Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

Chapter 239: Suspended [1]



Leon spent the mornings in his new, still mostly unpacked house, helping his mother with her grand "Garden Rescue Operation," which mostly involved him digging holes and her telling him he was doing it wrong.

He spent his afternoons with Sofia, exploring the hidden corners of Liverpool, discovering little bookstores and quiet parks.

And he spent his evenings on video calls with Byon, who was with the Man City squad on a promotional tour in Japan, complaining about the price of melons.

On a bright, cool, windswept Tuesday morning, he found himself walking along the beach at Crosby, a vast, beautiful expanse of sand just north of the city.

He had his baseball cap pulled down low, a pair of sunglasses on, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, nobody knew who he was.

As he walked, his mind, now free from the immediate pressure of an upcoming match, began to wander.

He thought about his 'Manager Mode', the strange, powerful tool that allowed him to see the game in a way that no one else could.

A strange, new thought, a question he had never considered before, bubbled up in his mind.

What if I was the one in charge?

He stopped walking and just stared out at the grey, churning Irish Sea.

What if he wasn't a player? What if he was a coach?

He closed his eyes, and with the full, unbridled power of his 'Manager Mode', he decided to play a game.

[SIMULATION INITIATED: 'Manager Leon' - First Day on the Job.]

He wasn't on a beach anymore. He was in a sharp, tailored suit, standing in the middle of a pristine training pitch.

The players of Liverpool, his players, were gathered around him, their faces expectant, waiting for their new gaffer to speak.

"Alright, lads," he heard his own voice say, older, calmer, more authoritative.

"Welcome to a new era. The philosophy is simple. We play with our brains first, and our legs second. We are not just athletes; we are artists. And this pitch," he gestured to the grass, "is our canvas."

The simulation fast-forwarded. He was in his office, a sleek, modern space with a giant tactical screen on the wall. He was arguing with his Director of Football.

"We don't need another big-name striker!" Manager Leon insisted, pointing at the screen. "We need a specific profile. I want a young, intelligent midfielder who understands space. Someone like Davide Russo from the Inter academy. He's a raw diamond. We can polish him into a legend."

The scene shifted. He was on the sideline at Anfield, the roar of the crowd a physical force.

His team was losing 1-0. He saw the problem, a tactical mismatch in the midfield.

He didn't panic. He just calmly called his substitute.

"Julián!" he yelled. "Get ready! I want you to go on and be a tactical ghost. Confuse them!"

He saw himself in a press conference, facing down a hostile journalist.

"You say my tactics are 'unconventional', that they are 'too risky'," he said with a cold, confident smile.

"I say they are the future. You are all still playing checkers. I am playing three-dimensional chess."

The simulation reached its peak.

He was in a final, the clock ticking down. He saw a weakness in the opposition's defense, a tiny, almost imperceptible flaw.

He knew the exact pass, the exact run that would win them the game. He turned to the bench, ready to shout the instruction, to send the telepathic message...

But there was no one to send it to. He was the manager. He wasn't on the pitch. He couldn't make the pass himself. He could only watch, a helpless, frustrated spectator, hoping that his players, his brilliant, flawed, human players, had understood his instructions.

Leon's eyes snapped open.

A slow, brilliant, and deeply amused smile spread across his face. He finally understood.

He understood the rage of Cristian Chivu. He understood the calm frustration of Arne Slot. He understood the life of a manager, a man who could see the perfect path to victory but was forced to watch, powerless, as others tried to walk it.

It was the most thrilling, most infuriating, most beautiful job in the world.

And he knew, with a certainty that was as clear and as deep as the ocean in front of him, that one day, many, many years from now, it would be his.

He turned and started walking back along the beach, a new, confident spring in his step.

He had a practice to get back to. He had a lot to learn.

As he walked, his phone buzzed. It was a message from Sofia.

Sofia: "Having fun being a free man? Don't get used to it. I've just booked us into a pottery class for this evening. Get ready to get your hands dirty, footballer."

He laughed, a loud, happy, carefree sound that was carried away by the wind.

Maybe, he thought, he could put his managerial career on hold for just a little while longer.

He was about to text her back when another notification, a system alert he had never seen before, flashed in his Vision, a stark, formal message that made his blood run cold.

[Your 'Vision' and 'Manager Mode' abilities will be temporarily suspended pending the results of this audit. Duration of suspension: Unknown.]

....

Leon woke up the morning after his powers had been suspended and the silence in his own head was deafening.

There were no flashing numbers, no glowing synergy links, no quiet hum of the 'Manager Mode' in the background.

He looked at the pillow next to him, and it was just a pillow. His Vision didn't tell him its 'Structural Integrity' rating or its 'Comfort Potential'. It was just a pillow. And it was terrifying.

He felt naked. He felt blind. He was a pilot who had spent his entire career flying with a futuristic heads-up display, and someone had just replaced it with a hand-drawn map.

He stumbled into the kitchen, a profound, disorienting sense of loss washing over him.

The training ground, usually his sanctuary of order and predictability, was now a chaotic, overwhelming mess of motion.

Without his Vision to filter the information, the simple warm-up drill of twenty players passing and moving was a dizzying, unpredictable blur.

He was a half-second late for every pass, his movements clumsy and hesitant.

His teammates, of course, noticed, but their diagnosis was, as always, filtered through the beautiful, chaotic prism of their own personalities.

"Leo, you look tired," Lautaro Martínez said, a concerned, captainly look on his face as Leon misplaced a simple pass.

"You did not sleep well?"


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