Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

Training was a fierce, concentrated symphony of motion and sound.

The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass, the thud of the ball, and the sharp shouts of Coach Chivu. He was a force of nature, pushing us harder than ever before. Every drill was for a purpose. Every sprint, every pass, every tackle was for the next match.

The most important match of our season so far.

Napoli.

They were our rivals, the kings of the league, and they were a mere two points ahead of us.

I was in the middle of a passing drill, my Vision on full alert, a constant, humming presence in my mind. I saw the symbols above my teammates' heads, their stats, their small evolutions, their slow but steady growth.

Lautaro Martínez, his Potential: 94 and Current: 89 burning bright.

During a break, I walked over to the water cooler, and Cole joined me. "You feel it?" he asked, his voice low and serious.

"The pressure?" I asked, a small, knowing grin on my face.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "The excitement. It's a different kind of feeling, isn't it? It's not about revenge, not about a cup. It's about a marathon. A long, brutal, beautiful marathon. And we're at the final sprint."

I nodded, a genuine smile on my face. "I'm very excited. I'm ready for this. We're ready for this."

The rest of the training session was a blur. We practiced set pieces, offensive and defensive strategies, and we ran drills until our lungs burned and our legs felt like lead.

Coach Chivu was everywhere, his voice a low growl, his eyes a fierce, determined fire. He knew what was at stake. He knew this was our moment.

The day of the match was a beautiful, chaotic thing. The air was thick with a new kind of energy, a sense of nervous anticipation that filled the entire city.

The streets were a blur of colors, the people a mix of excitement and anticipation. The stadium, a colossal beast of steel and concrete, was a symphony of cheers and chants.

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 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 win. They were here to see us take back our city.

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

"We are at the San Siro for the most important match of the season! Inter, in their traditional blue and black, is fighting for their lives against the league leaders, Napoli! It's second place against first, with only two points separating them! This isn't just a game; it's a war for the league title! The two teams are walking onto the pitch. Who will be the champion?"

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

The match had begun. Napoli, fueled by their league-leading form, 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, a long pass from a Napoli midfielder found Victor Osimhen, his Potential: 92 and Current: 91 burning bright.

My heart pounded with a new kind of anticipation. He was a different kind of player. 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.

The pass was intercepted, and the crowd went wild, a small, audible gasp of surprise.

The game continued, a blur of motion and pure adrenaline. The Napoli players were pushing forward, and we were scrambling to keep up.

In the fifth minute, Khvicha Kvaratskhelia, his Potential: 90 and Current: 89 shining bright, got the ball 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 Napoli 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.

The commentator's voice rose with a feverish excitement. "Leon! He's on a run! He's broken through the midfield! The Napoli defense is scrambling to keep up with him! Can he do it? Can he score the first 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.

The clock showed 10 minutes.

I was in the box, one-on-one with the keeper. Alex Meret, his Potential: 88 and Current: 85, was a calm, focused presence.

My Vision showed me a hand and a red cross. Brilliant 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.

And that's exactly what I did. The ball sailed over his head, a beautiful, arcing shot that was a thing of beauty. 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 goal. But it was also a foul.

My mind was a blur of joy and pain. I had scored. But a defender was on the ground, his face a mask of agony.

I looked at the referee, and I saw a single, beautiful symbol above his head: a red card. He was giving a red card to the defender.

But then, a new symbol appeared, a single, devastating symbol: a foot and a ball. Offside.

The goal was offside. The defender had been offside. The entire sequence, the goal, the foul, the red card... it was all for nothing.

The scoreboard still showed 0-0. The game was far from over.

And I knew... I knew this was going to be a long, brutal fight.