Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The roar of the San Siro was a physical thing, a wave of sound that washed over me and made the hairs on my arms stand up.

I looked out onto the pitch, a lush green canvas under the bright lights, and saw my teammates. Lautaro Martínez, Cole Palmer, calm as ever, his eyes scanning the field with the focus of a hawk.

And Julián Álvarez, bouncing on the balls of his feet, radiating a boundless energy.

I turned my attention to the opposition, my Vision flaring to life.

The Barcelona players were a sea of vibrant auras, a testament to their skill. I quickly scanned their key players: Robert Lewandowski, the ageless striker with a Potential: 90 and a Current: 88.

Pedri, the midfield maestro with a Potential: 92 and a Current: 86.

The whistle blew, and the match began.

The first few minutes were a tense, back-and-forth affair. Inter pressed high, trying to unsettle Barcelona's rhythm, but their passing was crisp and precise.

The ball found its way to Yamal on the right wing.

As Yamal took the ball, a lightning bolt symbol flashed above his head. Dribble.

I saw him use his incredible speed to get past our defender, his feet a blur.

He cut inside, and then two new symbols appeared.

A lightning bolt and a foot. Dribble + Pass.

He feinted a shot, drawing two defenders to him, and then, a single foot and an arrow appeared. Pass. He played a perfect through ball to a teammate.

My mind was racing, trying to keep up with the symbols.

The commentators' voices filled the stadium, echoing in the speakers around the pitch.

"Lamine Yamal on the right wing... he beats one defender... and another... a beautiful through ball into the box!"

The symbols were too fast, too complex for our defense to handle. The pass found its way to Pedri, who had slipped free in the box.

A leg and a ball appeared above his head. Shot. The Vision showed me the trajectory, the perfect placement of the shot, a millisecond before he even took it. But it was too late for our defenders to react.

The ball hit the back of the net with a thud.

Goooaal!

The Barcelona players erupted in celebration, their joyous shouts echoing in the stunned silence of the San Siro.

We were down 1-0. It was the 18th minute.

Coach Chivu stood up from the bench, his face a mask of frustration. He shouted instructions at the team, but the momentum was with Barcelona.

We were struggling to contain Yamal. The symbols were a constant stream in my mind, showing me every one of his moves, every pass, every dribble. It was like watching a movie that I already knew the ending to, and there was nothing I could do.

Suddenly, Coach Chivu turned to me. "Leon! Get ready," he said, his voice a low growl. "You're going in."

A wave of shock and adrenaline hit me all at once.

"Coach? I'm not... I'm not match-fit."

"I know," he said, his eyes hard and determined. "But we need something. We need a spark. We need a vision. Get out there, and just... do what you do. Don't push it. Just play smart. We'll be there to back you up."

My heart was pounding, a frantic drumbeat in my ears. I scrambled to get my jersey on, my legs feeling like lead. As I ran onto the pitch, the crowd erupted. The cheer was for me, for my comeback, a roar of hope in a sea of despair.

I felt the cool grass beneath my cleats, the familiar smell of the turf, and a surge of pure, unadulterated joy.

I trotted over to my teammates, their faces a mix of surprise and relief.

"Leon!" Álvarez said, his eyes wide. "You're in? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, a grin spreading across my face. "Just a little rusty. Let's do this."

I took my position on the pitch, a defensive midfielder, my Vision a constant, humming presence in my mind. I saw the auras, the stats, the symbols of every player around me.

It was like playing a video game on a new, hyper-realistic difficulty.

The ball was passed to me from our defender, Benjamin Pavard, and I instantly saw the symbols above a Barcelona player. A shield. Tackle.

He was coming in for a hard tackle. I faked to the right, and the player slid past me, missing me by a few inches. The crowd roared. It was a small victory, but it was a victory nonetheless.

I looked up, scanning the field, and saw an opportunity. The symbols above Lautaro Martínez showed an open space, a perfect run into the box.

I took a touch, then another, and then a foot and an arrow symbol flashed above my head. Pass. I played a perfectly weighted pass to Lautaro, who was already on the run.

The crowd was on its feet, the energy in the stadium palpable. Lautaro received the ball, a flash of red light and a shield appeared. A defender was coming in. But Lautaro, in his brilliance, shielded the ball with his body, and then a leg and a ball appeared. Shot.

He fired a low, powerful shot towards the goal. The keeper made an incredible save, tipping it just wide of the post. It was a close call, but it was a sign. The tide was turning.

The corner was taken, and the ball was cleared, but it fell to me at the edge of the box. I had a split second to react. I saw the symbols above a defender.

A shield and a lightning bolt. Tackle + Dribble. He was going to try to take me on.

I looked up and saw Lautaro standing in front of me, a player in the way of the goal. He was a human shield. My Vision, my new, evolved Vision, showed me the only possible path.

A subtle, almost invisible symbol, a foot and a small arch. Flick. I wasn't going to shoot. I was going to use Lautaro to get the ball into the box.

I flicked the ball with the inside of my foot, a perfectly timed one-two. The ball sailed over Lautaro's head, and I ran around him, my legs a blur of motion. I caught up to the ball just inside the box, the defender a step behind me.

I saw the symbols above the keeper. A hand and a red cross. Save. He was going to dive to his left. My mind was racing, the Vision showing me the only path.

I didn't need to fake. I didn't need to think. I just had to trust the Vision. I pulled my leg back, and then, a leg and a ball symbol flashed above my head. Shot!!

I fired a low, powerful shot towards the keeper's right, the opposite direction of his dive.

The ball flew past him, a blur of motion, and hit the back of the net.

The stadium erupted, a volcanic explosion of pure, unadulterated joy.

My teammates rushed to me, burying me in a pile of bodies. I was laughing, my face a mix of pure joy and tears. I had done it.

After the crash, after the hospital, after the months of pain and frustration, I had come back. My Vision was back, and it was better than ever. I was back with my team, and I had scored.

The score was now 1-1, and the clock showed 35 minutes.

It was my goal, my return, and the first taste of a victory that felt more important than any trophy.