Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The Italian journalist's question hung in the air, a perfectly aimed missile designed to cause maximum chaos.

The 'Briatore Clause'. Can you confirm what it entails?

Leon's mind went completely, utterly blank.

He looked at Arne Slot, who was staring back at him with an expression that was a perfect, unhelpful mixture of calm and curiosity. He was on his own.

He took a deep breath, the 'Unshakeable Heart' skill granted by Sofia's bracelet a steady, calming rhythm in his chest. He leaned forward towards the microphone, a slow, disarming smile spreading across his face.

"That is a very interesting question," he began, echoing his new manager's words, his voice surprisingly steady.

"And you are right, Mr. Briatore is a very clever man. He is a legend in the business world for a reason, and he loves Inter Milan. I am sure he negotiated a deal that was in the absolute best interest of the club."

He paused, letting the non-answer hang in the air.

"But, if I am being honest," he continued, his tone shifting to one of easy, genuine charm, "I did not read that part of the contract too closely. The moment I knew Liverpool wanted me, the moment I spoke with Mr. Slot and he shared his vision for this team... my mind was already here. On that pitch." He gestured towards the window overlooking the training ground. "My focus has been 100% on becoming a Liverpool player, on getting ready for the challenge of the Premier League. The details of the past are for the men in the suits."

He sat back, a picture of relaxed confidence. "As long as the clause doesn't say I have to buy him a new yacht every time we win a trophy, I think we will all be very happy."

The room, which had been a pressure cooker of tension just a moment ago, erupted in laughter. The Italian journalist, though denied his explosive headline, couldn't help but crack a smile.

The crisis was averted. Leon had faced his first test from the ruthless English media and passed with flying colors.

Arne Slot looked at him, a glint of deep, profound respect in his eye.

The next day was moving day. The club had arranged a beautiful, modern house for him and his mother in a quiet, green suburb, a short drive from the training ground.

It was a world away from their cozy Milan apartment, with a small English garden in the back that was already the subject of his mother's grand horticultural plans.

"Okay," Elena declared, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the empty living room.

"The television will go here. The big, comfortable sofa for watching my champion will go there. And here," she said, pointing to the most prominent wall, "will be the wall of fame. All your trophies. All your medals. And many, many pictures of you with your beautiful mother."

Leon laughed, carrying a box of kitchen supplies.

"Mom, I have one medal and two trophies. It's going to be a very empty wall."

"For now!" she shot back, her eyes shining with an unshakeable belief. "It is a wall with potential!"

He was setting down the box when his phone rang. It was Sofia.

"So," she said, her voice a warm, happy buzz. "How's the new kingdom? Have you found a good spot for your throne yet?"

"We're still debating the placement of the 'wall of fame'," he chuckled. "But it's great. It's... a home."

"Good," she said. "Because I just bought one too."

Leon froze, a stack of plates in his hands. "You what?"

"I bought a house," she repeated cheerfully. "Well, a small cottage, really. It's adorable. It has a little garden for my art projects. And a very leaky roof, which the man in the shop assured me is 'full of character'."

"You bought a house?" he said, his mind still trying to process the information. "Where?"

"Oh, you know," she said, her voice a perfect picture of casual innocence. "Just down the road. About a five-minute walk from you. I figured it would be easier for when I need to borrow a cup of sugar. Or a world-class, Scudetto-winning midfielder to help me move a sofa."

Leon just stood there, in the middle of his new, empty living room, a stack of plates in his hands and a ridiculously happy, goofy grin on his face.

He was still grinning when the doorbell rang an hour later. He and his mother were in the middle of a heated, passionate debate about where her "big pasta pot" should live in the new, sleek, modern kitchen.

"It needs its own special place! It is the heart of the kitchen!" Elena was insisting.

"Mom, it's a pot," Leon was arguing. "It can live with the other pots."

The doorbell rang again, a series of short, impatient jabs. "Who could that be?" Elena wondered, wiping her hands on her apron. "We don't know anyone here."

Leon opened the door, and his jaw dropped. Standing on his new doorstep, wearing a ridiculous tourist t-shirt that said "I'm with the 'Pool'," a giant grin on his face, and two oversized suitcases at his feet, was Byon.

"Surprise!" Byon roared, throwing his arms open wide. "Your housewarming gift has arrived! It's me!"

"Byon?!" Leon yelled, a wave of pure, unadulterated joy washing over him. He pulled his best friend into a massive, bone-crushing hug. "What are you doing here?! How did you even know where I live?"

"Your agent talks to my agent," Byon said with a shrug. "And I told my agent that my official, non-negotiable transfer demand was that my new house had to be within a five-minute drive of my best friend's house. Welcome to the neighborhood, roomie!"

Elena, hearing the commotion, appeared in the doorway, her face breaking into a radiant smile. "Byon! My other son! Come in, come in! You are too thin! Have you eaten?"

And just like that, Leon's new, quiet English house was filled with the loud, chaotic, beautiful sounds of home

. They spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking boxes, Byon providing a running commentary that was equal parts helpful and completely insane.

"Okay, so this box says 'fragile'," he said, shaking a box that rattled ominously. "But is it 'emotionally fragile' or 'physically fragile'? The distinction is very important for proper placement."

That evening, the three of them sat on the floor of the half-unpacked living room, eating pizza out of a box, the first official meal in the new house.

"So," Byon said, taking a huge bite of pepperoni.

"I saw the training schedule for next week. Pre-season officially starts." He looked at Leon, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face. "You seen who our first friendly is against?"

"No, who?" Leon asked, intrigued.

Byon's grin widened.

"Just a small, local team. You've probably never heard of them. Real Madrid."

He paused, letting the name land with the weight of a dropped anvil. "So," he said, his eyes twinkling. "You ready for your first 'tragic training ground accident'?"