The Football Legends System

Chapter 67 – Spirit of a Legend

The whistle still rang in Nathan’s ears.

Final. Done. Over.

The scoreline on the giant screen refused to budge: Napoli 1 – 0 United (3 – 2 aggregate).

He swallowed, blinking through the sting behind his eyes.

Then—

Ding!

A familiar chime echoed in his head like a spark lighting dry grass.

[Congratulations!][The requirements to unlock a Random Legendary Spirit have been fulfilled.]

His breath caught. His head snapped up.

[You have 200 points – Would you like to unlock a Random Legendary Spirit?]

[Unlocking...]

[Skill Unlocked!]

[Congratulations!]

[You’ve acquired: Spirit of Roberto Carlos!]

His pupils dilated.

The world around him blurred as the interface shimmered before his eyes, golden.

Roberto Carlos.

Nathan’s lips parted into a slow, disbelieving grin.

"Hahahahah..."

His hands curled into fists, trembled—then steadied.

"The same skill I had against Arsenal back then... hahahahahah..."

Memories surged: the roar at Old Trafford, the swerve, the impossible goal that silenced doubters. The strike that made his name echo.

"Now I’ll show you who I am."

The final seconds hadn’t ticked away yet.

90+1st.

United pushed one last time, desperate, clawing.

Valverde passed him the ball just outside the box.

"Nathan—!" he called. "Hit it!"

Nathan didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

He took a breath and stepped forward.

The ball spun under his feet—he planted, twisted his torso, then—

BOOM!!

He struck it with the outside of his foot, violently. The technique was absurd.

CRACK!!

The ball tore through the air like a missile, curved unnaturally—

BANG!

It slammed the crossbar with such force the post shook.

The crowd gasped. The Napoli fans screamed. Amorim threw his hands up in the air, mouth open in disbelief.

Over the goal.

But not over yet.

Corner kick.

Nathan jogged to take it.

He could feel the stares. From fans. From teammates. From the coaching staff.

Nobody expected anything now.

"Another wasted cross," someone muttered behind him.

Valverde stood outside the box, hands on hips.

Roque wiped sweat off his face and shook his head. "What’s the point..."

Nathan set the ball on the arc.

The wind tugged at his shirt. The crowd murmured.

He stared at the ball, his heart now calm.

The golden interface shimmered again before him:

[Active Skill: Spirit of Roberto Carlos – Curve Shot (Lv. 1)]

"Roberto Carlos..."

"Show me your power now."

He took three steps back.

The stadium held its breath.

He ran up.

WHHHHT!

His left foot crashed into the ball—not like a cross.

Not like a pass.

But like a strike.

FWOOSH!!

The ball exploded off his boot with an impossible spin, a wicked curve that defied physics.

It didn’t float.

It swerved.

It screamed through the air like a comet.

The Napoli keeper leapt, hands raised—too late!

THWAP!!

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLL!!!

The net rippled like a flag in a storm.

AN OLYMPIC GOAL.

From the corner.

Straight into the goal.

Stunned silence—then chaos.

The stadium erupted—but this time, in shock. Half the crowd couldn’t even comprehend what just happened.

Valverde’s eyes went wide. His mouth moved, but no words came.

Onana sprinted the length of the field, screaming. Rashford fell to his knees, laughing like a madman. Roque just stood there, jaw dropped.

Amorim clutched his head.

"WHAT?!"

On the sidelines, a Napoli assistant coach kicked the advertising board in frustration.

The scoreboard changed.

Manchester United 1 – 1 NapoliAggregate: 3 – 3

Nathan didn’t celebrate right away.

He just stared at the net.

At the goal.

At the silence now falling like ash across the stadium.

Then he turned.

Lifted a fist into the air.

And screamed.

"COME ONNNN!!"

The away fans exploded.

A chant began, shaky at first—then louder. Stronger.

"NA-THAN PER-RY!""NA-THAN PER-RY!"

The referee blew the whistle moments later.

"What a match..." the commentator’s voice echoed through the speakers. "We’re heading to extra time!"

Nathan turned back to the center circle, breath heavy, but gaze locked in.

His teammates jogged toward him, slapping his back, shaking him, hugging him like he’d come back from the dead.

Valverde leaned in, wide-eyed.

"That... that wasn’t normal, bro. What was that?"

Nathan just grinned.

"I told you. I’m not done."

Roque clapped his shoulder. "You freak."

"Legendary freak," Bruno muttered behind them, grinning despite himself.

They returned to the sideline.

Amorim walked over, still stunned.

He looked at Nathan—really looked.

Then let out a dry chuckle.

"You little punk."

Nathan smirked.

"You still want to sub me off, Coach?"

Amorim didn’t answer. Just pointed to the pitch.

"Give me thirty more minutes. Give me the win."

Nathan nodded once, jaw set.

"I will."

He sat on the grass for a moment, chest still heaving.

Above them, the night sky was thick with tension.

Extra time awaited.

But in that small pocket of calm—between the miracle and the next war—Nathan closed his eyes.

The System still hovered in his vision.

[Active Spirit: Roberto Carlos – 19 minutes remaining]

He smiled.

"Let’s see what else you’ve got, legend."

————

The locker room door slammed shut.

For a moment, there was only silence—raw, ringing silence. Heavy breaths. Damp jerseys. The faint echo of the crowd still roaring above.

Then—

Clap! Clap! Clap-clap-clap!

"Did you see that?!"

"Did you all see what Nathan just did?!"

He jabbed a finger toward Nathan, eyes gleaming. "From the corner flag?! Are you joking?!"

Laughter burst out around the room.

Onana leaned back against the wall, hands on his knees, shaking with disbelief. "An Olympic goal?" he huffed between laughs. "In the Champions League? That’s insane.

Roque threw a towel at Nathan’s chest. "You’re not even human, bro. Admit it now."

Nathan didn’t say much. He just sat there, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on the floor like he could still see the shot—still feel it leave his foot. His heartbeat hadn’t slowed. His body still buzzed with that pulse, that weightless second when the ball had defied reason.

Valverde crossed the room and clapped him on the shoulder.

"You used to say that was an outdated skill," he said, grinning. "I think it just saved our asses."

A few chuckles followed. But not from everyone.

Thud.

The door opened again.

Rúben Amorim stepped in. He didn’t speak right away.

His eyes swept over them—every player. The joy on their faces. The sweat on their brows. The flicker of fire in their eyes.

Then his jaw tightened.

"When we’re out there celebrating," he said, voice quiet—too quiet—"do you know what Napoli are doing?"

Silence.

"They’re getting ready to kill us."

The room shifted. Shoulders straightened. Smiles faded.

"Celebration is over," Amorim snapped. "You’ve got two more halves to play. Napoli won’t stay silent. If you think they’re finished after that goal—wake up."

He stepped into the center of the room, pace slow, deliberate.

"They’ll come at us with everything. You’ve tasted their bite. You’ve felt that stadium shake. You want to go through? You want to survive?" His eyes flared. "Then suffer for it."

He turned and walked out.

No grand speech. No rallying cry.

Just truth.

Nathan looked around.

Valverde was still breathing heavy, tapping his boots against the floor. Roque had gone quiet, arms folded. Rashford sat back, hands steepled under his chin, eyes distant.

Nathan stood.

"We didn’t come here to get knocked out," he said, loud enough to echo.

Everyone looked up.

He clenched his fists. "Let’s finish the miracle."

The clock struck 91:00.

Whistle!

The second half of extra time began—and Napoli came out like demons released.

Boom!

BOOM!

The first tackle came fast —on Bruno.

Then a second—on Dalot.

And then came the storm.

Three substitutions. Fresh legs. Fresh fury.

Napoli pressed like a pack of wolves, hungry for blood. Every pass from United was hunted. Every dribble was contested.

92nd minute.

Kvaratskhelia.

Of course.

He picked up the ball on the left wing.

Valverde lunged—

Swish!

Gone.

Dalot stepped up—

Tap-tap!

Passed.

And then, thirty yards from goal, Kvaratskhelia shifted the ball to his right foot, wound up, and—

BOOM!!!

A rocket. No backlift. No warning. Just raw violence.

The ball screamed into the top-left corner like it had been fired from a cannon.

SLAM!

GOAL!

Napoli 2 – 1 United(4 – 3 aggregate)

The stadium exploded.