The Greatest of all Time

Chapter 761: Epilogue

The long table in the Liverpool house was covered in simple things. Roast chicken, sweet potatoes, a bowl of salad that the twins had attacked before anyone sat down. Kristin poured water and nudged a phone off the table with a look. The youngest, their daughter, swung her legs and hummed a tune from an old club song. Outside, the sky over the Mersey held the last thin stripes of evening.

Zachary watched them with the kind of quiet you earn. He was already forty-three, retired, and finally allowed to breathe without counting the days to the next match. He lifted his glass and clinked it gently against Kristin's. No speeches. Just a smile that said enough.

"Tell us the story of the free kick again," one of the boys asked. He meant the one in Istanbul. Or Barcelona. There were so many now that even the family mixed them up.

"Wait until after dinner," Kristin said, but she was smiling too. She still wore that grounded calm that steadied him through the storms.

Zachary reached for another piece of bread and caught the framed photos on the sideboard. Bukavu in grainy black and white. Trondheim in winter. Turin in sunshine. Anfield under lights.

He felt nostalgia move through him like a slow tide. The roar of crowds belonged to another room now. Here there was clatter, small jokes, the scrape of plates. He did not miss the pressure. He missed the rhythm, maybe. The rituals. Tape on the ankles, scent of cut grass, the small prayer in the tunnel before the first whistle. He looked at his hands and saw a career's worth of scars. Then he looked at his family and felt the answer that had taken years to learn.

After dinner the twins started clearing dishes without being asked. Their daughter wandered off and returned with a marker to draw on his forearm. Kristin shook her head and handed him a cloth. He let the line stay for a moment, then wiped it clean. It felt like a tiny farewell to a life he had lived at full speed.

His mind drifted to the first step that had taken him so far from home. NF Academy in Norway. A dorm room that smelled of detergent and ambition. Mornings that bit at your throat when you ran. Coaches who spoke softly, enforced strict routines, and watched closely. He learned more than drills there. He learned the discipline that would define him. Eat right. Sleep right. Do the work when no one is watching. The system had lit the path, but the steps were his.

Rosenborg came next, and with it the feeling that the world could tilt in your favor if you kept showing up. He exploded there. League titles in a ground that made winter feel like a friend. Fans who sang his name in a language he was still learning. A Europa night that felt like a fairy tale written in real time. He became the kid everyone watched. A wonder to some, a problem to defenders, a promise to himself.

Then Turin. Juventus turned him from phenomenon into force. He grew sharper and colder in the spaces that decide matches. Serie A became a rhythm he mastered. Two Champions League titles that restored a giant's pride. He learned to carry a club's weight without letting it crush him. His first Ballon d'Or nominations arrived like letters he had been writing for years. Not surprises. Confirmations.

Just before the chapter closed in Italy, he made the choice that would echo far beyond club walls. He switched to Ivory Coast and caught a nation's dream with both hands.

The 2018 World Cup became a parade of belief. He wore orange and felt every step vibrate through a continent. When the final whistle went and history shifted, he stood beneath confetti that tasted like rain and salt, and he thought of Bukavu and the woman who had raised him. The medal around his neck felt heavy with more than gold.

Liverpool called after that, and he walked through the gates at Melwood knowing it would be the centerpiece of everything. From 2018 to 2032 the club and the player grew into each other. He won Champions Leagues and Premier Leagues and nights that made the city feel like a living thing with a pulse you could touch. The Club World Cup, the Super Cups, the domestic cups that demanded grit in cold midweeks. He became the club's all-time top scorer. Nearly a thousand in red. Numbers that made heads shake and old records look small.

The Ballon d'Ors piled up until they stopped feeling like a count and started feeling like a drumbeat. Fourteen in total. He never chased them. He chased performances that deserved them. The world argued for a while about the greatest of all time. Then it ran out of counterpoints.

The second World Cup with Ivory Coast came late, just when some thought the legs might slow. His influence had already built academies, fields, and leagues across West and Central Africa. The team that lifted the trophy was a product of a decade of work done in the shadows. Better pitches. Better coaching. A belief that did not wobble when the pressure rose. He stood on the podium with younger men who called him big brother and felt the circle close.

At Liverpool the years rolled on with a steady hum. He adapted as the game shifted. When teams tightened spaces, he passed earlier. When they dropped off, he took the shot. He conserved energy without losing edge. The SSS engine that had once been a miracle became a habit he understood. He trained smarter. He recovered better. He left no room for chaos.

When the time came at thirty-eight, he left Anfield the way he had always wanted to. On his feet. No farewell built on pity. He waved to the Kop with a steady hand and a heart that felt full. He could have stopped then. The club would have retired two numbers for him if they could. But Saudi Arabia called with an offer that made every accountant breathe in and every pundit talk.

He took it because he was honest with himself. He still loved the game. He wanted a slower rhythm and new horizons for his kids. He wanted to build a final cushion for a future where he would be the one writing checks instead of signing contracts.

The league was softer, yes, but the joy was real. He scored, he mentored, he lifted a few more cups, and he watched his family learn another corner of the world. The paycheck dwarfed anything Ronaldo had signed years ago. The respect was just as large.

Through it all, the numbers kept growing in quiet ways. Goals that would outlast him. Assists that felt as good as any strike from distance. He built companies alongside seasons. Bitcoin had been the wild gamble he cashed out of in 2022. Tesla and a portfolio of patient bets gave him the stability he wanted. Real estate in Abidjan, Lubumbashi, Bukavu, Trondheim, Liverpool, and Leeds turned into roots that could not be shaken.

He had bought ten percent of Leeds years back, a nod to a project that felt honest. After Saudi, he pushed the stake higher with a team of advisors who were not impressed by fame. It was not smooth. There were boardroom fights and headlines that called him stubborn. He smiled and stayed the course. Ownership in the end. A new role. A new way to shape the game without lacing up.

Kristin placed a small slice of cake in front of him and tapped his hand. "You are drifting," she said softly.

"I am remembering," he answered.

"Good. Just do not live there."

He nodded. He never did for long. But memory was a good teacher, and tonight it felt like a gentle one. He looked at the twins and saw old hunger in new eyes. He looked at his daughter and saw the reason he learned to say no to the wrong things.

When the table was cleared and the house settled, he lingered a moment longer, feeling the years line up like trophies in a quiet room. He had done enough to fill a lifetime and still wanted to give more. The game had taken him from dust to light and returned him to a table where the only applause that mattered came in the form of laughter.

Later, the news rolled on in the background, a mix of league highlights and political chatter. Zachary hardly listened. His daughter had curled up on his lap, her small breaths soft against his chest, and the weight of her felt like the gentlest anchor in the world.

Across the room Kristin sat with a book half-open, watching the two of them more than the pages. When the little one finally drifted off, Zachary lifted her carefully, exchanged a glance with Kristin, and carried her upstairs.

Her room was scattered with dolls and a half-finished drawing of a lion in orange. He tucked her in, brushed a curl from her forehead, and stood a moment longer than he needed to. Then he eased the door shut and padded back down the stairs.

The house was quiet now. The twins had disappeared into their own corner of the evening, Kristin tidied a cup in the kitchen, and Zachary poured himself a glass of water. He leaned against the counter, the hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the clock filling the silence. Kristin glanced at him and smiled.

"Don't stay too long in there," she said, knowing the habit he carried.

"I won't," he answered. He kissed her cheek, then slipped into the study.

The room smelled faintly of paper and old wood. Shelves lined with books and folders, a framed jersey or two, and a desk that had seen more late-night scribbles than contracts in recent years. He opened the diary, its pages already marked with neat columns of goals met and those carried forward. His pen hovered. He felt the ritual settle over him: review the day, set the next, keep moving forward.

But before he wrote, a movement at the edge of his vision snapped him upright. A shadow bent in the corner though no light had changed. The pen dropped with a faint tap against the page. His heart kicked once, hard.

Then the air seemed to ripple. The figure was there, not aged, not softened, the same presence that had once stood over him in dim rooms and whispered impossible things into the marrow of his bones. The Phantom.

Zachary's first instinct was to push back from the chair, but his body stayed frozen. The years fell away in a single rush.

The Phantom's voice did not echo, but it filled the space all the same.

"You have walked the path as it was written. Dust to glory. From silence into song. The world called you gifted. They did not see the hand that steadied your climb. And yet—" The figure tilted, as if studying him through layers of memory. "And yet you chose. That is why it endured. Discipline, not only power. Purpose, not only hunger. That is why history bent."

Zachary gripped the edge of the desk. His mouth opened, but no sound came.

"The records will speak your name," the Phantom continued, tone half-shadow, half-reverence. "But the true ledger is deeper. The boy who learned in cold mornings. The man who lifted nations. The father who sets the table with laughter. You became more than a vessel. You became yourself."

The study seemed smaller, the lamplight trembling as if uncertain of its task.

"What happens now?" Zachary finally whispered.

The Phantom did not answer directly. Instead, its shape blurred at the edges, and with a final flicker of presence, a last line drifted into the air, more felt than heard.

"The game was never the end. There's a bigger stage out there… the likes beyond your imagination. Remember that that will be your next stage when the time is right."

And then it was gone. The chair beneath him creaked. The pen lay still on the diary, the ink smudged where his hand had trembled.

Zachary sat back, lungs burning as if he had run a sprint. He turned toward the door, half expecting Kristin to appear, but the house remained hushed, untouched. Slowly, he picked up the pen again. He looked at the empty page, then wrote one line across the top.

Keep building.

The words steadied him. Outside, the night held Liverpool in a quiet embrace. Inside, Zachary felt the old fire stir, not as a burden but as a reminder.

He was retired. He was at peace. And still, somehow, the story was not finished.

---THE END---

Dear Readers,

From the very first chapter to this final page, you have walked with me through Zachary's journey. It has not always been a smooth road. There were moments when updates slowed, and times when life pulled me away from writing. Yet your patience and encouragement carried me forward. Without your support, this story would never have reached its end.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who has read, commented, or simply waited for the next chapter. You made this more than a story on a page. You made it a shared journey.

Now that Zachary's tale has reached its conclusion, I hope you will continue with me into the next adventure. A new main book is already taking shape, and your support will mean as much there as it has here.

Thank you for being part of this long and unforgettable ride.

With gratitude,

Mujunel.