Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

Leon's shouts cut through the stadium's tense hum. His teammates, moments ago slumping with exhaustion, looked up, their eyes finding his.

Julián Álvarez, his face grim, nodded sharply and pushed higher up the pitch. Lautaro Martínez adjusted his position, his expression hardening with renewed focus.

On the sideline, Coach Cristian Chivu stopped his frantic gesturing.

He watched Leon, a flicker of surprise and then approval in his intense gaze. The boy was taking command.

Inside Leon's mind, a quiet notification glowed, a stark contrast to the roaring chaos around him.

[CURRENT RATING: 85]

He felt a surge of pride, but it was immediately followed by a wave of fierce ambition.

Eighty-five is good, he thought, his heart pounding a rhythm against his ribs.

But it's not enough. I didn't come this far to be just 'good.' I came here to be the best.

The path forward was clear, laid out like a map only he could see. He had to dominate. He had to take this game and bend it to his will.

His eyes scanned the pitch, the world shifting into the familiar overlay of his Vision. Numbers and symbols flickered above every player.

Napoli's defenders were organized, a wall of grim determination. But every wall has a crack. Leon's gaze swept to the left wing, where a new teammate, recently transferred from Chelsea, was calling for the ball.

[Cole Palmer - Potential: 91, Current: 86]

Above Palmer's head, a simple symbol flashed: a pair of running feet followed by a question mark. An open channel. An opportunity. Palmer was fast, and his footballing IQ was high. He just needed the right service.

Leon took a deep breath, the ball rolling to his feet. He didn't hesitate. A Napoli midfielder, Stanislav Lobotka, lunged in for a tackle.

But Leon already knew he would. A small, almost invisible symbol of a sliding boot had appeared above Lobotka's head a full second earlier.

With a deft touch, Leon sidestepped the challenge, leaving the midfielder grasping at air.

He looked up and fired a crisp, curling pass into the space ahead of Palmer. It was perfectly weighted, a pass that invited the run.

Palmer was already moving, anticipating it. He collected the ball in stride, drove towards the byline, and whipped in a dangerous cross that was barely cleared for a corner.

The crowd roared its approval. A connection was forming.

Five minutes later, the ball found its way back to Leon in the center circle. Again, his eyes locked onto Palmer. This time, the symbol above Palmer's head was a winding arrow.

A complex run. He's going to cut inside.

Leon delayed his pass for a split second, drawing another defender towards him before releasing a clever reverse ball that sliced through the defensive line.

Palmer received it, cut inside as predicted, and unleashed a powerful shot that forced a brilliant save from Alex Meret.

They were building a rhythm, a deadly dance that Napoli was struggling to comprehend. The game was no longer a chaotic battle; it was becoming Leon's symphony, and Palmer was his lead violinist.

In the 68th minute, the moment arrived. Palmer, once again finding space on the left, looked up and saw Leon surging towards the penalty area.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—an unspoken understanding. Palmer didn't cross it low; he floated the ball high, a hopeful arc towards the center of the box.

To everyone else, it looked like an overhit cross. But Leon saw it all. He saw the trajectory of the ball, the position of the defenders, and the space that would open up for exactly 1.2 seconds.

Above his own head, in his mind's eye, a new, thrilling symbol appeared: a bicycle.

He didn't think. He just acted.

He sprinted forward, judged the ball's descent, and then launched himself into the air, twisting his body sideways. With acrobatic grace, his right foot connected perfectly with the ball, sending it flying towards the top corner of the net.

The world seemed to move in slow motion. The goalkeeper, Meret, was frozen, a spectator to the impossible.

The ball rocketed into the net.

THUD!

The stadium exploded. It was a goal of breathtaking audacity and flawless execution. His teammates mobbed him, their faces a mixture of disbelief and pure joy.

Lautaro ruffled his hair, yelling something incoherent in his ear. Palmer just pointed at him, a massive grin on his face.

As the celebration subsided, a new notification shimmered into existence in his vision.

[SPECTACULAR GOAL BONUS! RATING +1]

[CURRENT RATING: 86]

A wide, genuine smile spread across Leon's face.

This is it. This is the feeling.

The goal broke Napoli's spirit. Their defensive wall, once so formidable, now had a gaping hole in it. They were rattled, and Leon was ready to pour salt on the wound.

At the 75-minute mark, he received the ball 30 yards from goal. He saw the keeper, Meret, was a few inches too far off his line.

A symbol of a shield with a crack in it appeared over the goal. A weakness.

Without a second thought, Leon struck the ball with vicious power and precision.

It dipped and swerved in the air, a venomous projectile that flew past the keeper's desperate dive and nestled into the bottom corner. 2-1.

The commentator screamed, "He's done it again! Leon, the magician of Milan! An absolute thunderbolt!"

Now, the Napoli players looked defeated. Their shoulders slumped.

They had fought bravely a man down, but they were being dismantled by a single player's genius.

The final blow came in the 88th minute. Leon, now brimming with unstoppable confidence, dribbled past two defenders as if they were training cones. He entered the box, one-on-one with the keeper. He could have shot.

Everyone expected him to. But his Vision showed him Lautaro Martínez making a ghosting run to his right. A symbol of two linked arrows appeared between them. The perfect connection.

Instead of shooting, Leon selflessly squared the ball to Lautaro, who had the simple task of tapping it into the empty net. 3-1. A hat-trick of contributions—two goals and an assist.

The final whistle blew shortly after.

The Inter players surrounded Leon, lifting him onto their shoulders.

He was the hero of the San Siro. As he was carried off the pitch, the adoring roar of the crowd washing over him, he checked his status one last time. His rating had soared.

[CURRENT RATING: 88]

He had started the match at 85. The feeling was intoxicating.