Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The usual halftime buzz of tactical chatter and encouragement was replaced by a grim, suffocating silence.

Then, the door opened and Coach Cristian Chivu walked in.

He looked… calm. Dangerously calm. He walked to the center of the room, his eyes scanning the dejected faces of his players.

"So," he began, his voice a low, even hum that cut through the silence. "This is it. This is the moment. This is the test. Not Sassuolo. Not Lazio. This. Right now. In this room."

He looked at them, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Everything we have worked for, every battle we have won, has led to this moment. The moment where you are down, you are hurt, and you feel like the world is against you. And you have a choice."

He paused, letting the weight of the word hang in the air.

"You can stay here, in this silence," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"You can feel sorry for yourselves. You can blame the goalkeeper's mistake, you can cry about your captain's injury. You can accept defeat. Or..."

His voice suddenly erupted, a roar of pure, defiant passion that made every player jolt upright.

"OR YOU CAN REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE! You are Inter! You are the champions of Italy in waiting! You are the team that came back from the dead against Milan! The team that stared down Juventus! The team that won a cup final with ten men! You do not quit! You do not crumble! You FIGHT!"

He pointed at Julián. "We lost our lion, so we unleash our mosquito!"

He pointed at the defenders. "You made a mistake? Good! Now you have forty-five minutes to atone for it!" He pointed at Leon.

"You are our brain! You have a plan! I have seen it work! So go out there and execute it!"

He stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving, a fire burning in his eyes. "

Forget the score. Forget the injury. The second half starts nil-nil. Go and win it."

The team that walked out for the second half was not the same one that had walked off at halftime. The ghosts were gone, replaced by soldiers.

A new, grim determination was etched on their faces.

They began to play. They returned to the plan. Leon dropped deep, pulling the Sassuolo defense apart. The passing was crisp, intelligent, suffocating. They weren't playing with the joyful arrogance of the first half; they were playing with the cold, ruthless efficiency of a team with a point to prove.

In the 55th minute, the pressure finally told.

A beautiful passing move saw the ball worked out to Dimarco on the left. He whipped in a low, dangerous cross.

The box was a chaotic scramble of legs.

The ball ricocheted off a defender, hit Julián in the chest, and fell perfectly to Cole Palmer, ten yards out. While everyone else was in a state of pure panic, Palmer was an oasis of calm.

He took one touch to kill the ball dead. He looked up, saw the keeper diving desperately, and then, with a cool, almost lazy side-foot, he passed the ball into the empty side of the net.

1-1.

Palmer didn't celebrate wildly. He just turned, a small, satisfied smile on his face, and pointed to the center circle. The job wasn't done.

"ICE IN HIS VEINS!" the commentator roared.

"COLE PALMER, THE COOLEST MAN IN MILAN, BRINGS INTER LEVEL! Composure of the highest order! The comeback is on!"

But Sassuolo were not just here to be a chapter in Inter's story.

The equalizer, instead of breaking Sassuolo's spirit, seemed to free them.

They began to attack with a new, fearless abandon.

In the 63rd minute, they produced a moment of world-class, breathtaking brilliance.

Their star player, Domenico Berardi, received the ball on the right wing, about 30 yards from goal. He was isolated, with Dimarco marking him tightly.

There was no apparent danger.

Berardi cut inside, shifting the ball onto his favored left foot.

The Inter defense was set, ready for a pass or a cross.

Instead, he shot.

It was a thing of pure, audacious genius.

He wrapped his foot around the ball, unleashing a curling, dipping shot that seemed to defy the laws of physics.

It started wide of the post, a perfect, impossible arc, before swerving viciously back in at the last second.

Yann Sommer, at full stretch, could only watch as the ball flew past his fingertips and ripped into the very top corner of the net.

2-1 to Sassuolo.

The San Siro was stunned into silence for the second time.

The players just stared, their faces a picture of disbelief.

They had fought their way back, only to be slain by a moment of unstoppable magic.

"A GOAL FROM THE GODS!" the commentator screamed, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

"A WORLD-CLASS, WONDER-STRIKE FROM DOMENICO BERARDI! You can't defend that! You can't plan for that! That is just pure, unadulterated genius! Inter are behind again! Can they possibly come back from this?!"

The weight of the goal was immense.

The clock was ticking. The title was slipping away.

The players looked tired, their belief wavering. They needed a leader.

Leon looked at the scoreboard. He looked at the devastated faces of his teammates.

He looked up into the stands and saw Sofia, a worried expression on her face.

And he felt a strange, cold calm settle over him.

Tactical Efficiency. Personal Well-being. The convergence.

He started clapping, a sharp, steady rhythm in the quiet stadium.

"Heads up!" he yelled. "We've been here before! We don't stop! We NEVER stop!"

His voice, his belief, was a spark. The team responded. They pushed forward, a final, desperate surge.

In the 70th minute, a tired pass was played back by a Sassuolo midfielder towards his own defense. It was a lazy, telegraphed pass.

And Leon, thanks to his Vision, saw it coming before the player had even kicked it.

A symbol of a broken chain had appeared, indicating a mental lapse.

He started his sprint before the ball was even in motion. He was a blur of blue and black, a predator sensing a kill. He intercepted the pass with ease, suddenly clean through on goal.

The keeper came rushing out.

A year ago, Leon might have panicked, might have shot early. But this was the new Leon. The leader. The thinker.

He dribbled towards the keeper, his eyes locked on him.

His 'Manager Mode' flashed a piece of data:

[Goalkeeper Tendency: Commits early with a slide tackle.]

Leon slowed down, baiting him.

The keeper took the bait, throwing himself into a desperate slide.

Leon, with a single, delicate touch, lifted the ball over the keeper's outstretched body, ran around him, and calmly passed the ball into the empty net.

2-2.

It wasn't a goal of power. It wasn't a goal of magic. It was a goal of pure, ruthless intelligence.

He didn't celebrate wildly. He just grabbed the ball out of the net and sprinted back to the center circle, a look of ferocious, unshakeable determination on his face.

He looked at his teammates, his eyes blazing.

"Twenty minutes," he roared. "Let's go and win it."

As he stood on the center circle, waiting for the restart, a new notification flashed in his mind, a product of the fully unlocked 'Manager Mode'.

[Live Tactical Analysis: Sassuolo right-back (Player #22) is now on a yellow card and showing 'Extreme Fatigue'. His defensive positioning has degraded by 40%. Optimal Attack Zone identified.]