Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The world was no longer a silent, sterile place.

Two weeks had passed since the night Inter had made their incredible comeback against PSG, and my life had settled into a new, quiet rhythm.

My leg was still in its brace, but the physical therapy was paying off. The sharp, aching pain had subsided, replaced by a dull, manageable throb. I spent my days on the couch, my leg elevated, and the Vision, my lost-and-found ability, was slowly returning to me. It was still a bit like a flickering lightbulb, sometimes bright and clear, sometimes just a faint glow, but it was there, a steady sign of hope.

I was propped up on the couch, a steaming bowl of my mom's famous carbonara in my lap, scrolling through my phone.

The team was preparing for a crucial league match, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of absence. My mom came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Don't eat too fast, Leon. You'll get a stomachache."

"I'm fine, Mom," I said with a smile. "I'm just excited."

Just then, my phone rang. It was Dr. Rossi. I felt a flutter of nervous energy. He was the bearer of news, good or bad, and I was holding my breath for this one.

"Hello, Dr. Rossi," I said, trying to sound calm.

"Leon! How's my favorite patient doing?" he asked, his voice warm and cheerful. "Are you following my orders? Getting plenty of rest?"

"Yes, doctor. I'm a couch potato champion now."

He chuckled. "Good. That's what I like to hear. Now, listen, I just got the results back from your last check-up. The ligament is healing perfectly, better than we could have hoped."

A wave of relief washed over me so strong it almost made me dizzy.

"Really? That's great!"

"It is," he confirmed. "So, here's the good news. If you continue to rest and let the healing process do its job for another two weeks, you can start training with the team again."

Two weeks. It felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat. My heart pounded in my chest. The end of this long, quiet period was finally in sight. I would be back on the pitch, back with my teammates, back where I belonged.

"Another two weeks?" I asked, a hint of frustration in my voice. "I feel like I could start now. My leg feels fine."

My mom, who had been listening intently, gave me a stern look. She knew how impatient I could be.

Dr. Rossi's voice took on a serious tone. "Leon, this is a very sensitive time. We cannot rush this. You need to let it fully heal. A small setback now could lead to a permanent injury. Trust me, these two weeks are crucial. You need to stay on the couch and be a champion couch potato for just a little longer. After that, you're free to go."

"Okay, doctor," I said, trying to contain my excitement. "I understand. Thank you."

I hung up the phone and looked at my mom, a wide, genuine smile on my face. "Did you hear that? Two weeks! I'm going back to the team in two weeks!"

She came over and hugged me, a deep sense of relief in her eyes. "I know, my love. I'm so happy for you. Now, finish your carbonara before it gets cold."

After my celebratory meal, I grabbed my laptop. My appetite for football news was insatiable now that my own return was on the horizon. I opened a sports news site and pulled up the Serie A standings.

The league was a nail-biter. After twenty-five fixtures, we were in second place with 64 points, just a single point behind Napoli. They had 65 points, and the race for the Scudetto was tighter than a new pair of cleats. I used my Vision on the Napoli team photo, and a bright light shone around their striker, Victor Osimhen.

Victor Osimhen

Potential: 90, Current: 88

He was a monster. His current ability was higher than most players' potential. No wonder Napoli was leading the league.

I closed the tab, a new sense of competitive fire burning inside me. The league title was our next big challenge, and I wanted to be a part of it.

I then navigated to the top scorers list, my heart thumping with anticipation. It was a list of all the best strikers in the league, the ones who were putting the ball in the back of the net. And right there, at the top of the list, were my two teammates.

Top Scorers (Serie A - After 25 fixtures)

Cole Palmer - 18 goals

Julián Álvarez - 16 goals

Victor Osimhen - 15 goals

Lautaro Martínez - 14 goals

I couldn't help but laugh. Palmer, the calm, unassuming "madman," was leading the league in goals.

Álvarez, my tireless partner on the pitch, was right behind him. I could almost hear their playful banter. I used my Vision on their names on the screen, and the stats were clear and bright, not flickering at all. My Vision was getting stronger.

Cole Palmer. Potential: 93, Current: 88

Julián Álvarez. Potential: 92, Current: 86

They were both evolving, their Current abilities creeping closer to their Potential. It was a beautiful thing to see, and a new kind of friendly rivalry sparked within me.

I wanted to come back and not just catch up, but push them to be even better.

My attention was drawn to a banner ad for a live stream.

It was the UEFA Champions League quarter-final draw. I clicked on it, my heart pounding with a mixture of hope and anxiety.

Who would we face? The commentators were building the tension, talking about the biggest teams left in the competition.

They showed a graphic with the eight remaining teams: Inter Milan, Bayern Munich, Real Madrid, Manchester City, Arsenal, Barcelona, and two others.

My phone buzzed with a message from Byon. "Rooting for you guys to get an easy draw, man!" he wrote. I laughed. There were no "easy" draws at this stage.

The commentator's voice boomed through the speakers.

"And now for the first quarter-final match… It will be… Inter Milan… vs… Barcelona!"

The room seemed to spin. Barcelona. A historical rival, a team with a rich history and some of the best players in the world. This was a true test of our team's mettle, a match that would define our season.

The commentators began to analyze the match, talking about our team's strong defense and their fluid, attacking style. They mentioned their key players, their superstars. And then, a name I had been hearing a lot about recently.

"…and of course, we can't forget about Barcelona's young prodigy, the future of Spanish football. A player who has been absolutely on fire this season… Lamine Yamal!"

A picture of a young, confident-looking kid flashed onto the screen. He looked so young, almost my age, with a fiery determination in his eyes.

I stared at the screen, my mind racing. I knew this name. I had seen him play on TV. A new challenge. A new rival. The biggest match of the season so far. And a new player to use my Vision on.

I closed my eyes and focused, pouring all my energy into the image on the screen. The Vision came back, strong and clear, and a golden aura of light surrounded the boy's image. The numbers appeared, a shocking sight that sent a shiver down my spine.

Lamine Yamal. Potential: 96, Current: 87

A Potential of 96. It was the highest I had ever seen. He was on a completely different level, a true prodigy, a generational talent. The best I had ever seen, even better than Mbappé or Palmer.

My heart sank for a moment, but then a new fire ignited within me.

The challenge was immense, but so was the opportunity.

We had beaten PSG. Now we had to face Barcelona, a team with a player who had the highest potential I had ever witnessed.

I had two weeks of rest, two weeks to prepare, two weeks to get my Vision back to full strength. I was going to need every second of it. I had a feeling that this match, more than any other, would determine my future and the future of my team.