Limitless Pitch-Chapter 79 – Crowning Glory

The floodlights blazed above the pitch like captured stars, their white-hot glow cutting through the São Paulo night. Confetti rained down in torrents of green and white, swirling in the air like a hurricane of celebration, each piece catching the light before settling on the grass. Smoke cannons erupted near the stands, great plumes of emerald and ivory billowing into the sky, while the stadium speakers thundered with a triumphant samba rhythm—though no one could hear it over the deafening roar of the Palmeiras faithful. Their voices shook the very foundations of the Neo Química Arena, a sound so immense it seemed to press against Thiago’s chest as he stood there, breathing it all in.

On the hastily erected stage at midfield, the team gathered in a tight, sweaty circle. Coaches, staff, players—everyone who had bled for this moment. Eneas stood with a rare smile tugging at his usually stern features, his arm slung around Rafael’s shoulder. He wasn’t a man prone to joy, but tonight, the pride in his eyes was unmistakable. He looked every bit the victorious general surveying a hard-won battlefield.

Thiago stood at the heart of it all, his skin still slick with sweat, his muscles singing with exhaustion. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, his legs heavy as lead, his lungs still burning from the relentless second-half surge. But his heart?

It was full.

Nando approached, his eyes glassy, the tension between them long since burned away in the fire of their comeback. He bumped Thiago’s shoulder, then held it there for a second longer than usual, his grip firm.

"You saved us," he muttered, voice rough.

Thiago shook his head. "We saved each other."

Rafael, the captain, stepped forward to receive the gleaming Campeonato Paulista trophy from the Federação Paulista official. The silver cup caught the floodlights, its surface so polished it seemed to glow. The weight of history hung in the air—decades of rivalry, of pain, of glory, all distilled into this moment.

Rafael turned, his face alight with something fierce, and raised the trophy high—

BOOM.

The explosion of noise that followed nearly swallowed the world. Fireworks burst overhead, painting the sky in emerald streaks. The stands trembled under the force of forty thousand voices screaming as one.

"CAMPEÃO! CAMPEÃO!"

The chant was rhythmic, endless, a tidal wave of sound that washed over the pitch.

Hands reached for the trophy—Thiago’s among them—as the team hoisted it together, a messy, chaotic, beautiful tangle of limbs and sweat and pure, unfiltered joy. Photographers crowded the edge of the stage, their flashbulbs popping like gunfire, each burst of light freezing a fragment of history. frёeωebɳovel.com

Someone shoved a bottle of champagne into Thiago’s hands. He shook it hard, then let the cork fly, the foam spraying in a great arc, drenching his shirt, his teammates, the trophy itself. Laughter erupted around him, loud and unburdened.

"This is ours!" Rafael bellowed, his voice hoarse. "This is fucking ours!"

Thiago grinned, tipping the bottle back, the sharp fizz of champagne hitting his tongue. Around him, the team sang, their voices off-key but full of soul, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders as they swayed in unison.

Later, in the locker room, Thiago sat on the bench, still half in his gear, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from his veins. The noise from the celebrations outside seeped through the walls, a distant hum of music and laughter.

Then, quietly, the System made itself known.

Quest Complete – Crowning Glory

Objective: Win the final.

Status: Complete.

Rewards:

+1 to all base stats

Additional Progress Detected:

Due to individual skill development during critical match phases:

+1 Passing

+1 Dribbling

+1 Pace

Total stat growth:

(+1) All base stats

(+1) Passing (additional)

(+1) Dribbling (additional)

(+1) Pace (additional)

Thiago exhaled, flexing his hands. It didn’t feel like some grand revelation. It felt earned.

Every sprint. Every bruise. Every drop of sweat. Every moment of doubt.

He had clawed his way back. And now, he was stronger for it.

Stepping into the media zone, Thiago squinted against the harsh glare of the press lights. His boots were heavy with dried mud, his jersey still damp with sweat and champagne. And waiting for him, mic in hand—

Lucia.

Her sharp eyes crinkled slightly as she smiled. "Back again," she said. "Except this time, with silverware."

"Feels good," Thiago replied, his voice low but steady.

"Thiago Silva—hero of the final, a second-half performance for the ages. Two goals, one assist. People are already calling it iconic. What’s your reaction?"

He shrugged lightly, a crooked smile breaking through. "I just... didn’t want to lose. None of us did."

She arched a brow. "And what about the talk of a move to Europe? Is the Paulista title your last act in Brazil?"

A pause. Thiago glanced away, then back, his expression unreadable. "It might be. My agent’s handling things. But this—tonight—this was the goal. I’ll let tomorrow figure itself out."

Lucia nodded. "And if it is goodbye... you couldn’t have written it better."

After the interviews, after the noise began to fade into something softer, Thiago found them.

His mother stood near the tunnel, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. And beside her, Clara, drowning in a Palmeiras jersey four sizes too big, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Mãe," Thiago breathed, stepping forward.

She didn’t speak. Instead, she pulled him into a crushing embrace, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if to convince herself he was real. When she finally pulled back, her voice was thick.

"You were brilliant."

Clara didn’t wait for an invitation. She launched herself at him, her arms wrapping around his waist. "I screamed when you scored the volley! Everyone did! You’re all over the TV! They keep showing it again and again!"

Thiago laughed, the sound warm and unrestrained, and pulled her tighter. "Glad you came."

"As if we’d miss it," his mother murmured, brushing a hand over his damp hair. "After everything... this is what you deserved."

They stood there for a long moment, the three of them, the chaos of the stadium fading into background noise. Around them, players’ families mingled, laughter and Portuguese filling the air.

As the night wore on, the celebrations began to wind down. The music softened. The crowd thinned.

Thiago found Rafael near the tunnel, the captain leaning against the wall, a contented smile on his face.

"Hell of a way to send us off, huh?" Rafael said, glancing at him.

Thiago frowned. "Send us off?"

Rafael chuckled. "Come on. You think after tonight, Europe isn’t calling? For both of us?"

Thiago didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked out at the pitch, now littered with confetti and discarded streamers.

"If it happens," he finally said, "it’s because of nights like this."

Rafael clapped him on the shoulder. "Damn right."

A pause. Then, quieter:

"No matter where we go... this stays with us."

Thiago nodded. "Yeah. It does."

The stadium lights began to dim, one by one, their glow softening into something gentler. The last of the fans had trickled out, their songs still echoing in the distance.

Thiago stood at the center circle, alone now, his boots pressing into the grass.

Somewhere beyond these walls, the world was already moving. Transfers. Negotiations. The next challenge.

But here, in this moment, there was only the quiet.

The weight of the trophy in his hands.

The warmth of his family’s embrace.

The knowledge that, no matter what came next—

This was where it began.

End of Book Two – Breathing the Game

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