Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The world fell away, replaced by a searing pain in my leg. I was on the ground, the lush green grass a sudden, unexpected pillow.

The referee's whistle cut through the air, a shrill, piercing sound that felt like a lifeline.

The referee was pointing to the spot, a clear, decisive gesture that sent a shockwave through the stadium.

The Camp Nou, a moment ago a deafening roar of hate, was now a sea of angry, frustrated faces. The Barcelona players swarmed the referee, their shouts a furious, unintelligible symphony.

Pedri, his face streaked with sweat and pure frustration, was yelling at the ref, his hands waving in the air. Gavi, a fiery ball of energy, was right there with him, his symbols a blur of angry fists and exclamation points.

I lay on the ground, my leg throbbing, my mind a quiet, serene space. The pain was there, but my Vision was a shield, a protective bubble that allowed me to focus on the task at hand.

The referee was holding his ground, his face a mask of calm authority. He was not going to change his mind.

A few Inter players came over to help me up, their faces a mix of concern and triumphant joy.

"You okay, Leo?" Lautaro Martínez asked, his voice low and concerned.

"I'm good," I said, a small, genuine smile on my face. "Just a little bruised. But it's a penalty."

I got up, my leg a little wobbly, and walked to the penalty spot. The Barcelona players were still arguing, their shouts a frantic, desperate symphony.

I looked at the keeper, Marc-André ter Stegen, his Potential: 92 and Current: 89 burning bright.

His face was a mask of cold, clinical focus.

My Vision flared to life, and I saw a flurry of symbols above his head: a hand and a red cross. Brilliant Save. But then, a new set of symbols appeared, a swirling, chaotic mix of possibilities.

He was a master of his craft, a keeper who had a dozen different ways to save a penalty. I needed to find his one weakness, his one predictable pattern.

I looked at his eyes, and my Vision showed me a small, almost invisible symbol. a boot with a curve. Dive Left. He was going to dive left. He had made up his mind. I had a plan.

The referee blew his whistle, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the thunderous roar of the crowd. I took a deep breath, and as I approached the ball, I looked at the keeper, my eyes focused on his, and I took a small step to the left, a feint, a trick. He bought it.

He dove to the left, a perfect, athletic dive, but I had already fired my shot.

The ball flew to the right, a low, powerful shot that sailed past him and hit the back of the net with a beautiful, satisfying thud.

GOOOOAL!

The stadium went silent, a stunned, disbelieving hush. The Barcelona fans were a sea of quiet despair, their faces a mask of shocked disbelief.

And then, a small, powerful cheer erupted from the Inter fans, a beautiful, joyous noise that grew louder and louder.

I ran to the sidelines, my arms raised in the air, and I pointed to the Inter fans, a quiet, dignified acknowledgment of their faith.

The commentator's voice boomed through the stadium speakers, a calm, authoritative presence. "Leon! The boy wonder! He scores! Inter takes the lead! It's 1-0, and the aggregate is now 4-4! This is a war, and Leon just fired the first shot!"

The game restarted, a blur of motion and pure adrenaline.

The Barcelona players, furious and embarrassed, came at us with a ferocious intensity. They were fast, they were physical, and they were relentless.

Gavi, a whirlwind of tackles, was everywhere, his symbols a blur of angry fists and exclamation points. Lamine Yamal, fueled by a new kind of rage, was even more dangerous.

In the 20th minute, Yamal got the ball on the wing. My Vision showed me a new symbol above his head: a single, bright, pulsating light. Pure Instinct. It was a new kind of symbol, one I had never seen before.

He wasn't thinking, he wasn't planning. He was just running, a blur of motion, his body a weapon, his mind a quiet, serene space. He dribbled past two of our defenders with a fluid, effortless grace, and then, a single leg and a ball appeared. Shot. He fired a low, powerful shot toward the goal, a beautiful, arcing shot that was a thing of beauty.

Our 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! - 1-1

The stadium erupted, a joyous earthquake that shook the very foundations of the building. The scoreboard now read 1-1. The aggregate was 5-4 to Barcelona. My heart sank. The comeback, the hope, the beautiful moment of my Vision—it was all for nothing.

We had lost our one-goal lead.

The game continued, a blur of motion and pure adrenaline. The Barcelona players, fueled by their equalizer, were playing with a new kind of confidence.

They were moving with a fluid, determined rhythm, their symbols a constant, humming presence in my mind.

In the 35th minute, a moment of pure chaos. Gavi, a blur of motion, came in with a fierce, two-footed tackle on our midfielder, Henrikh Mkhitaryan.

I saw the symbols above his head. a fiery skull and a red card. Brutal Foul. The referee blew his whistle, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the thunderous roar of the crowd.

He ran to Gavi, his face a mask of pure anger, and he pulled out a red card. The Camp Nou went silent, a stunned, disbelieving hush.

The Barcelona players were furious, their shouts a frantic, desperate symphony, but it was no use. Gavi was off. Barcelona was down to ten men.

The game continued, and the momentum was now all with Inter.

We were a man up, and we were playing with a new kind of confidence. We were passing, we were moving, we were creating chances. 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.

In the 55th 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 crossbar with a loud, heart-wrenching thud. The crowd, a moment ago silent, erupted in a collective groan of despair. We had lost our chance. Our one, beautiful chance.

The game was heading for a draw, a frustrating, heartbreaking result that would cost us precious points in the league race.

I was on the field, my legs feeling a little wobbly from the intense training, but my mind was sharp, focused, and ready. I saw my teammates on the field, their bodies tired, their minds weary, but they were still fighting. I saw the symbols of the Barcelona players, their movements predictable, their patterns a familiar rhythm.

And I saw a single, beautiful opportunity.

But in the 60th minute, it all fell apart.

A lightning-fast counter-attack from Barcelona.

A long pass from Pedri found Robert Lewandowski, who was running with a new kind of ferocious intensity.

I used my Vision, and a new symbol, one I hadn't seen before, appeared above his head. a single, majestic crown. King. He was playing with a new kind of power, a new kind of focus.

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

The scoreboard showed 2-1 to Barcelona.

The aggregate was now 6-5. My heart sank. The comeback was over.

We were losing, and we were losing to a team that was a man down.

The final 30 minutes of the match were going to be a brutal, desperate fight for survival, and I knew... I knew this was going to hurt.