Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The scoreboard, a cold and unforgiving digital beast, glared down at us: Barcelona 3, Inter 1. The silence in the San Siro was a palpable weight, a collective gasp of despair.

My body ached, my legs felt like lead, and my lungs burned with every breath. The comeback, the hope, the beautiful moment of my goal—it all felt like a lifetime ago.

The game felt lost.

But a true Inter player never gives up.

I looked at my teammates. Their shoulders were slumped, their eyes heavy with disappointment, but there was still a spark there. A flicker of defiance.

Lautaro Martínez, his face streaked with sweat and grim determination, refused to stop running. Cole Palmer, calm as ever, was still scanning the field, looking for an opening, a sliver of hope.

I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, and when I opened them, the symbols of my Vision came into sharp focus. I wasn't just seeing auras and numbers anymore; I was seeing the flow of the game, the intricate dance of probability and choice. I saw a path. A narrow, treacherous path to a second goal. It would be a struggle, but it wasn't impossible.

I ran to Julián Álvarez and grabbed his shoulder. "Julián! We're not done! We can still do this!" I yelled over the roar of the Barcelona fans who were now celebrating their lead. "They're getting sloppy. They're getting confident. This is our chance!"

He looked at me, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "What do we do, Leo?"

"We press. We keep pushing. We find a gap."

The game restarted, and we came at them with a renewed fury. The ball was a blur of motion as it moved from player to player.

My Vision was my guide, a constant stream of information telling me where to be and what to do. I intercepted a pass in midfield, a lightning-fast reaction that even surprised me.

The crowd, a moment ago silent, erupted in a low, appreciative cheer.

I saw the path. I played a beautiful through-ball to Cole Palmer, who was making a late, unmarked run into the box.

He took a touch, then another, a flurry of lightning bolt and leg symbols flashing above his head. Dribble + Shot. The Barcelona defenders, caught off guard by the sudden burst of energy, scrambled to get back.

The commentator's voice, a sudden burst of energy, boomed through the stadium.

"Palmer receives it! He's in the box! This could be a lifeline for Inter! A goal here changes everything!"

Palmer fired a low, powerful shot toward the corner of the net. The keeper dove, his hand and a red cross symbol appearing, but it was too fast.

The ball soared past his outstretched fingers and hit the back of the net.

Goooooaaall!..... 3-2!

The San Siro exploded, a volcanic eruption of pure, unadulterated joy. The score was now 3-2, and the clock showed 82 minutes.

The hope, once a faint ember, was now a roaring fire. My teammates rushed to Palmer, their faces a mix of relief and renewed determination.

We were back in the game. We had done it. Again.

The final few minutes of the game were a blur of adrenaline and desperation. We were playing with a fury I had never seen before.

The symbols of my Vision were a constant, blinding stream of light in my mind, showing me every pass, every tackle, every shot. I was a puppet master, pulling the strings, dictating the flow of the game.

In the 88th minute, a beautiful, flowing pass from me found Lautaro Martínez just outside the box. He took a touch, and then, a flurry of symbols appeared: a leg, a ball, and a powerful "booom!" sound effect in my mind. Shot.

He fired a thunderous shot toward the goal, a beautiful, arcing shot that was a thing of beauty. The keeper, a shield and a red cross symbol, dove to his left, but it was too fast, too powerful.

The ball hit the back of the net with a beautiful, satisfying thud. The stadium went wild, a beautiful, joyous noise that shook the very foundations of the building.

Gooooal! - 3-3!

The scoreboard now read 3-3, and the clock showed 88 minutes. We had done it. We had come back from two goals down, and we were now on level terms.

My teammates rushed to me, burying me in a pile of ecstatic bodies. The feeling of joy was overwhelming. The comeback was complete.

But the game wasn't over. Not yet.

Barcelona, the world-class team they were, refused to give up. They pushed forward, a final, desperate attack in the final few seconds of the match.

The ball was at the feet of Pedri, who played a beautiful pass to Lamine Yamal. My Vision flared to life, and I saw a new symbol above his head: a single, bright star. Cross. He was going to cross it. I knew it. My mind screamed a warning, but my body was too slow, too tired to react.

Yamal sent a perfect cross into the box, a beautiful, high-arcing ball that found a late-arriving teammate, Fermín López, completely unmarked.

I saw the symbols above his head: a leg, a ball, and an arrow pointing to the back of the net. Shot. He headed the ball with a beautiful, elegant touch, and it sailed past our keeper, a slow-motion, heart-stopping moment of pure agony.

The net rustled. A single, small, and devastating sound.

Gooooal..!

The stadium went silent. The scoreboard changed to Barcelona 4, Inter 3. The whistle blew, and the match was over.

I fell to the ground, my body and mind completely spent. The comeback, the hope, the beautiful, exhilarating fight... it was all for nothing.

We had lost. We had lost in the final second of the match. The Barcelona players were celebrating, their shouts of joy a cruel symphony in my ears.

I looked at the scoreboard, the cruel, unforgiving numbers a bitter pill to swallow. We had lost, but we hadn't been defeated. We had fought back, we had shown our heart, we had given them a run for their money.

But we were still losing. The score was 4-3, and this was only the first leg. In a week's time, we would have to travel to their home ground, the Camp Nou, and face them again.

A team that had just beaten us in a thrilling, heart-stopping match, a team with a prodigy named Lamine Yamal who had just given us a masterclass in pain.

The second leg was our only chance for redemption, a chance to show them that we were a team, a family, that would never give up. The true test of our character was still to come.