Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The San Siro, a moment ago a cauldron of noise and hope, fell into a stunned, heart-wrenching silence. I stood in the middle of the pitch, my hands on my knees, my body and mind completely drained.

The comeback, the beautiful, exhilarating fight, had all come to an end with a single, devastating goal in the last seconds of the game.

But as I looked up, I saw my teammates. Their shoulders were slumped, but their heads were held high.

There was no finger-pointing, no frustration. Just a shared, quiet look of determination. We had lost, but we had not been broken.

Lautaro Martínez walked over to me, his face streaked with sweat and disappointment, but he gave me a firm pat on the back. "A hell of a fight, Leon," he said, his voice low.

"You came back and gave us everything. We'll get them in their home."

Julián Álvarez, his usual boundless energy subdued, just nodded in agreement. "Unbelievable game. We showed them we're not to be trifled with. We'll show them again."

Even as the Barcelona players celebrated, their captain, Pedri, came over and shook our hands. "A great match," he said, his voice respectful.

"You are a tough team. We will see you at the Camp Nou."

The crowd, which had been silent for a moment, began to applaud. It started with a few people in the stands, then a whole section, and then the entire stadium.

It was a slow, appreciative roar, a thank you for the heart and the fight we had shown.

We walked around the pitch, clapping to the fans, a quiet, dignified acknowledgment of their support.

It wasn't a victory celebration, but it was a moment of unity, a promise that our story was not yet over.

The walk back to the dressing room was quiet, the only sound the clacking of our cleats on the concrete.

I looked at the scoreboard one last time, a bitter pill to swallow: Barcelona 4, Inter 3. We had lost, but we had scored three goals against one of the best teams in the world. That was a victory in itself.

The dressing room, surprisingly, wasn't a place of despair. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and effort, but there was a quiet confidence in the room.

The players were talking, not about the loss, but about the game. They were dissecting the goals, talking about the moments we had won, the passes we had made, the chances we had created.

Coach Chivu walked into the room, his face stern but not angry. "Men," he said, his voice cutting through the chatter.

"We lost. It hurts. But we lost to one of the best teams in the world in a game where we went down 3-1 and fought back to 3-3. You showed me heart. You showed me character. You showed me that you are not just a team of talented players, but a family that will fight until the very last second. That is something to be proud of."

He looked at me, a small smile on his face. "Leon, you came in and you changed the game. You gave us a lifeline.

That's what a true champion does. You are a true champion."

I felt a blush creep up my neck, but a deep sense of pride settled in my chest. I had done it. I had come back, and I had helped the team.

My Vision was now a part of me, a reliable guide in the chaos of the pitch.

After the coach's talk, I went to my locker and sat down, my body and mind completely exhausted. I looked at my reflection in the small mirror on the inside of the door, and I saw a new kind of confidence in my eyes.

I closed my eyes and focused, pouring all my energy into the reflection, and the numbers appeared, clear and bright.

Leon

Potential: 94, Current: 83

The numbers were the same. I hadn't gained anything, but I hadn't lost anything either.

It was a good sign. It meant that my body was holding up, that the injury wasn't getting worse. I was on the right track, and now, with my Vision back, I could start working on getting my Current ability back up.

Just then, Julián Álvarez came over and slapped me on the back. "What's the plan for next week, man?" he asked, a playful grin on his face. "How are we going to stop that kid?"

"Lamine Yamal," I said, a serious look on my face. "He's a different beast. A completely different beast."

"He's a new kind of player. We'll have to find a way to counter his Vision."

He nodded, a new determination in his eyes. "Okay. Then let's do it. We have a week. Let's figure out how to stop him."

The team slowly began to filter out of the dressing room, a mix of quiet determination and exhausted bodies.

We grabbed our bags, and one by one, we headed out to our cars. The city lights were a beautiful, shimmering blur as I drove out of the stadium's parking lot.

The streets were mostly empty, the world peaceful and silent after the storm of the match.

I was driving through a quiet side street, on my way home, still replaying the game in my head.

The match might have been a loss, but it was a loss that felt like a win. We had fought.

We had shown our heart. We were down, but we weren't out. The second leg was a week away, and the weight of it was a heavy burden, but it was a burden I was ready to carry.

As I pulled into my driveway, a new message from Byon came in. "Dude. You were insane out there. That comeback was epic. But listen. I have an idea for how to stop Yamal."

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A/N: I'm truly humbled by the continued enthusiasm and engagement from all of you. Your support means the world.