I just saw Luka Zoric story end. Kinda sad about that one, it was one of my favorite stories in Webnovel and I took some inspiration from it as well.
I wish the author the best.
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May 21, 2016 | Wembley Stadium
The rain eased into a fine mist, as if even the clouds had stopped to watch. Floodlights glistened against puddles of gold confetti. The announcer's voice echoed through Wembley, rolling across ninety thousand trembling hearts.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Her Majesty The Queen, accompanied by Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, for the presentation of the 2016 Emirates FA Cup."
The Queen hadn't attended a domestic cup final in decades — not since the days when football still felt smaller, simpler. But tonight was no ordinary night.
Tonight, the underdogs of England had become its kings.
Four trophies.
Undefeated.
A feat never achieved in the history of football — not in England, not anywhere.
And it wasn't done by one of the giants.
Not by Liverpool with their six European crowns.
Not by Arsenal, not by Manchester United, not by Real Madrid, Barcelona, AC Milan, or Bayern Munich.
It was done by Leicester City.
The club that was once fighting relegation while others fought for glory.
The club that had turned dreams into doctrine, belief into silver, hope into history.
Tonight, they stood among even the giants.
Up in the royal box, Her Majesty rose slowly.
The rain caught the light around her umbrella, turning every droplet to silver.
The anthem swelled through the mist — "God Save the Queen."
Down on the pitch, the Leicester players gathered at the foot of the grand staircase, drenched, trembling, undone by joy. Their shirts clung to them, soaked with rain and champagne and history.
Vardy's hair was plastered to his forehead. Kanté was laughing through tears, bouncing on his toes as if he still had energy left to run another ninety minutes. Mahrez had the Algerian flag draped around his shoulders like a royal cloak, his grin wide and disbelieving.
And Tristan — their captain, their prodigy — stood at the front, shoulders shaking, eyes glistening, eyes almost red from tears that won't stop.
As the royal procession began to descend the steps, applause rolled through Wembley like thunder softened by rain. Prince William and the Duchess led the way, but all eyes were on the Queen, her umbrella held just above her, her gaze fixed on the team that had made the impossible real.
When she reached the bottom, she paused for a moment, taking in the sight before her — the players lined up in royal blue, confetti at their feet, tears on their faces.
Then, with that gentle voice that carried through generations, she spoke:
"Well," she said, her smile widening, "I do believe I've just seen the finest fairytale England has ever written."
A ripple of laughter and emotion passed through the line. Even Ranieri laughed, bowing slightly. "Grazie, Your Majesty," he murmured.
The Queen stepped forward, shaking hands with each player in turn.
"Mr. Vardy," she said, her tone amused. "You've caused quite a few sleepless nights for defenders this season."
Vardy grinned, cheeks red. "Sorry about that, ma'am. Won't happen again… maybe." She chuckled softly before moving down the line speaking to each player.
Finally, she stopped before Tristan whose tears finally stopped. The young man's lip trembled. His eyes were red. He bowed his head. When he looked up, the Queen was smiling at him — kindly, proudly, knowingly.
"Mr. Hale," she said softly. "Twenty years old, and you've managed what no one else has in a century of this sport. You've done your club, your country, and your Queen very proud."
Tristan swallowed hard. "Thank you, ma'am," he managed, his voice breaking. "It's been an honour." Her expression softened. She reached out, resting a gloved hand briefly on his arm.
"You've given joy to millions," she said. "You must come to Windsor soon. I believe my grandson would rather like to meet the man whose made every single person in this country a fan of yours."
Prince William approached then, shaking Tristan's hand firmly.
"You've done something extraordinary," he said, voice low but full of pride. "You've made every young footballer in this country believe they can be you. You can finally bring football home."
Tristan nodded, trying to speak but unable to. William just smiled and handed him the gleaming FA Cup.
Tristan turned, finding Vardy beside him again. Their hands found the handles at the same time.The Queen stepped back. The cameras zoomed in.
The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.
Then, together —
they lifted the cup into the storm.
Blue and gold fireworks exploded behind them. The rain turned to glitter.
Wembley shook beneath the roar.
🎵 "THANK YOU, TRISTAN! THANK YOU, TRISTAN!" 🎵
The Queen applauded softly, her smile radiant, as the two players — one a legend reborn, one a legend departing — held the cup high beneath her gaze.
BOOM.
Fireworks screamed into the London sky. Blue and gold confetti burst from the stands. The roar that followed was beyond sound — it was a wave, a heartbeat, a nation breaking into song.
🎵"Champions of England! Champions of Europe!" 🎵
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The broadcast lingered on the Leicester players' celebrations — Tristan still on the pitch, hair plastered with rain and confetti, hugging Vardy, bowing to the fans, the FA Cup glinting under the Wembley lights.
Then the image faded — replaced by slow-motion highlights, the sound of "Nessun Dorma" swelling softly in the background.
A cut to the BBC logo.
Then the familiar horns of Match of the Day filled the air.
"Match of the Day: FA Cup Final Special"
Live from Salford Quays, Manchester
The camera swept across the iconic studio — blue lights, glass desk, the Wembley arch glowing on the screen behind them.
The crowd noise from London still echoed faintly as the show came back live.
Gary Lineker sat at the center, immaculate as ever, suit pressed but tie nowhere to be seen, hands folded neatly on the desk. His face was lit with pride and disbelief all at once.
"Good evening," Gary began, his voice steady, soft with awe. "And welcome to Match of the Day: FA Cup Final Special. We've just witnessed history. Leicester City — four trophies. Zero defeats. A perfect season. And tonight… well, it feels like we've just seen football complete itself."
To his left, Alan Shearer exhaled through a stunned grin, leaning back in his chair. To his right, Ian Wright still shook his head, muttering something under his breath before laughing in disbelief.
Gary Lineker leaned back in his chair, eyes still locked on the monitor showing the slow-motion replay — Tristan wiping his face, sliding the captain's armband up Vardy's arm, mouthing thank you toward the fans. The studio was quiet for a beat. Even the production crew seemed to hold their breath.
Then Gary spoke, softly, his voice heavy with pride and loss all at once.
"That was goodbye, wasn't it?"
The words hung in the air.
Alan Shearer frowned, glancing sideways at him. "Yeah," he said finally, nodding. "It looked like it. We all knew this was coming, but that… that felt different. The way he handed it over, the way he looked at the fans. You could see it in his face — he wasn't just celebrating. He was saying thank you."
Ian Wright sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's been showing it for weeks, you know. Crying after Basel, staying on the pitch long after the whistle tonight. Tristan's not a kid who shows emotion easily — usually he's ice. But lately?" He shook his head. "You can tell this means everything to him."
Gary smiled faintly, eyes glistening. "It should. He was born there. Raised in Leicester. Joined the academy at six years old — there are videos of him when he was, what, eight or nine? Saying his dream was to bring trophies to this club." His voice cracked, the emotion of it all surfacing now. "And he's done that. And more."
Alan nodded slowly, his tone softening. "First season, Championship level — fifty goal contributions in thirty games. Wins them the double — the League and the FA Cup — as a teenager. Eighteen years old and carrying them through Arsenal in the final. Then he goes up to the Premier League at nineteen, turns into one of the best players in the country overnight, drags them to sixth and a Europa quarter-final." He exhaled, shaking his head. "And now, at twenty? Four trophies. Undefeated. Sixty-three games for club and country, seventy-three goals, fifty-two assists. An average rating of 9.1. That's not human."
Ian let out a low whistle. "Man, that's what gets me. What this kid has — it's history. That's better than Messi at twenty, better than Ronaldo, better than R9 or Rooney or anyone we've seen at that age. Not just age including their primes. He's better than all of them. If just compare peak for peak, Tristan just had the greatest season of all time."
Gary looked down for a moment, smiling sadly. "He promised Leicester a trophy when he was a boy. He's given them five — and the greatest season English football's ever seen or the entire world has seen matter of fact."
Alan leaned forward, voice lower now, almost reverent. "And if he wants to go? You can't stop him. You just say thank you. Because he's completed everything he set out to do."
Gary nodded, swallowing hard. "If it is Liverpool next… I just hope they understand what they're getting. He's not just a talent — he's a piece of Leicester's heart. And they'll never love him the way this city does."
Ian smiled faintly, shaking his head in awe. "Still can't believe he's twenty, man. Feels like he's lived a lifetime already."
Alan Shearer leaned back, rubbing his chin. "You know what, Gary — we've talked about Tristan all night, and rightly so. But what Leicester have done as a team this season… it's one of the greatest collective achievements in football history. There's no other way to say it."
Gary nodded, glancing up at the highlights looping behind them — Vardy sprinting to the corner flag, Mahrez cutting in on his left, Kanté winning yet another duel in midfield. "You're absolutely right. We keep saying 'miracle,' but that word doesn't even fit anymore. This is dominance. Pure, relentless dominance at a level we have never seen before."
Ian Wright leaned in, hands gesturing animatedly. "And look at the numbers, yeah? Jamie Vardy — sixty-one goals and two assists in sixty-four games! That's not just form, that's prime Henry-level, prime Shearer-level scoring. That's a top ten all-time goalscoring season. The man's thirty, and he's putting up numbers we've never seen in England."
Shearer laughed, shaking his head. "He's made me look lazy! Sixty-one goals, Wrighty! That's video game stuff. And he's done it against the best — Europe, cup finals, league leaders. Every time he touched the ball this season, it felt like a goal."
Gary smiled fondly. "And Mahrez — thirty-two goals, twenty-three assists in seventy-one games. When he drifts past defenders, it's like watching poetry on fast-forward."
Ian pointed toward the screen where Mahrez's Europa League goal flashed — a cut inside, a curling finish. "Exactly! And with Kanté behind them? Forget it. The man's two players in one. Every blade of grass belongs to him."
Gary nodded. "He makes everyone around him better. That's why Leicester didn't just play above their weight — they set the standard."
Shearer leaned forward, voice thoughtful. "You put that team — Hale, Vardy, Mahrez, Kanté, Morgan, Schmeichel — into the Champions League this season, and I'm telling you now, they reach the final. Maybe even win it."
Wright snapped his fingers, grinning. "They'd give anyone a game — Barça, Bayern, Madrid, anyone. That press, that chemistry, it's untouchable. You can't coach that."
Gary smiled, but his eyes were still distant, reflective. "They've changed the idea of what's possible in football. They've made every small club believe again. And for me, as someone who grew up with Leicester… that's the most beautiful part."
A quiet pause followed. The highlight reel faded, replaced by a graphic:
"Leicester City 2015/16 – The Invincibles"
65 Games (All Competitions)
57 Wins, 8 Draws, 0 Defeats
4 Trophies: Premier League, FA Cup, Europa League, Carabao Cup
166 Goals Scored (New Record)
46 Conceded
102 League Pointas (New Record)
Alan exhaled. "That's not a fairy tale. That's a dynasty."
Gary smiled. "And yet, this might be the end of it as we know it."
Wright's grin faded. "Yeah. Tristan goes, Mahrez might follow, maybe even Kanté. But you know what? They've earned that. Every one of them."
Gary nodded slowly. "And when you look at the awards coming up… well, it's going to be an interesting Ballon d'Or race, isn't it?"
Alan chuckled knowingly. "Ah, here we go. The debate."
Wright leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. "Ronaldo just won the Champions League. He's got the numbers — fifty-one goals this season, another European crown. But Tristan Hale? Four trophies. Undefeated. Seventy-three goals. Fifty-two assists. You tell me what's more impressive."
Gary raised an eyebrow.
"And don't forget — the Ballon d'Or's based on the calendar year. He's still got five months left to add to that total. If he keeps going, he could actually chase down Messi's 91-goal record from 2012."
Alan grinned. "If anyone's doing it, it's him. The form he's in, you wouldn't bet against it."
Wright nodded firmly. "If this were a normal year — no Euros, no international stuff — Tristan's already won it, hands down. But with the Euros coming up? That's the last test."
Gary leaned back, thoughtful. "England go into this tournament as favourites for the first time in a generation — and it's because of Leicester. Five of them in the squad. Hale as captain, Vardy leading the line, Albrighton on the wing, Drinkwater in midfield, Chilwell at left-back. Every one of them in peak form. Of course they are players in peak forms like Harry Kane who just scored 36 goals, second in the league losing out to Vardy winning the Golden Boot who of course has also won the European Golden Boot."
Alan pointed at the camera. "And if Tristan even comes close to his World Cup form from Brazil — what was he then, eighteen? Two goals, three assists in five games — if he matches that this summer and England go far…" He paused, letting it hang. "Then the Ballon d'Or's done. Ronaldo can't touch him."
Wright laughed, shaking his head. "Nah, forget touch him. Ronaldo will be watching from the podium while the kid's lifting it. Because this isn't just talent — this is destiny."
Gary smiled, that proud, fatherly warmth returning. "He's given England belief again. He's given Leicester everything. And now, he's got the chance to give the world one last miracle."
He looked straight into the lens, his voice soft but resolute.
"Whatever happens next — whether it's Liverpool, Madrid, or somewhere else — Tristan Hale's name is already written in gold. The boy from Leicester didn't just win trophies. He changed football."
The studio fell silent again as the final highlight played: Tristan, rain dripping from his hair, lifting the FA Cup under the Wembley arch, blue fireworks bursting above.
Gary's voice came one last time, steady and proud:
"If football has a perfect story… this might be it."
"A Leicester boy. A Leicester dream. And now… a Leicester legend."
The music swelled — Nessun Dorma once more — and the broadcast faded to black.
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