The Football Legends System-Chapter 73: The Bernabéu Burns Bright

Chapter 73 – The Bernabéu Burns Bright

"The Champiooooons..."

The anthem rolled like thunder through the Santiago Bernabéu, each note crashing against the walls of history. Flags waved in synchronized defiance.

The pitch shimmered under a thousand spotlights. On the jumbotron, flashes of Zidane’s volley, Ronaldo’s hat-trick, Ramos’ header in Lisbon played like sacred scripture.

In the tunnel, the sound bled in through the walls.

Nathan stood tall.

He shifted slightly on his toes, breathing in slow, deep pulls. The concrete beneath his boots, the leather of his gloves, the subtle musk of liniment cream on his wrists—it all felt hyperreal.

To his left, Bruno Fernandes tightened his armband. Stoic.

To his right, Emre Demir.

The kid’s eyes were wide, mouth slightly open, like someone watching their favorite film unfold in real time.

Nathan leaned in. "You ready?"

Emre blinked, then nodded once. "Ready!!."

He doesn’t even realize it yet, Nathan thought. But this is how legends are born.

The tunnel light turned green.

The officials moved.

The roar hit the.

BOOM!!

The stadium erupted. Flares flared. Chants soared. Every footstep out of the tunnel felt like walking into a storm.

Real Madrid. Manchester United. Quarterfinals. Bernabéu.

And somewhere inside that hurricane of noise and history, Nathan Perry found stillness.

Thirty minutes earlier – Inside the United dressing room

Amorim’s voice was sharp, but not rushed.

"This isn’t just the Round of 16...."

He looked each player in the eye, one by one.

"Forget the badge on their chest. Forget the noise. Tonight, you play with no chains."

His gaze fell on Emre.

"Demir. You’re starting on the right wing."

Emre jolted. "Me?"

"You."

A pause. "I want you."

Emre swallowed hard, then nodded. "I’ll give it everything, coach."

From the other side of the room, Nathan stood up and stepped forward. His voice was low.

"I’ve dreamed of this night all my life..." He looked at each of his teammates. "Now it’s time to shine."

No speech. Just truth.

Amorim didn’t reply, just gave a subtle nod and turned back to the tactics board.

---

The Santiago Bernabéu wasn’t just full—

Drums pounded. Flags whipped.

Real Madrid in white. Regal.

Manchester United in black. Steeled.

Nathan stepped onto the pitch and squinted up into the lights. They didn’t blink. Neither did the thousands of cameras tracking his every move.

Mbappé to my right. Vinícius to my left...

Is this the match I’ve been waiting for?

He felt a firm pat on his shoulder.

Casemiro.

The veteran’s eyes weren’t smiling—but his voice was calm.

"Stay calm," he said. "Fight like I did when I played here."

Nathan nodded.

Bruno’s voice rang out next.

"Let’s go, boys! Play like true Red Devils!"

The huddle tightened. Eleven shadows under Madrid’s lights.

---

The whistle was at the referee’s lips.

The Bernabéu buzzed with electric anticipation.

Then—suddenly—everything froze.

Nathan blinked.

What...?

A blue screen flickered in his vision—no one else reacted. Only him.

Ding!

[Congratulations!][You’ve met the requirements to unlock a Random Legendary Spirit!]

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

[YES]

What is this...? Not now—

But his body moved without resistance. His vision narrowed. The stadium, the players, the very air shifted.

[Unlocking...]

[Congratulations!][You’ve acquired: Spirit of Thierry Henry!]

——

Thierry Henry...?!

—

—

The whistle blew.

And Madrid came.

The white shirts surged forward.

First minute.

Vinícius exploded down the left, skipping past Dalot with a stutter step.

"Dammit!" Dalot growled, trying to recover.

Vinícius cut inside—Crack!

Blocked by Martínez.

Corner.

Second minute.

They went again.

This time, Brahim Díaz drifted centrally, tugging Valverde and Casemiro with him.

Mbappé, lurking like a shadow, darted wide into the gap.

Zip!

Díaz slid the ball through—Mbappé curled a cross—

Too deep.

Goal kick.

But the rhythm didn’t stop.

Fourth minute.

Tchouaméni surged forward, toe-poking it into Bellingham’s feet.

Bellingham turned—Boom!—a no-look pass wide to Vinícius.

Dalot was already beaten again. Cross. Near post.

Martínez hurled his body across.

Thud!

Cleared.

–––––

"Nathan!" Amorim roared from the sideline. "Track the overlap!"

"I see it!" Nathan snapped, sprinting back into shape.

His lungs burned—but his mind was eerily clear. Too clear.

Every Madrid movement was fast. Fluid.

But inside, Nathan felt time stretch. The moment he locked eyes with the ball, the noise dulled. His breathing synced with the rhythm of the game.

Cold-blooded composure... this must be what it means.

But even composure couldn’t stop what was coming.

–––––

Fourteenth minute.

Casemiro received the ball near the defensive line and tried a blind turn to Valverde.

Tch!

Too slow.

Tchouaméni read it. Intercepted clean.

"NÃO!" Casemiro barked, chasing—but too late.

Madrid was already off.

Tchouaméni—one touch.

Mbappé received it with space at the edge of the box.

No hesitation.

BOOOOM!

A rocket flew off his left foot.

Onana dove—

SLAP!

Fingers to it—But the ball still ripped past and slammed into the net.

GOAL!.

Real Madrid 1 – 0 Manchester United

The stadium exploded.

"Kylian! Kylian! Kylian!"

The chant echoed. White shirts flooded toward the corner flag, and Mbappé raised his arms.

Onana slammed the turf in frustration. Varane clapped twice, barking at the backline.

Nathan stood still.

A hush fell over his thoughts.

–––––

He jogged back to the center circle, his gaze cutting toward Mbappé.

The Frenchman glanced over.

Not a smirk.

Just confidence.

He’s not playing for highlights, Nathan realized. He’s playing for legacy.

–––––

Bruno clapped his hands. "Hey!" he shouted to the squad. "We’re still here. We fight, yeah?"

Casemiro looked apologetic but nodded grimly.

Demir looked to Nathan. "You okay?"

Nathan exhaled once.

Then he smirked.

"Yeah. I just woke up."

–––––

The ball spun toward Nathan on the left wing.

It came skipping across the turf from Bruno’s angled touch—a laser-guided pass from midfield. The Bernabéu glistened under the floodlights, a thousand camera flashes catching every movement. And there Nathan stood, one-on-one with Dani Carvajal.

Now.

He slowed.

Carvajal readied himself, crouched low, boot edges slicing the turf.

Nathan flicked the ball with the outside of his left boot.

Whoosh!

A lightning-quick feint to the inside—

Then boom!—he snapped right!

Carvajal bit.

Wrong move.

Nathan blew past him with a shoulder drop and turned on the afterburners. Camavinga closed—fast. Bellingham tracked him diagonally. But Nathan had already calculated the route.

Tap—tap!

A double feint into a drag-back—Bellingham committed—

Nathan burst forward!

"Haah...!"

The crowd held its breath.

He was flying now, boots slamming the grass with rapid-fire speed, the white line of the box looming ahead.

This is it! I just need to—

But just as he tried to cut the ball across—

Tch...!

It skipped too far ahead. A fraction too heavy.

No—!

The ball rolled over the byline.

Out of play.

Ghhk!

Nathan clenched his fists, his breath ragged. The roar of the crowd returned like a crashing wave.

"Too much," he hissed under his breath, pacing back.

His heart thundered in his ears. The energy... the feeling... it was all there—but the execution?

Off.

Just barely.

He could still feel Henry’s presence humming inside him, but Thierry Henry hadn’t scored on raw emotion—he had killed games with poise. Calm.

"I have to be more clinical," Nathan muttered to himself.