Rise of a Football God

26th April, 2026…

Saturday. 21:00.

After a day filled with restless energy and anticipation, the sun finally set in Seville, but the city was already burning with anticipation.

It's Copa del Rey final night at the Estadio La Cartuja, and the air is thick with history, hostility, and raw passion.

This isn't just a football match, it's Barcelona vs Real Madrid. El Clasico in its purest, most explosive form.

It was the moment of truth.

On the evening, the streets leading to the stadium were flanked by seas of color; Blaugrana on one side, Los Blancos on the other, split like the rivalry itself.

Flares ignite, drums thunder, and chants pierce the evening air long before the buses arrive.

Then comes the first roar, a signal.

Through a tunnel of smoke and security, the Real Madrid bus crept forward. Immediately, white jerseys swarmed the vehicle, chanting loudly.

"Hala Madrid!"

"Hala Madrid!" They chanted with already hoarse throats.

Some slapped the sides of the bus, trying to inject adrenaline directly into the veins of their heroes.

Moments later, the noise intensified again.

This time, it's Barcelona.

Their bus was greeted by an inferno of blue and red.

"Visca El Barca!"

They chanted, singing out like a war cry.

Fans pound drums, waving massive flags, and throwing confetti like it was a parade, but this parade was marching toward war.

Outside the stadium, it was a spectacle bordering on madness.

Street vendors hawk shirts and scarves while firecrackers explode like gunshots in the alleys. Impromptu chants break out at every corner, sometimes escalating into shouting matches between opposing fans separated only by lines of riot police.

The sevillano night is humid, but the tension is electric.

Songs belted through the night, beers spilled and eyes were wild.

To the fans privileged to be on the stadium on the night, they weren't just about to watch a match; rather, they were living for a moment that had the capacity to define their year.

Inside the stadium, the pregame energy was infectious, electric.

As kickoff approached, La Cartuja transformed into a cauldron.

The stands are a split battlefield. Half the stadium is swathed in Barcelona's blue and red, a mosaic of scarves, flags, and painted faces.

The other half is Real Madrid's pristine white as if they were envoys of heaven, gleaming like armor under the floodlights.

The noise? Simply deafening.

Every warm-up pass from either team was cheered or jeered.

When the big screens flash highlights of previous Clasicos, the crowd explodes with either cheers of triumph or bitter howls of rage.

On the night, there was no calm corner of the stadium.

There was no neutral zone. Not tonight.

And then, the lights dim just slightly.

Immediately, a crescendo builds. A solemn atmosphere settles in this stadium as the Copa del Rey trophy sits on its pedestal, gleaming under the spotlight.

Then, a booming voice announced the arrival of the teams.

And with it, the tunnel shakes.

First out was FC Barcelona; led by their captain, Raphinha, faces hard, eyes locked forward.

In response, the whistle of hatred rained from the Madrid side.

And then came out Real Madrid, equally unbothered, matching the intensity step for step. Now it was Barcelona's turn to jeer with venom.

As both teams line up on the pitch, the chants hit a fever pitch.

Anthems were screamed, not sung. Every fan was on their feet, fists clenched, hearts pounding in the passion for the game.

This is more than a final.

This is a war of identity. A clash of philosophies. A rivalry soaked in history, politics, pride, and hate.

Just like FC Barcelona came out with the big guns, their best starting XI, Real Madrid also held nothing back, coming out with their best.

Real Madrid started with a similar 4-2-3-1 formation, Thibaut Courtois starting in between the posts while ahead of him was a defensive quadruple of Trent Alexander Arnold, Raul Asencio, Antonio Rudiger, and Ferland Mendy.

In midfield was the solid midfield duo of Federico Valverde and Aurelien Tchouameni, while in attacking midfield was the mercurial Englishman, Jude Bellingham.

The attacking trio comprised of 2 Brazilians and a Frenchman; Vinicius Junior in left wing, Rodrygo in right wing, and Kylian Mbappe upfront as the striker.

This was a formidable lineup.

As their anthem played, the eyes of the Real Madrid players burned with fervor, Vinicius Jnr. in particular nodding in his with fire blazing in his eyes.

Kylian Mbappe was stone-faced, already locked in.

Jude Bellingham was calm; the Englishman seemed to have the uncanny ability of never losing his composure.

The FC Barcelona players matched the fervor of their opponents.

Raphinha was just like Jude Bellingham, calm and composed, including Pedri. Like Vinicius, Gavi had a fiery blaze burning in his eyes.

Lamine Yamal had a subtle smile playing in his lips as he stared at the seething stadium stands, while Alejandro Balde nonchalantly chewed on a chewing gum.

As for Sam himself?

Sam could not stay in one place.

Even as the anthem sang, his blood was already boiling. And so, he moved, swaying from one feet to the other to keep his body moving even as he clenched and unclenched his fists in intervals.

His eyes? They seemed to have narrowed into slits, like the eyes of a predatory Dragon ready to soar into the sky and hunt prey, and devour them.

It was an iconic lineup of players.

And then, the anthem was over.

The players shook hands with themselves, and then the officials, before jogging into the pitch, separating into their different side of the pitch.

The noise in the stadium rose to a crescendo with this.

The captains of both teams moved last after the referee exchanged one last words with them. Raphinha ran to his side of the pitch, while Real Madrid's captain on the night, Federico Valverde also ran to the middle of the pitch.

The referee looked at his watch, and then…

FWEEEE!

The shrill sound cut through the night like a blade.

The game started.