The Football Legends System-Chapter 58: No Mercy at Elland Road
Chapter 58: No Mercy at Elland Road
Chapter 58 - No Mercy at Elland Road
The whistle blew.
Elland Road crackled with energy. The tension wasn’t heavy. This wasn’t just any match. This was the match. A clash of memories and evolution. The past against the present.
Nathan stepped forward, his boots sinking into the familiar grass beneath him. Leeds. The club that raised him. The stadium that once chanted his name as their own.
Now, they faced him.
Hands extended across the halfway line. United and Leeds players shook in respectful silence—nothing forced, nothing fake. Just the mutual understanding that what was coming next would demand everything.
And then, he stood in front of him.
Marco.
Captain. Big brother. Enforcer.
Nathan’s eyes lit up as he smiled wide.
"Marco... I missed you."
Marco chuckled, that same gravelly laugh that used to echo through the youth locker rooms after every hard-earned win.
"We missed you more, Nathan..." His expression shifted, tightening with a grin that held no warmth. "But today, there’ll be no mercy."
Nathan’s smile didn’t fade. In fact, it deepened—calm.
"That’s exactly what I want."
Thud! Thud!
The ball dropped, and the rhythm of the game began. Passes flew across the turf, boots clashing, defenders biting, midfielders weaving their webs.
12th minute.
United struck first.
Valverde caught a loose touch near the halfway line and exploded forward. One quick layoff to Zirkzee, who waited just outside the Leeds box—eyes darting, pulse steady.
"Nathan!"
The pass came sharp and true.
Nathan met it in stride. No wasted motion.
Crack!
A thunderous left-footed shot lashed toward the top corner—pure. For a second, time slowed.
And then—Boom!
A full-stretch save. Gloved fingers grazing the edge. Leeds’ keeper—Benno Clarke, the same shot-stopper who once helped Nathan through shooting drills—had read it. Just barely.
The crowd gasped, then erupted. Not just in celebration—but in recognition.
From the Leeds stands, a chant rose through the noise. Disbelief.
"Naaa-than Perryyy!"
He heard it. Felt it in his chest.
It shook him—just a little.
"Still chanting my name...?" he muttered under his breath as he jogged back. "Even now?"
22nd minute.
Leeds pushed back. Tyler Brown bulldozed down the left, shrugging off Dalot and swinging in a cross that nearly grazed the head of their striker, Lorrie Myles. United’s keeper, Onana, had to punch clear with both fists.
Boom!
But United absorbed the pressure. Casemiro barked orders. Bruno stitched passing lanes back together. And Valverde... he was a machine—tireless.
Nathan waited.
He felt the tide shifting again.
37th minute.
Valverde glanced up.
It was subtle—just a twitch of the eyes.
But Nathan knew.
The pass came quick, low, precise. Straight through the channel. Nathan took off like a phantom, gliding between defenders like they weren’t even there.
One touch. Another. The box opened wide.
Benno Clarke stepped forward again, bracing for the strike. Expecting the cannon.
But this time, Nathan didn’t blast.
He whispered.
Tch.
A feather-light touch with his instep, so smooth it looked lazy. A cool, grounded finish. No rush. No panic.
Thud... roll... click!
The net rippled, silent and sudden. A goal, clean as glass.
GOOOOOAL!
The stadium howled, but Nathan didn’t raise his arms. He didn’t scream. He didn’t jump.
Instead, he turned slowly. Hands up.
Palms open. Apologetic.
He looked toward the Leeds stands—those who had cheered his rise, those who had cried when he left. He pointed, gently, and mouthed the words:
"I’m sorry..."
The camera caught it. Every viewer saw.
A boy once theirs. Now a man apart.
Marco jogged past him on the way back to the center. He reached out, slapping Nathan’s shoulder.
"Beautiful, Nathan... Your heart hasn’t changed."
Nathan exhaled through his nose, a quiet smile in his throat.
"Neither has yours."
Marco snorted.
"Maybe."
----
61st minute.
Thud!
The ball arced in from the corner. Valverde’s delivery—textbook. Driven low with a wicked curl. It zipped through the crowded six-yard box.
Boom!
Zirkzee rose, his header slicing the air with pure violence. The Leeds goalkeeper lunged—but it was already past him.
GOOOOAAAL!!
Old Trafford shook. A roar erupted. The scoreboard flicked to
2–0, and United’s bench burst up in celebration.
Nathan didn’t cheer. He stood near the edge of the box, watching Zirkzee sprint away, arms wide, chest out.
Instead, Nathan exhaled slowly, letting the sound of the stadium pass over him.
This... might be the last time I face them this season.
Maybe the last time ever.
He glanced across the field. The Leeds players had sagged. Fatigue etched into their movements. But their eyes... they still burned. Marco, especially.
Leeds’ captain had fire in every step.
65th minute.
Leeds tried to bite back. Their left winger—a pace merchant named Finn Doyle—sprinted down the flank, dancing past Dalot with a filthy heel chop.
Whoosh!
Cross whipped in.
Dangerous.
But Martinez was already there.
Thud!
Cleared with a no-nonsense header, straight to Valverde. And just like that, the tempo flipped.
Thud-thud-thud!
United’s midfield trio sprung into rhythm. Smooth. Relentless. Casemiro switched it wide, Bruno punched a one-touch pass forward—
—and Nathan was off again.
But this time... he didn’t chase it.
He turned back.
Looked to the bench.
Raised a hand.
75th minute.
The fourth official lifted the board.
Number 10 OUT – Number 39 IN.
Applause started slowly... then swelled. Not just from the home stands—but from the traveling Leeds supporters, too.
Nathan walked toward the sideline, drenched in sweat, jaw tight. The game wasn’t over, but his part was.
His boots scraped the turf with every step. He didn’t look into the crowd until the very end. When he did... he saw it.
A Leeds banner.
Old, tattered, but still proud.
"NATHAN PERRY – ONCE OURS, FOREVER OURS."
It hit him like a punch to the chest.
Then he looked to the sideline—and Marco was waiting.
The Leeds captain stepped forward, arms open.
Nathan embraced him without hesitation. Two brothers from different trenches.
Marco’s voice was low, rough from shouting all match.
"We’ll never forget what you gave us... It’s an honor."
Nathan pulled back, locking eyes with him.
"Stay strong, Marco... Don’t get relegated."
A short nod. No more words. Nothing needed to be said.
Nathan jogged the last few steps to the bench. The crowd still clapped. The noise hadn’t died.
Final whistle.
Manchester United 2 – 0 Leeds United.
Nathan sat on the bench, a towel over his head, eyes fixed on the field.
Zirkzee patted him on the back.
"Didn’t think you’d come off early. Getting soft?"
Nathan gave a dry smile.
"Giving the others a taste."
"Right, right. The king has to rest."
Laughter.
But Nathan’s mind was already drifting.
Post-match. Media Room.
The microphones clicked on. Flashes popped. Reporters buzzed.
Nathan sat calmly in front of the BBC’s camera, still in his sweat-stained kit.
The reporter leaned forward, eyebrows raised.
"Nathan, a composed performance today. You scored a brilliant goal, but you didn’t celebrate. Mind telling us why?"
A pause.
Nathan looked down for a moment. Then met the camera with steady eyes.
"Because I owe everything to that team."
Silence.
Then, another question.
"Was it difficult? Facing your old teammates?"
"Emotionally... yeah."
"But football doesn’t wait. I play for United now. I gave everything for Leeds, but today... I did my job."
--
Tunnel. After the interviews.
Marco was waiting again, already holding his shirt out.
Nathan handed his over without a word.
White for red.
They exchanged kits.
