Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The morning of the Torino match, Leon woke up with a strange, new sense of clarity.

The world didn't just look the same; it felt different, like he was seeing it in a higher resolution.

He walked into the kitchen, where his mother was humming a tune, a clear sign that she was in a good mood. She had already prepared his pre-match breakfast of eggs, toast, and fruit.

"Buongiorno, my little tactical genius," she said, giving him a cheerful smile. "Are you going to tell your friends to pass the ball into the little net again today?"

Leon laughed, pouring himself a coffee. "That's the plan, Mom. But this other team, they are very good at putting a big wall in front of the little net."

"Ah," she said, nodding with the profound wisdom of someone who understood football on a deeply spiritual (and completely non-tactical) level.

"So you must tell your friends to pass the ball around the wall. It is simple, no?"

He grinned. "Exactly. You should be a coach."

"Pah," she waved a dismissive hand. "Too much yelling. I would rather just make the victory pasta."

He ate breakfast, feeling a profound sense of calm.

The pressure was immense—a five-point lead with only four games to go meant every match was a final—but today, it didn't feel like a weight. It felt like an opportunity.

Arriving at the San Siro, the familiar buzz of a matchday was in the air.

The dressing room was a hive of focused energy, but the usual pre-game banter was in full swing, a necessary release of nervous tension.

"Okay, I have a new one," Julián Álvarez announced to the room as he was lacing his boots. "The Torino defense is 'The Triangle', right? And a triangle is a shape. And a shape is a thing. So, can you tackle the thing itself? If I just slide tackle the general concept of their formation, is that a foul?"

Lautaro Martínez, who was getting his ankles taped, just closed his eyes. "Julián," he said, his voice a long-suffering groan. "I am begging you. My brain cannot handle your brand of philosophy before a 90-minute war."

"It's a legitimate question of physics and footballing law!" Julián insisted.

"He's right, you know," Cole Palmer added, a deadpan expression on his face. "If you tackle the formation, who gets the yellow card? The idea of the triangle? It's a legal minefield."

The room chuckled, the tension easing. This was their ritual. This was their strength.

As the players began their final preparations, Leon took a breath. This was his moment.

He walked over to the tactics board where Coach Chivu was having a quiet, intense discussion with his assistant.

"Coach," Leon said, his voice quiet but firm.

Chivu turned, his expression unreadable. "Leon."

"I was watching them," Leon began, his heart starting to beat a little faster. "I noticed something. The Triangle... it's incredibly strong when we attack it head-on. But it's aggressive. All three defenders push up together to press the ball."

Chivu just listened, his eyes narrowed, giving nothing away.

"I think," Leon continued, gaining confidence, "we shouldn't try to attack the triangle at all. We should make the triangle attack us. If I drop deep, really deep, from the False 9, one of them has to follow. Their whole system is based on not letting the striker have the ball. And when one of them follows..."

A slow nod from the coach. He understood.

"...the triangle breaks," Leon finished. "And that's when Lautaro and Cole make diagonal runs inside, into the space that's just been opened up. We don't go around the wall. We trick the wall into making a door for us."

There was a long, heavy silence. Leon could feel the eyes of his teammates on him.

He had just, in front of everyone, proposed a fundamental shift in their attacking strategy, moments before a crucial match.

Coach Chivu stared at the board, replaying Leon's words in his mind.

The 'Protector's Gambit' synergy link between them seemed to hum in the air.

Then, he looked at Leon, and for the first time, he wasn't looking at him as a player. He was looking at him as an equal.

"That's good, Leon," Chivu said, his voice a low, impressed growl. "That's very good." He turned to the rest of the team. "You all heard him! We are not punching the wall today! We are ghosts! We are smoke! We lure them in, and then we punish them. Clear?"

A chorus of "Yes, Coach!" filled the room, a new, intelligent fire in their eyes.

They walked out of the tunnel into the roaring cathedral of the San Siro.

The stakes were immense. A win today would put them on the brink of the Scudetto.

The commentator was already in top form. "WELCOME to the theater of dreams and the factory of heart attacks, the magnificent San Siro! Inter Milan, with the scent of the Scudetto in their nostrils, face the tactical enigma that is Torino! A team with a defense so organized, so stubborn, they call it 'The Triangle'! Can Inter's superstars solve this geometric puzzle, or will their title charge be lost in the footballing Bermuda Triangle?!"

The whistle blew.

From the first second, the plan was put into motion.

The ball was worked to Leon, who was positioned high up the pitch.

But instead of turning to attack, he immediately played a simple pass backward and began to drift deep into the midfield.

"What's he doing?" the commentator asked, confused. "Leon is playing like a defensive midfielder!"

The central defender in Torino's triangle, Alessandro Buongiorno, hesitated for a second, then did exactly as Leon had predicted.

He followed him, determined not to let Inter's playmaker have any space.

The trap was sprung.

The moment Buongiorno vacated his position, Lautaro Martínez, who had started wide, exploded into a diagonal run, right into the heart of the space the defender had just left. Simultaneously, Hakan Çalhanoğlu, seeing the move, played a first-time, laser-guided pass that sliced through the now-broken defensive line.

"A-A PASS! A BEAUTIFUL PASS!" the commentator shrieked.

"LAUTARO IS THROUGH ON GOAL!"

Lautaro was one-on-one. He drew back his foot to shoot.

The keeper came rushing out.

But at the last second, Lautaro unselfishly squared the ball to Cole Palmer, who had made a ghosting run alongside him.

Palmer had an open net. He tapped the ball home.

The net bulged. The San Siro detonated. But the linesman's flag was up.

Offside. By a whisker.

A collective groan of a million voices echoed around the stadium.

But on the pitch, the Inter players weren't dejected.

They were electrified. Lautaro gave Palmer a high-five. Barella gave Çalhanoğlu a thumbs-up. They looked at Leon with a new level of awe. The plan had worked.

It had worked perfectly.

On the Torino side, chaos erupted.

Alessandro Buongiorno, their captain, was screaming at his midfield for not tracking the runners. The Torino coach was frantically gesturing at his defenders, trying to reorganizetheir shape.

The clock showed 10:00.

No goals had been scored. But the battle was already won. Inter had the key. The fortress had a door. And they had just kicked it wide open.