The Football Legends System-Chapter 65: Let’s see what this skill can do

Chapter 65 – Let’s see what this skill can do

The Carrington meeting room was still—too still.

Rúben Amorim stood at the front, arms folded.

"You know what I hate the most about football?" he asked.

No one answered.

"It doesn’t wait."

He stepped forward.

"Three days ago, we were embarrassed. Nottingham didn’t just beat us—they walked over us. But we’re not here to mourn that."

A pause.

He clicked the remote in his hand. The screen behind him lit up: the Champions League logo swirling in gold and blue.

"Because now... we face a historic opportunity."

Amorim’s voice lowered, becoming something heavier.

"Champions League. Round of 16. Tuesday night. Napoli."

The screen flashed to footage—Nathan’s thunderous strike from the first leg. The eruption at Old Trafford. Onana’s desperate, fingertip save. The final whistle. 2–2. Still alive.

Amorim let the clip run a moment longer, then killed the screen.

"This is our chance. Everything we want—respect, glory —it’s right there. But you have to want it more than they do. You have to fight like your future depends on it."

Then his eyes landed on Nathan.

"Are you ready to prove who you are?"

He just nodded. Once. Slow.

And Amorim nodded back.

Later that day.

Valverde sat beside Nathan in the player’s lounge, kicking his boots off lazily, one leg over the other.

"You know what the worst part of being good is?" he said.

"Everyone forgets the months you built something. One bad game?" He snapped his fingers. Snap! "Suddenly you’re a fraud."

Nathan chuckled under his breath.

Valverde turned his head toward him.

"But you’ve built a lot, Nathan. And people forget things fast, yeah—but they also remember fast... if you remind them."

Nathan looked down at the floor.

"I felt useless."

"You looked useless," Valverde added bluntly, then grinned. "But that’s not who you are."

"Don’t tear it down yourself. "

3:00 p.m. – Carrington Film Room

The lights dimmed. The screen flared to life again.

It wasn’t a match analysis. It wasn’t tactics or positioning.

A video.

Music. Highlights.

Nathan’s goal against Napoli—BOOM!!—rattling the top of the net.

The crowd roaring.

Rashford’s scream as he hugged him.

Cut to Onana—flying through the air, full stretch, palms just enough to tip the ball over the bar.

CLANG!

The post shook, and he rolled up, thumping his chest.

Nathan watched it all in silence.

--

Training.

Just boots on grass. The pounding of lungs. Shouts cutting through the air.

THUD!

Nathan’s first pass—crisp. Right through the lines.

Hah!

He sprinted into space, received it again, fired a shot—CRACK!—off the inside of the post.

Next drill. Rondo.

Nathan darted in, caught Bruno off guard, tapped it clean, and sent it back to Martinez.

"Oi!" Bruno laughed. "You’re trying to win the Ballon d’Or in training or what?"

Valverde smirked on the sideline, hands on hips.

"Guess the ghost woke up."

One drill bled into another. Possession games. Finishing. Sprints.

Huff... huff... THUMP... CRACK!

Over and over, Nathan pushed like something inside him had snapped—and begun burning.

"Tuesday, against Napoli... we fight. We all fight. Until the final whistle. Until there’s nothing left."

————

The Diego Armando Maradona Stadium pulsed like a living, breathing beast.

Blue flares lit the stands. Thunderous chants shook the night sky.

"NAPOLI! NAPOLI! NAPOLI!"

The noise was Heavy.. And somewhere beneath it all, standing on the edge of the center circle, Nathan Perry stared up into the darkness above.

A flicker.

[ Skill Unlocked – Jude Bellingham’s Passing]

His eyes narrowed.

Passing...? Now?

He kicked at the turf—hard.

"Why now? Passing?! At a time when we need finishing and decisiveness... Is this my punishment for Nottingham?"

The images hadn’t stopped haunting him: the misplaced pass, the hollow stare, the sarcastic applause as he walked off. His lowest moment. He had thought the fire would return with a clean slate.

Haaah.

Fine. Let’s see what this skill can do.

The whistle blew.

Kickoff.

The game exploded from the first second.

Napoli surged. Quick touches, overlapping runs, wide switches. Kvaratskhelia was a blur on the left, pulling Dalot into chaos. Osimhen prowled the final third, ready to pounce on any mistake.

Seventh minute.

Thud!

Valverde won a midfield duel and flicked it forward. Nathan didn’t wait—he took a glance, saw the run, and let instinct take over.

Tap.

A disguised ball slid through the tiniest of lanes between two Napoli shirts.

Chk!

Valverde burst onto it inside the box. Shot—!

BAM!!

A brilliant save! Meret launched himself low and stretched just enough to get his gloves on it.

"Oooffff...!" the crowd groaned.

Nathan clenched his jaw, already turning back. No time to dwell. The pass had been right. Everything else? Out of his hands.

Minute 12.

Danger.

Kvaratskhelia cut inside, fed Anguissa. One touch—then a reverse pass to Osimhen!

WHACK!!

Onana exploded off his line.

SLAM!!

Palmed it wide. The ball cannoned into the advertising boards. Gasps from all corners.

"Onana!!" Martinez barked, slapping palms with the keeper.

Minute 14.

The tempo kept rising. No time to breathe. It was move, pass, receive, release—over and over again.

Nathan’s vision felt different. Sharper.

Minute 19.

Napoli pressed high. Bruno dropped deep.

Nathan drifted to the right channel, back to goal. One touch, then he pivoted—saw it.

Boom!

A long ball—spinning, curling—ripped through midfield.

Zirkzee sprinted, leapt—!

Thud!

Header—just over!

"Aaaaahhhhhh—!!" the crowd groaned again, louder this time.

Valverde pointed at Nathan. "What a ball!"

Amorim was clapping on the touchline. "Well done, Nathan... keep going!!"

Nathan didn’t respond.

Inside, he was starting to understand.

Bellingham’s passing—it’s not about assists. It’s about control. Dictating tempo.

25th minute.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The rhythm of Nathan’s boots on the turf matched the pounding in his chest. The ball stuck to his foot like a magnet as he surged through the heart of Napoli’s midfield—one touch to drag past Zieliński, a feint to freeze Anguissa.

Then—tap—he slipped through the gap between them.

"Come on... go!" he hissed, eyes darting ahead.

He spotted Valverde making the inside run. Just a step behind Rrahmani.

Nathan didn’t think—he saw it.

A no-look pass. Weighted. Curved.

Chk!

Valverde broke through. One touch to settle. Then—BOOM!

The shot rocketed toward goal.

CLANG!!

The crossbar shook violently as the ball crashed against it and ricocheted high into the air. The crowd screamed—half in despair, half in relief.

"ARGHHH!!" Valverde slammed his fist into the turf, teeth clenched.

Nathan stood still. Eyes on the bar. Jaw tight.

So close.

He turned away before the ball even landed.

"Next time," he muttered.

United were growing. The flow was shifting.

The ball was starting to obey him.

And yet—the goal hadn’t come.

Not yet.