Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

I got into my car, the scent of her perfume a comforting presence in the quiet space. I drove to the airport, the city lights a beautiful, shimmering blur.

The thought of seeing Elena again, the girl with the mysterious white aura, filled me with a new kind of energy. I wanted to see her.

I wanted to tell her about the match, about the win, about my goals. I wanted to see that curious, playful look in her eyes. I took a deep breath and focused on the road, my heart pounding with a new kind of anticipation.

The airport was a blur of people and luggage, a chaotic symphony of travel. I saw my teammates standing in a group, their faces a mix of excitement and nervous energy.

We were a family, a group of brothers united by a single purpose.

Julián Álvarez saw me and waved, a huge, genuine grin on his face. "Leon You made it... We thought you were going to miss the flight!" he yelled, his voice a little too loud for the quiet airport.

"I wouldn't miss this for the world," I said, a small, knowing smile on my face. "This is our moment. This is our chance."

We boarded the plane, and I found a seat next to Cole Palmer.

He was quiet, a thoughtful look on his face. "You look worried, Cole," I said, my voice a low whisper.

He just shook his head, a small, sad smile on his face. "I'm not worried. I'm just... thinking. Thinking about how close we were last time. And how much it's going to hurt if we lose again."

"We're not going to lose," I said, my voice firm. "We have a plan."

He just looked at me, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "You really think so?"

"I know so," I said, a determined look on my face.

The plane took off, a gentle, humming rhythm that lulled us into a quiet calm. We talked about the game, about the league, about our personal lives.

We were a team, a family, and we were in this together.

I looked out the window, the clouds a soft, beautiful presence in the night sky. The city lights of Milan were a shimmering blur below us, a city of a million dreams, a city that believed in us.

After a few hours, the plane landed, a gentle thud that brought us back to reality. We were in Barcelona.

The air was warm, and the city was a vibrant, chaotic symphony of noise and light. We got off the plane and boarded a bus that took us to the hotel. The streets were a blur of colors, the people a mix of excitement and anticipation.

The hotel was beautiful, a five-star palace with a view of the city. We went to our rooms and dropped our bags, a quiet, focused determination in the air.

This was it. This was our moment. This was our chance.

I took out my phone and looked at the number I had gotten from Elena. I wanted to text her, to tell her I was in Barcelona, to tell her about my goals.

But I couldn't. Not yet. I had to focus. I had to get my mind right. This was a war, and I had to be a soldier. I had to be a champion.

I put my phone away and walked to the window, looking out at the city. The lights were a beautiful, shimmering blur, and the air was filled with the promise of a new day.

...

The two days in Barcelona were a blur of focused preparation. The luxurious hotel, with its sweeping views of the city, became our fortress.

I spent my evenings in my room, my laptop open, my phone buzzing with messages from Byon.

On the third day, the air in the hotel was thick with a new kind of energy. The day of the match had arrived. I ate a quiet breakfast, a nervous energy making my stomach feel a little queasy.

I looked at my teammates, their faces a mix of calm focus and nervous anticipation.

The bus ride to the Camp Nou was a quiet, tense affair.

The bus was a dark, hushed space, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the quiet murmur of a few conversations. Some players had headphones on, lost in their own worlds.

Others were staring out the window, their eyes unblinking, their minds a thousand miles away. I was sitting next to Cole Palmer, and he was just staring at his hands, his face a mask of fierce concentration.

"You ready, Cole?" I asked, my voice a low whisper.

He just nodded, a grim look on his face. "I'm ready. I'm just… I'm just thinking about how much I hate losing."

"Me too," I said, a small, knowing smile on my face. "Me too."

I looked out the window, and the city was a blur of colors, the people a mix of excitement and anticipation.

The streets were getting more and more crowded as we got closer to the stadium. I saw people in Barcelona jerseys, their faces a mix of pure joy and pure hate.

The bus pulled up to the Camp Nou, and the roar of the crowd was a physical thing, a wall of sound that hit us with a sudden, devastating force.

The stadium was a monster, a colossal beast of steel and concrete, and it was filled with a single, unified voice. They were here to see us lose. They were here to see their team win.

We got off the bus, and the noise was a deafening symphony. The Barcelona fans were a sea of red and blue, their chants a constant, humming presence that made the air feel thick and heavy.

We walked into the stadium, a silent, determined group, our faces a mask of quiet confidence. We were a family, a group of brothers united by a single purpose.

The dressing room was a calm, quiet place. The air was filled with the smell of fresh kits, the familiar smell of liniment, and the low hum of nervous energy. We got dressed in our Inter kits, the colors a bright, hopeful presence in the dark, hushed room.

Coach Chivu walked into the room, his face a mask of calm focus. "Men," he said, his voice a low growl. "I'm not going to give you a long speech. You know what's at stake. You know what we have to do. We lost the last battle. But we're going to win the war."

He looked at the entire team, his eyes burning with a fierce, determined fire. "Now go out there and show them what we're made of. Go out there and win."

We walked out of the dressing room, the air a mix of nervous energy and pure, unadulterated excitement.

We walked through the long, dark tunnel, the sound of the crowd a deafening roar that grew louder and louder with every step. I looked at my teammates, their faces a mask of calm focus, and I knew we were ready.

The tunnel opened up to the pitch, and the roar of the crowd was a physical thing, a wave of sound that hit us with a sudden, devastating force.

The commentator's voice boomed through the stadium speakers, a calm, authoritative presence. "We are at the Camp Nou for the second leg of the Champions League quarter-final! Inter, in their white away kit, are here to fight for their lives! Can they pull off a miracle? Can they overcome their 4-3 deficit?"

The referee's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the thunderous roar of the crowd.

The match had begun. Barcelona, fueled by their home crowd, came at us with a ferocious intensity. They were fast, they were physical, and they were relentless. I used my Vision, and the symbols of their players were a constant, humming presence in my mind.

In the second minute, the ball found its way to Lamine Yamal.

I used my Vision, and a flurry of symbols appeared above his head. a lightning bolt, a foot, and an arrow. Dribble, Feint, Shot. I knew his trick. I knew his pattern.

I was a fraction of a second ahead of him. I moved a split second earlier, and our defender was a step ahead of him, forcing him to pass. The pass was intercepted, and the crowd went silent, a small, audible gasp of surprise.

The Barcelona players were pushing forward, and we were scrambling to keep up. In the seventh minute, a long pass found Yamal on the wing.

I used my Vision, and a single, elegant symbol appeared above his head. a running figure and a star. Sprint + Cross. He was going to try to cross it!

My mind screamed a warning to our defense, who moved a split second earlier, putting themselves in the perfect position to block the cross.

The ball ricocheted off them and landed at my feet.

I took the ball and looked up, scanning the field. The Barcelona 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 Barcelona defense is struggling to keep up with him!"

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.

The clock showed 10 minutes. 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.

I wasn't going to shoot. I was going to chip it over his head. But then, a new symbol appeared above a defender's head. A shield and a sword. Foul..... He was going to tackle me from behind.

I felt a sharp pain in my leg, and I knew... I knew this was going to hurt. The ball flew off my foot and into the back of the net.

But the referee's whistle blew, a shrill, piercing sound that cut through the thunderous roar of the crowd. It was a penalty.

And I was on the ground, my leg throbbing, my mind a blur of pain. It was a goal, but it was a foul. And a penalty.