Random Skill: Zinedine Zidane’s Shots]

He whispered to himself, "Zidane? What timing..."

Zidane’s Right foot. A magician’s touch. A feeling of confidence.

A wisp of a smile tugged at Nathan’s lips as he walked toward the tunnel. He was ready.

Old Trafford roared with anticipation. The stadium had come alive again, the sound of the crowd reverberating through the air. The players lined up, eyes locked on the field, the tension building with each passing second.