Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a beautiful, deafening wave of pure joy.

I was on my feet, laughing and breathless as my teammates mobbed me, their ecstatic shouts a symphony in my ears.

The scoreboard, once a symbol of our struggle, now flashed 1-1, a testament to our comeback.

The high of the goal was short-lived, however. I had to focus. The game was far from over. As the players returned to their positions, a new determination settled over my teammates.

Lautaro Martínez, his eyes burning with renewed fire, clapped me on the back. "That's how it's done, Leon! We're not out of this yet!"

The next ten minutes leading up to halftime were a thrilling, back-and-forth battle.

The energy of my goal had breathed new life into Inter, and we started playing with a newfound confidence. My Vision was now a constant, reliable stream of information. I could see the symbols over every player, predicting their every move.

I intercepted a crucial pass intended for Pedri, my leg a blur as I got there just in time. The crowd erupted again, a low, appreciative roar.

With my Vision, I could see the tackles coming from the Barcelona players before they even started their run-ups. I'd move just a fraction of a second earlier, drawing a frustrated sigh from my opponents.

My passing became a thing of beauty; I saw the open spaces and played the ball to Julián Álvarez and Cole Palmer with a precision I'd never had before.

In the 42nd minute, our team launched a lightning-fast counter-attack. A long pass found Álvarez on the left wing, and I saw a flurry of symbols above his head: a running figure and a lightning bolt. Dribble and Sprint!!

He exploded past his defender with a burst of pure speed. The commentator's voice boomed through the stadium speakers, a voice of pure excitement.

"Álvarez on the break! He's through... he's in! This could be a second for Inter!"

A leg and a ball symbol flashed above his head. Shot. But then a new symbol appeared over the keeper: a hand with a red cross. Brilliant Save!

The keeper made a diving save, tipping the ball just wide of the post. It was a heart-stopping moment, but we went into halftime with the score still tied at 1-1.

The locker room was a buzz of nervous energy.

Coach Chivu, however, was calm. "We're in this," he said, a firm look on his face. "Leon, you gave us a new life out there. We need to keep that fire burning. But they will come at us even harder now. We need to be ready. We need to be a family."

He then pointed at a huge screen showing clips of Lamine Yamal. "Yamal is their biggest weapon. He's a one-man army. We need to double-team him, to smother him, to give him no space. No matter what, we cannot let him have a free run at our goal. Got it?"

We all nodded, our faces set with grim determination. I felt a surge of pride, a sense of belonging that was stronger than any physical pain. We were in this together.

The whistle blew for the start of the second half, and the atmosphere in the stadium was electric. But it wasn't long before Barcelona began to show their class.

They came out with a different energy, a cold, clinical precision. The symbols I was seeing from their players were more complex, their passing patterns more intricate.

The clock ticked past the 55-minute mark, and I could feel my body beginning to tire. The two months of inactivity were catching up to me.

My legs felt heavy, and my breathing was ragged. I still had the Vision, but my body couldn't always keep up with what my mind was seeing.

The ball found its way to Yamal again, and this time, he wasn't on the wing. He was right in the middle, just outside the box, a blur of motion. My Vision flared to life, and I saw a cascade of symbols: a lightning bolt, a foot, and an arrow.

Dribble, Feint, Shot.

My mind screamed a warning to the defense, but it was too fast.

Yamal faked a shot, drawing two defenders to him, and then, with an elegant, almost nonchalant flick of his foot, he sent the ball sailing past the keeper, a perfect strike into the top corner.

Gooooaaal!

The silence in the San Siro was deafening. The Barcelona players were celebrating, their joy a sharp, painful contrast to our despair. The scoreboard now showed Barcelona 2, Inter 1.

I looked at my teammates, their faces a mask of disappointment. We had fought so hard, but Yamal was just on a different level. He was a force of nature, a player with a Potential: 96 who was already playing like a legend. I felt a new kind of exhaustion, a mental fatigue that came from trying to keep up with a genius.

The game continued, and the momentum was now all with Barcelona. We were struggling to keep up, our passes becoming sloppy, our movements sluggish. I was trying to keep my head up, but my body felt like it was running on empty.

In the 68th minute, a beautiful, flowing pass from Barcelona found Yamal on the wing. He was running at full speed, a blur of a person.

I used my Vision, and a new symbol, one I hadn't seen before, appeared above his head: a single, bright star. Cross. He was going to cross it.

My mind screamed a warning to our defense, but it was too late.

He sent a perfect cross into the box, a beautiful, high-arcing ball that found Robert Lewandowski perfectly.

The symbols above Lewandowski were a simple one: a leg and a ball. Header.

BANG!

He headed the ball with a thunderous power, and it hit the back of the net.

The stadium went silent. The scoreboard changed to Barcelona 3, Inter 1.

I looked at the clock. 70 minutes. The game felt lost.

My teammates were slumped, their shoulders drooping. I felt a wave of despair, a cold, hard knot in my stomach.

The comeback was over. The hope that had filled me just an hour ago was gone, replaced by the harsh reality of defeat.

We were losing, and it was all because of a kid with a Potential: 96.