Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

At the precise moment Leon's entire being was focused on striking the ball that could win the match, his Vision, his superpower, his greatest asset, had decided to have a full-blown, catastrophic meltdown.

[PLAYER ANALYSIS: GOALKEEPER'S FAVORITE COLOR IS... MAUVE? 78% PROBABILITY.]

The ball was rolling perfectly towards him.

The goal was gaping.

And his brain was being assaulted by useless, corrupted data about tactical formations named after jellied fish.

For a split second, he froze, the sheer, overwhelming absurdity of it all threatening to paralyze him. And in that split second, the chance was almost lost.

A defender was closing in.

No.

The thought was a defiant roar in the chaos of his own mind.

He had spent the last few weeks rediscovering the player he was without the system.

The player who relied on instinct, on feeling, on the beautiful, simple music of the game.

He wasn't going to let a broken machine ruin this.

With a force of will he didn't know he possessed, he mentally slammed the door on the digital noise.

He ignored the flashing colors, the ridiculous text.

He looked at the ball. He looked at the goal. He trusted his own eyes.

He swung his leg, a clean, powerful strike.

But the hesitation, that single, fatal split-second of distraction, had cost him.

His timing was a fraction off.

The shot, instead of flying into the top corner, was a few inches lower, a few inches closer to the keeper.

The Accrington Stanley goalie, who had been a spectator for most of the half, launched himself into a spectacular, world-class dive and got his fingertips to the ball, pushing it onto the post with a sickening CLANG!

The ball bounced clear, and the chance was gone.

A collective groan of a million heartbreaks echoed around Anfield.

Leon just stood there, his hands on his head, a wry, almost amused smile on his face.

Of course. Of course that would happen.

His magic power had returned, but it had returned as a court jester, a heckler in his own mind.

The system was still chattering away, a constant, low-level stream of nonsense in the background of his thoughts.

[WEATHER UPDATE: 2% CHANCE OF MEATBALLS.]

[SYNERGY ALERT: UNLOCKED 'THE CONFUSED PIGEON' WING-BACK OVERLAP.]

He had to tune it out.

He had a game to win. He started talking, his voice a sharp, clear presence on the pitch.

"Trent, they're giving you space! Drive at them!"

"Hugo! One-two, quick! Don't hold it!"

The commentator was perplexed.

"A golden opportunity missed by Leon! He looks a little shaken! And now he seems to be directing traffic out there, a coach on the pitch! A very strange turn of events!"

In the 81st minute, Leon decided to take matters into his own hands again.

He received the ball in the midfield, the nonsensical alerts from his system a buzzing annoyance he was learning to ignore. H

He drove at the heart of the tired Accrington defense.

He feinted to go right, his body a fluid, deceptive question mark.

The defender bought it, shifting his weight. Leon exploded to the left, a raw, instinctive dribble that was all muscle memory and beautiful, un-augmented talent.

He was past him. He looked up and saw Hugo Ekitike making a sharp, clever run towards the near post.

Without his Vision to calculate the perfect trajectory, he just had to feel it.

He wrapped his right foot around the ball, a beautiful, instinctive curve pass that bent perfectly around the last defender and landed right in Ekitike's stride.

The young Frenchman, who had been frustrated all game, made no mistake. He took one touch and blasted the ball into the roof of the net.

1-0 to Liverpool!

Anfield erupted in a roar of pure, unadulterated relief.

Ekitike sprinted to Leon, a huge, grateful grin on his face, and pulled him into a massive hug.

"What a ball! What a pass!" he yelled over the noise.

"What a finish!" Leon yelled back, a feeling of pure, honest satisfaction washing over him.

The goal broke the visitors' spirit. Their hard-fought defensive wall had been breached.

In the 88th minute, the ball came to Leon again, just inside the Accrington half.

The confidence was coursing through his veins. He felt free, unburdened by the system, playing the game on his own terms. He faced up his defender, a man whose legs were heavy with 88 minutes of chasing shadows.

Leon dropped his shoulder, feinted a pass, and then, with a speed that was startling, he activated the skill that was now his, not the system's.

[Zidane's Roulette!]

He spun, a blur of red and white hair, the ball seemingly attached to his foot by an invisible string. The defender was left for dead, a statue in the middle of the pitch.

It was a really cool dribble, a moment of pure, audacious flair.

He was now running at the heart of the exposed defense. He cut inside, onto his favored right foot.

The goal opened up.

He didn't blast it. He remembered the feeling, the technique from his goal against Lazio.

He curled it. A beautiful, arcing, unstoppable curve goal that flew past the diving keeper and nestled into the far top corner.

2-0. Game, set, and match.

This time, the celebration was a pure, joyous release.

He slid on his knees towards the corner flag, the roar of the Kop, the legendary Anfield stand, washing over him.

This goal was different. This was his.

The final whistle blew a few minutes later.

A hard-fought, and ultimately deserved, 2-0 victory.

The players, relieved and happy, did a lap of honor, clapping for the fans who had roared them on.

As the teams walked off, a moment of pure, beautiful sportsmanship occurred. The Accrington Stanley captain, a tough, honest professional who had fought like a lion all game, walked over to Leon.

"Hey, son," he said, his voice a gravelly, respectful rumble.

"That second goal was a bit special. Can I get your shirt for my lad? He's a big fan."

Leon, touched and slightly star-struck himself, just grinned.

"Only if I can get yours," he said.

They swapped shirts in the middle of the pitch, a perfect image of respect that earned a warm round of applause from the entire stadium.

Leon walked towards the tunnel, the hard-earned, sweaty shirt of his opponent in his hand, a huge, contented smile on his face.

He had been blind, and he had found a way to see.

As he stepped into the cool, quiet of the tunnel, he felt a strange, new sensation in his mind.

The chaotic, nonsensical chatter of his system had gone silent. He cautiously, mentally, tried to open it.

The error messages were gone. The digital garbage was gone.

The interface was clean, sleek, and different. And in the center of his vision was a single, stark, and deeply intriguing message.

[SYSTEM REBOOT COMPLETE. Corruption purged. System has evolved based on recent performance data.]

[User has demonstrated proficiency in 'Instinctual Play'.]

[Choice Protocol Initiated: You now have two primary operational modes. The system cannot run both simultaneously. Please select your mode for the next match.]

Below the message were two, beautifully designed, glowing icons.

[Mode 1: 'The Player' (Passive Analysis & Predictive Data)]

[Mode 2: 'The Manager' (Active Analysis & Tactical Command)]