Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The stadium clock read 50 minutes. The scoreboard showed a tense 1-1.

I stood on the sideline, my heart a frantic drumbeat in my chest, watching as Marcus Thuram jogged off the field, his face a mix of exhaustion and relief. I slapped him on the back as he passed. "Get 'em, Leo," he said, a tired grin on his face.

I ran onto the pitch, the cool air a welcome shock against my skin. The crowd, a moment ago a sea of nervous energy, erupted in a roar of hope.

I looked at my teammates. They knew this was a gamble from Coach Chivu.

"Alright, boys!" I shouted, my voice hoarse. "Let's win this thing!"

Julián Álvarez gave me a firm nod. "Good to have you back, Leon. Let's show them what Inter can do."

I took my position in the midfield, my Vision flaring to life. The auras of the Fiorentina players were a familiar sight, their stats and movements a predictable rhythm.

But now, my mind was a tactical chessboard, and I was seeing every move, every counter-move, before they even happened.

The commentator's voice boomed through the stadium speakers, a calm, authoritative presence.

"And a substitution for Inter... Leon is on for Thuram. A bold move from Coach Chivu, bringing on a player who has just returned from a long-term injury. But can he be the difference-maker? It's 1-1, and the clock is ticking..."

The match restarted. The ball was at the feet of a Fiorentina midfielder. My Vision showed me the symbols: a foot, a ball, and an arrow pointing to the wing. Pass.

I moved a split second before the ball was even released, intercepting the pass and sending it to Lautaro Martínez.

Lautaro took a touch and was immediately met by a defender.

I saw the symbols above the defender: a shield and a lightning bolt. Tackle + Dribble. He was going to try to take the ball from Lautaro with a sudden burst of speed.

Lautaro, however, saw it coming. He faked a move, drawing the defender to him, and then, a single foot and an arrow appeared. Pass. He played a perfect pass back to me.

I looked up and saw Cole Palmer making a late run into the box.

The symbols above his head were clear: a running figure and an arrow pointing to the goal. Sprint. I played a perfect through-ball into the open space, and he was on his way.

The commentator's voice rose with excitement. "Palmer! He's through on goal! He's one-on-one with the keeper!"

The Fiorentina keeper, a Potential: 87 and Current: 82, came out to meet him.

I saw the symbols: a hand and a red cross. Brilliant Save.

But then, a new symbol appeared above Palmer's head: a single, small, graceful butterfly. Lob. He wasn't going to shoot. He was going to chip the ball over the keeper.

And that's exactly what he did. A beautiful, elegant chip that sailed over the keeper's head and into the back of the net.

GOOOAL! - 2-1

"...!"

The stadium erupted, a volcanic explosion of pure, unadulterated joy. The scoreboard now read Inter 2, Fiorentina 1.

My teammates rushed to Palmer, burying him in a pile of ecstatic bodies.

The comeback, the hope, the beautiful moment of my Vision—it was all coming together.

The game continued, a blur of motion and pure adrenaline. The Fiorentina players, frustrated by our new-found dominance, started playing a more physical game.

I was a man on a mission, a force of nature in the midfield. My Vision was my guide, my body my weapon. I was seeing the game on a level I had never experienced before, and it was the most exhilarating feeling in the world.

In the 70th minute, a Fiorentina player, a young, scrappy winger with a Potential: 84 and Current: 79, was making a run down the wing.

My Vision showed me a leg and a ball. Shot. I was too far away to stop him, but I saw another path. I saw a Fiorentina defender with a shield and an arrow, moving into position to block the shot.

I shouted a warning to our defender, who moved a split second earlier, putting himself in the perfect position to block the shot. The ball ricocheted off him and landed at my feet.

I took the ball and looked up, scanning the field. The Fiorentina players were scrambling to get back into position.

I saw an open space, a single, beautiful path to the goal. It was a long run, but it was a chance. I started sprinting, my legs a blur of motion, the ball a blur at my feet.

"Leon! He's on a run! He's broken through the midfield! The Fiorentina defense is struggling to keep up with him! Can he do it? Can he score his second goal of the match?"

I was sprinting, my lungs burning, my heart pounding. A defender came at me, his symbols a shield and a lightning bolt. Tackle + Sprint. I feinted to the left, and he slid past me. Another defender came at me, his symbols a shield and a tackle. I did a quick step-over, leaving him in my dust.

I was a force of nature, a blur of motion, my Vision guiding me, my body a weapon.

I was in the box, one-on-one with the keeper. My Vision showed me a hand and a red cross. Save. But I also saw a single, small, elegant symbol: a rainbow. Chip.

And that's exactly what I did. I chipped the ball, a beautiful, arcing shot that sailed over the keeper's head and into the back of the net.

GOOOOOAL! - 3-1

The stadium erupted, a joyous earthquake that shook the very foundations of the building. The scoreboard now read Inter 3, Fiorentina 1.

I was laughing, my face streaked with sweat and tears of pure, unadulterated joy. I had done it. My Vision, my body, my heart—it was all working together, a perfect symphony of football.

But the game wasn't over. Not yet.

Fiorentina, a tough, gritty team, refused to give up. They pushed forward, a final, desperate attack in the last few minutes of the game.

I was tired, my body screaming in protest, but I refused to give up. I used my Vision, my mind a constant, humming presence.

In the 78th minute, a Fiorentina midfielder got the ball. My Vision showed me a single, beautiful, and devastating symbol: a lightning bolt and a foot. Dribble + Shot.

He was going to shoot from long-range. I was too far away to stop him, and our defense was out of position. I was helpless.

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

The ball soared past him and hit the back of the net.

GOOOOAL! - 3-2

The silence in the stadium was deafening.

The scoreboard changed to Inter 3, Fiorentina 2. The clock showed 80 minutes.

We had lost our two-goal lead. The game was far from over, and I knew that in the last ten minutes, anything could happen.