Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The flight back to Milan was a quiet, somber affair.

The plane, a luxury bird that had carried us to a grand European stage, now felt like a metal coffin, a silent witness to our defeat. The score, 4-1 on the night and 8-5 on aggregate, was a brutal, heartbreaking reality. The dream was over. The beautiful, exhilarating fight was over.

I sat in my seat, my head against the cool window, watching the city lights of Barcelona disappear into a blur of color. The other players were quiet, their faces a mask of exhaustion and disappointment.

Some were listening to music, their eyes closed, lost in their own worlds. Others were staring into the middle distance, their minds a million miles away.

There was no finger-pointing, no angry words. Just a shared, quiet sense of loss.

But then, a small, quiet voice broke the silence. "Hey, Leo."

It was Julián Álvarez, his face a mix of tired sadness and a quiet resolve.

He was looking at me with a soft, understanding expression.

"We fought well," he said, his voice a low whisper. "We fought like lions. We just... we just ran out of luck."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," I said, a small, humorless laugh escaping my lips. "Yamal... he's a different beast. A different level. A different kind of player."

Julián just nodded. "He is. But we're a different kind of team, too. We fought them tooth and nail. We didn't give up. And that's all that matters."

He was right. We had lost, but we hadn't been defeated. We had shown our heart. We had shown our character.

And we had a league to win.

I pulled out my phone and looked at my reflection in the screen.

My face was pale, my eyes a little puffy, but there was a flicker of something in them. Something new. Something resilient.

I turned the camera to Julián, and then to Cole Palmer, who was sitting in the seat in front of us. "Hey, guys. Smile for the camera," I said, a small, genuine smile on my face.

They looked at me, a little confused, but then they smiled. A tired, but real, smile. I snapped a picture of the three of us, our faces a mix of pure exhaustion and a quiet, unified defiance.

I wrote a short message and posted it on my "facelook" account.

"To the fans of Inter, we're sorry. We're sorry we couldn't bring the Champions League trophy home. But we fought. We gave it our all. We came back from the dead. We didn't give up. And we're not going to give up now. This loss hurts, but it's not the end. It's just the beginning. We're going to win the league. For you. For us. For Milan. Forza Inter."

I hit the post button, and a new notification popped up on my screen. My follower count, which had been in the thousands, was now in the millions.

A single, beautiful number: 5,000,000.

My eyes widened in surprise. It was a bizarre, surreal number, a testament to the power of a single match, a single moment. I had lost, but I had gained a new kind of fame, a new kind of responsibility. The weight of a city was now on my shoulders.

After a few hours, the plane landed, a gentle thud that brought us back to reality. The airport was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic symphony of our departure.

We got off the plane, our faces a mask of quiet determination, and we walked to the bus that would take us home.

I got in my car, the quiet space a welcome relief. The drive home was a blur of city lights and a constant stream of messages from friends and family.

A few messages from Byon, a few from my mom, and a few from Elena. I couldn't respond to them. Not yet. I had to go home. I had to face my mother.

I arrived home, the scent of her cooking a warm, welcoming presence that filled the entire house. She was standing by the door, a worried, but proud, look on her face.

She pulled me into a tight hug, a familiar comfort that had always been my rock.

"My champion is home," she said, her voice a soft, melodic sound that always made my heart sing. She didn't ask me about the game, she didn't ask me about the loss. She just held me, and that was all I needed.

We ate in comfortable silence, the only sound the clinking of forks and the low hum of the refrigerator.

After dinner, I went to my room and opened my laptop. I logged into my account, and the screen flashed with a new notification.

[QUEST FAILED: WIN THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE]

I had failed. But then, a new notification appeared, a bright, hopeful light in the darkness.

[NEW QUEST: GET THE LEAGUE]

My heart pounded with a new kind of energy. The quest was clear, the goal was simple. It was not about a glorious, impossible victory.

I looked at my phone, the number of Elena a tantalizing hook, but I knew I had to focus.

I had a new quest, a new purpose, and a new kind of responsibility. I had to be a soldier. I had to be a champion. I had to win the league.

For my teammates, for my city, for my mother. And for myself. I put my phone away and went to bed, a peaceful, dreamless sleep finally settling over me. The game was over, but the journey had just begun.

.....

The morning after the Barcelona loss, I woke up with a quiet, focused determination.

The sting of defeat was still there, but it was overshadowed by a new, burning purpose.

I rolled over, my phone on the nightstand, and saw a single, unread message. It was from my agent.

My heart pounded with a new kind of anticipation. I opened the message, and a wave of disbelief washed over me. It was a formal contract offer from Inter, a new deal, with numbers that made my head spin. I rubbed my eyes, thinking I was still dreaming, and looked again.