Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

I stood in front of the mirror in my bathroom, the fluorescent light unforgiving.

My leg brace was still a part of my daily uniform, a stark white testament to the accident that had changed everything.

I looked at myself, at the same person who had scored the winning goal in the Coppa Italia, and I felt like a stranger.

My cheeks were a little hollower, my eyes a little less bright. This wasn't the body of a world-class athlete; it was the body of someone who had been broken and was slowly being pieced back together.

I closed my eyes and focused. The Vision had returned, but it wasn't perfect. It was like a weak radio signal, sometimes clear, sometimes full of static. I needed to see. I needed to know.

I opened my eyes and looked at my own reflection. I poured all my energy into the reflection, into the person in the mirror, and a faint, hesitant aura shimmered around me.

The numbers appeared, and my heart sank.

Leon (Potential: 94, Current: 83)

A cold, hard knot formed in the pit of my stomach. My Potential was still there, a beacon of what I could be, but my Current ability had dropped.

I had lost a point. Just one, but it felt like a hundred. The injury, the time away, the lack of training—it had all taken its toll. I was getting worse. I was declining. The thought was a dagger to my heart.

"No," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. It wasn't fair. I had done everything right. I had rested. I had done the physio. I had fought to get the Vision back.

And for what? To fall further behind?

A hot, angry fire ignited in my chest. The sadness was gone, replaced by a fierce, burning resolve.

I looked at my reflection, at the angry, determined eyes staring back at me. I flexed my fists, a silent vow passing through my mind.

Fine. I'll just have to work harder. I'll come back. I'll crush them. I will.

The last two weeks were a blur of intense physio, light training, and a lot of emotional energy.

I had set up a makeshift gym in my room, and I was pushing myself as hard as I could, safely.

My mom, seeing my newfound determination, brought me healthy food and kept a close eye on me. She knew I was a fighter, and she was right there in my corner.

My only connection to the outside world, besides my mom, was my phone.

It was a strange kind of social life, one filled with video calls with Byon and messages with my teammates.

The next day was the day I had been waiting for. The two weeks were up.

I was finally going back to the training grounds. I felt a nervous energy, a mix of excitement and apprehension.

I got a ride from my mom, and as we drove through the familiar city streets, the world felt more vibrant, more real than it had in months. The Vision was working better now, a steady, constant hum in my mind.

As we pulled into the training facility, I saw the team bus parked outside, a symbol of our travels and triumphs.

I hobbled into the locker room, a wide smile on my face, and was immediately met with a wave of sound and celebration.

"Leo! Look who it is!" Julián Álvarez yelled, running over and wrapping me in a tight hug.

"You're back!" Lautaro Martínez said, patting me on the back with a little too much force.

Cole Palmer just gave me his usual calm nod, a deep, knowing look in his eyes. He didn't need words. He knew.

The feeling of being back was overwhelming. The smell of fresh-cut grass, the sound of boots on the turf, the easy camaraderie of the team—it was home.

Coach Chivu called a team meeting, and we all gathered in the main conference room. The atmosphere was a mix of nervous energy and focused determination.

The Champions League quarter-final against Barcelona was just a few days away.

"Men," Coach Chivu began, his voice low and serious.

"I'm happy to see Leon back with us. We've missed you, son. But we have a war to fight, and we need every single one of you ready."

He clicked a button, and a video of Barcelona's last match flashed on the screen. The commentators were gushing about their young star, the prodigy. Lamine Yamal. He was a force of nature, a blur of motion and skill.

I used my Vision on the screen, on the young man in the Barcelona jersey. The golden aura around him was even brighter than I remembered. The numbers appeared, a shocking, almost unbelievable sight that sent a shiver down my spine.

Lamine Yamal. Potential: 96, Current: 87

"His name is Lamine Yamal," Coach Chivu said, his voice full of respect.

"And he is the single biggest threat we will face. His speed, his vision, his pure talent… it's a problem. We need to find a way to contain him. We need to play as a unit. This is not about one player against another. This is about our family against their team."

I looked at my teammates. Palmer was staring at the screen, a determined look on his face.

Álvarez was clenching his jaw. Martínez was watching intently, his captain's mind already working on a plan. My heart was pounding, but it wasn't from fear. It was from the thrill of the challenge.

The Coach finished his team talk, and the room buzzed with a focused intensity. My own Current ability might have dropped, but my resolve was stronger than ever. The fire inside me burned brighter than any golden aura on a screen.

The next day, the first training session was a mix of light drills and tactical work.

I was relegated to the sidelines, watching and learning. I was using my Vision, seeing the stats of every player, every opponent on the training field. I felt like a scout, an analyst, a part of the team in a new and different way.

I watched as Palmer, Álvarez, and Martínez worked on their finishing, their shots crisp and powerfu

l. I watched our defenders, Alessandro Bastoni and Benjamin Pavard, practice their clearances, their minds focused on the upcoming task. I saw their stats, their small evolutions, their slow but steady growth.

"..."

The day of the match arrived.

I was in the stands, my brace still a part of me, but my heart was on the pitch.

The San Siro was a sea of black and blue, a deafening roar of support. The teams walked out of the tunnel, and the atmosphere was electric. I could feel the energy, the anticipation.

I saw the Barcelona players, their faces a mix of focus and confidence. And there he was.

Lamine Yamal. He was just a kid, but he carried himself with an aura of quiet power. I used my Vision on him one more time, and the numbers were still there, clear as day.

The referee blew the whistle, and the match began.

My teammates were a blur of motion, their stats flashing in my mind's eye.

The ball was at the feet of a Barcelona player, moving up the field, and then… a pass to Yamal.

The crowd roared, a mix of fear and anticipation.

He took a touch, his speed instantly visible, and for a brief, beautiful moment, I saw the future.

I saw the pass he would make, the run he would take, the shot he would fire.

I saw the gaps in our defense, the opportunities he would find.

The Vision, once a cheat code, was now a lifeline.

And in the roar of the crowd, as Yamal prepared to make his move,

I knew that my return, my comeback, was going to be a lot more complicated than I ever thought. My role, for now, wasn't to play the game, but to see it.