Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The Camp Nou, a moment ago a deafening roar of triumph, was now a sea of pure, unadulterated joy.

The scoreboard showed 2-1 to Barcelona, and the aggregate was 6-5.

The referee's whistle blew, and the game restarted. Barcelona, fueled by Lewandowski's goal, was playing with a new kind of confidence.

They were moving with a fluid, determined rhythm, their symbols a constant, humming presence in my mind. The Inter players, their faces a mask of exhaustion and despair, were scrambling to keep up.

In the 65th minute, a moment of pure chaos.

A Barcelona midfielder, Andreas Christensen, a quiet, unassuming player with a Potential: 89 and Current: 86, was making a run down the wing.

Our defender, a young, fiery defender with a Potential: 88 and Current: 84, came in with a fierce, two-footed tackle.

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

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

The Inter players were furious, their shouts a frantic, desperate symphony, but it was no use.

Our defender was off. We were now ten against ten, and the momentum was all with Barcelona.

The Barcelona players were swarming 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.

Lamine Yamal, a fiery ball of energy, was right there with him, his symbols a blur of angry fists and exclamation points.

I walked over to the referee, my face a mask of calm, focused determination. "That's not a red card," I said, my voice low and calm. "It was a fair tackle. He got the ball."

The referee just looked at me, his face a mask of cold, clinical focus. "It was a dangerous tackle," he said, his voice a low growl. "He's off."

I was about to argue when I saw the symbols above his head: a single, bright, pulsating light. Pure Authority. He was not going to change his mind.

I looked at him, a flicker of pure frustration in my eyes, and I walked back to my team. The game was far from over, and I knew that in the last 25 minutes, anything could happen.

The game continued, a blur of motion and pure adrenaline. The Barcelona players, fueled by their numerical advantage, 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. We were a man down, and we were scrambling to keep up.

In the 75th minute, a beautiful, flowing pass from Pedri found Robert Lewandowski, who was running with a new kind of ferocious intensity.

I used my Vision, and a new symbol, appeared above his head. a single, majestic crown. King.

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

The scoreboard showed 3-1 to Barcelona. The aggregate was now 7-5. My heart sank.

The comeback was over. The beautiful, exhilarating fight was over. We were losing, and we were losing to a team that was a man down.

The final few minutes of the match were a blur of adrenaline and desperation. We were pushing forward, a final, desperate attack, but it was no use. Barcelona, a team of world-class players, was a defensive fortress.

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

In the 90th minute, a final, devastating blow. The ball found its way to Lamine Yamal. My heart pounded with a new kind of anticipation. I used my Vision, and a flurry of symbols appeared above his head: a lightning bolt, a foot, and a star. 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.

But then, a new set of symbols appeared, a swirling, chaotic mix of possibilities. He was a master of his craft, a player who had a dozen different ways to beat a defender.

He dribbled past two of our defenders with a fluid, effortless grace, a blur of motion, his body a weapon, his mind a quiet, serene space.

He then feinted to the left, and our defender slid past him. He then fired a low, powerful shot toward the goal, a beautiful, arcing shot that was a thing of beauty.

Our keeper, a Potential: 89 and Current: 87, 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! - 4-1

The stadium erupted, a joyous earthquake that shook the very foundations of the building. The scoreboard now read 4-1 to Barcelona.

The aggregate was 8-5. My heart sank. The comeback was over. The beautiful, exhilarating fight was over.

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

We had lost. We had lost in a brutal, humiliating defeat. The Barcelona players were celebrating, their shouts of joy a cruel symphony in my ears.

I fell to the ground, my body and mind completely spent. The dream was over. The beautiful, exhilarating fight was over.

But then, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Julián Álvarez.

"Leo," he said, his voice low and concerned. "It's not over. It's never over. There's always a next match."

He was right. This was just one match. One loss. But the league title was still in our hands.

And the future... the future was a long, beautiful road that had just begun.

The game was over, but the journey was still going. The Camp Nou was a place of sorrow, but my heart was a place of hope.