Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of light across Leon's bedroom. He woke not with a jolt, but with a quiet sense of purpose.

The 18% probability was the first thing that surfaced in his mind, a cold number in the warm morning light.

He swung his legs out of bed, the familiar floorboards cool beneath his feet, and headed straight for the kitchen.

A glass of water, then another. He felt the hydration seep into him, a small act of preparation for the monumental task ahead.

His mother was already up, humming softly as she prepared coffee. The aroma filled their small apartment, a comforting anchor in a world of pressure and expectation.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Elena said, not turning from the stove. "You have that look on your face. The one you get before a big exam."

Leon managed a small smile as he grabbed a piece of toast. "It's a pretty big exam today, Mom."

She turned then, placing a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. Her eyes were soft, but held a deep understanding. "You studied hard. You are prepared. Just go and do your best. That is all I can ever ask." She kissed his forehead. "Now eat. You need your energy."

He ate in comfortable silence, the weight in his chest feeling a little lighter. After finishing, he stood up and rinsed his plate. "Okay, I'm heading out. See you after the match."

"I'll be watching," she called after him. "Be safe, Leon!"

The drive to Appiano Gentile was a familiar routine, but today the world outside his car seemed to be buzzing with a unique energy.

Blue and black scarves were already visible, hanging from apartment balconies and car mirrors. The city was holding its breath.

He pulled into his usual spot and saw Lautaro and Nicolò Barella getting out of their cars, already deep in conversation. He joined them as they walked towards the training facility.

"You see the news?" Lautaro asked, his expression a mix of a competitor's excitement and a captain's concern. "Milan got their new signings registered just in time for the derby. They can play tomorrow."

Barella ran a hand through his hair, a grimace on his face. "Xavi Simons and Mohammed Kudus. That's a nightmare. So much speed, so much skill on the wings. Bastoni, you're going to be busy."

Alessandro Bastoni, who had just caught up with them, simply shrugged, a look of quiet confidence on his face. "They have to get past Federico first," he said, nodding towards Dimarco who was stretching nearby. "And I'll be waiting."

"It's not just them," Stefan de Vrij added, joining the group. "What about that big striker they brought in from the Premier League? Chris Wood, from Nottingham Forest?"

The name seemed out of place amongst the flashy young talents. Lautaro nodded seriously. "Don't underestimate him. He's a classic number nine, big and strong in the air. A completely different threat. If they can't play through us with speed, they'll just launch it long to him. It makes them unpredictable."

Leon listened, his mind already working. He had spent half the night studying clips of the new players. His Vision had given him the raw data, the numbers that made them so terrifying.

Xavi Simons: Current Ability: 86 / Potential Ability: 94.

Key Trait: Flair, Likes to Beat Opponent Repeatedly.

Mohammed Kudus: Current Ability: 85 / Potential Ability: 91.

Key Trait: Dribbles with Speed, Cuts Inside.

Chris Wood: Current Ability: 80 / Potential Ability: 80.

Key Trait: Aerial Threat, Target Man.

Three different problems. Three different ways to lose. The 18% felt generous. But then he remembered the training goal. The pass to Lautaro.

His system wasn't just about raw numbers. It was about understanding.

The final training session before the match was light on body but heavy on focus. They walked through tactical shapes, practiced set-pieces, and ended with a light-hearted shootout.

The mood was tense, but it was the tension of a coiled spring, ready to explode.

Coach Chivu watched over it all with his usual hawk-like intensity, offering short, sharp corrections. He pulled Leon aside for a moment.

"They will target you," Chivu said, his voice low. "They know the Napoli game. They will try to cut you off from the others. Don't force it. Be smart. Find the space they give you, not the space you want."

Leon nodded, taking the advice to heart. "Yes, Coach."

The next day passed in a blur of anticipation. A team meal, a final tactical meeting, and then the bus ride to the San Siro.

The noise grew with every block, a rising tide of sound. Inside the bus, headphones were on, and every player was lost in their own world.

Leon closed his eyes, visualizing the pitch, the players, the little details his system had shown him.

The dressing room was a sanctuary of nervous energy. The scent of liniment hung in the air. Players went through their personal rituals—some stretching, some praying, some laughing nervously with a teammate.

Cole Palmer sat quietly, tying and re-tying his boots, a picture of calm. Julián Álvarez was juggling a roll of tape, a restless smile on his face.

Lautaro stood in the middle of the room, waiting for everyone to be ready. When the final boot was tied, and all eyes were on him, he spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the tension.

"Look around you," he began, his gaze sweeping over every face. "This is your brother. This is who you fight for today. Out there on that pitch, it is a war.

And it is us against them. We fight for our colors. We fight for our fans who will scream until their throats are raw. We fight for this badge." He thumped the Inter crest on his chest. "Leave every single drop of sweat, every ounce of energy, on that grass. No regrets. Only victory. Forza Inter!"

A roar went up in the small room. "FORZA INTER!"

They lined up in the tunnel, a line of blue and black standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Across the way, a line of red and black did the same.

Leon could feel the vibrations from the stadium through the concrete floor. He looked across and saw him—Xavi Simons, bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking electric.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second.

The roar that hit them as they walked onto the pitch was deafening.

It wasn't the unified chorus from the Napoli game; it was a chaotic, beautiful, terrifying clash of two tribes.

Half the stadium was a sea of blue and black, the other a fiery ocean of red and black.

The Derby della Madonnina.

They took their positions. The referee held the ball. Leon took a deep breath, the fresh night air filling his lungs.

He scanned the pitch, his Vision flaring to life, painting the field in numbers and possibilities.

The referee raised the whistle to his lips.

From the speakers, the commentator's voice echoed across the world, setting the stage for the battle to come.

"Welcome to a sold-out, thunderous Giuseppe Meazza, a stadium divided by color but united by passion! This is more than a game; it's for the pride of Milan! Inter versus AC Milan, the 239th Derby della Madonnina… is underway!"

TWWEEET!

The whistle blew. The roar became one. The match had begun.