Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

"It was a lucky deflection, you melt," Robertson shot back at his own teammate, a perfect example of their chaotic, brotherly energy. "Don't act like you're a tactical genius."

Leon just smiled, a quiet focus on his face. He was playing with a calm, patient style, his fingers dancing across the controller. He and Wirtz, the two quiet playmakers, were a silent, deadly combination.

They weathered the storm of their opponents' frantic, aggressive play.

Then, in the 88th minute of their virtual match, Leon, playing as himself, executed a perfect skill move, glided past a defender, and played a simple pass to Wirtz, who coolly slotted it into the bottom corner for the win.

"Okay, that was just rude," Trent grumbled, throwing his controller onto the sofa in mock disgust.

"You're too calm. It's unnerving. You need to celebrate properly, with a completely unnecessary and slightly dangerous knee-slide."

"I'm saving it for the real match," Leon said with a wink.

After the FIFA tournament was settled (Leon and Wirtz were the undisputed champions), the players went to their rooms for the final few hours of rest before leaving for the stadium. The city outside was already a roaring cauldron of noise, the passionate Napoli fans gearing up for the battle.

Leon lay on his bed, the sounds of the city a distant, muffled roar.

His phone buzzed. It was a simple message from Sofia.

Sofia: "Good luck tonight. Make me proud. But, you know, not too proud. It's still my dad."

He laughed, a genuine, happy sound that filled the quiet room.

The text was a perfect, grounding reminder of the beautiful, complicated, and utterly ridiculous situation he was in.

The bus ride to the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona was like a journey into the heart of a volcano. The streets were a sea of sky blue, a river of flags and flares.

The noise was a physical thing, a wall of sound that vibrated through the bus's reinforced windows.

The players sat in a focused, professional silence, the flashing lights of their police escort the only thing illuminating their grim, determined faces.

As they arrived, they were greeted by a gauntlet of flashing cameras and screaming reporters, a chaotic, blinding reception.

They walked from the bus to the dressing room, a single, unified red line moving through a hostile, alien world.

The away dressing room was a small, stark bunker, a final sanctuary before the war.

Arne Slot stood before them, his face a mask of calm, analytical intensity.

"Okay, lads," he began, his voice cutting cleanly through the tension.

"You know who is on the other side. You know what he is about. He is a master of the counter-attack. He will invite us in. He will set traps. He will want us to get frustrated and make a mistake."

He looked around the room, his eyes locking onto his attackers.

"We do not fall for it. We will be patient. We will be intelligent. We will control the ball. We will make them run. We will trust our quality. And when the moment comes, we will be ruthless." He looked at his defenders.

"And when they try to break, when De Bruyne gets the ball and looks for that killer pass to Højlund... we will be ready. We will be a wall."

He clapped his hands once.

"They have the stadium. They have the noise. We have the ball. Go and show them why that is all that matters."

They stood in the tunnel, the roar of 60,000 Neapolitans a deafening, visceral force.

On the pitch, Leon stood in the line of red shirts, a single, terrifying thought looping in his brain.

My old coach is a ghost, and he's managing this match telepathically from a secret bunker somewhere in Madrid.

It was, without a doubt, the most Julián Álvarez-esque situation he had ever found himself in, and for once, he didn't find it funny at all.

The two commentators, a new pairing for the Champions League broadcast, were trying to make sense of the electric atmosphere.

"An incredible welcome for the champions of England, Clive," the first commentator, Barry, said, his voice a buzz of pure, unadulterated hype.

"This new Champions League format, a true league of giants, and we kick it off with a certified blockbuster!"

"Indeed, Barry," the second, more composed commentator, Clive, replied.

"And what a fascinating narrative we have. The new-look Napoli, with the Premier League superstars De Bruyne and Højlund, against the team they've just left. And on the other side, Leon, the Italian champion, facing his old rivals. It's a story worthy of an opera."

The whistle blew. The match began.

And it became immediately, terrifyingly clear that Leon's system had not been wrong.

For the first ten minutes, Liverpool had the ball, and they could do absolutely nothing with it.

Napoli, who should have been a new team still finding their rhythm, were moving like a single organism, a perfectly drilled defensive machine.

Their defensive line was a flawless, impenetrable wall.

"It's like they know!" Andy Robertson roared in frustration after his attempted overlapping run was cut out by a defender who had started moving before Robbo had even made the pass.

"They're reading our minds!" Trent Alexander-Arnold yelled to Virgil van Dijk, who just had a grim, focused look on his face.

Leon knew the truth. They were reading their minds.

Or rather, one mind, the mind of Cristian Chivu, was reading their patterns, and his ghost-like instructions were turning Napoli into a team of defensive prophets.

"I have never seen a defensive shape this perfect, Clive," Barry said, a note of awe in his voice. "

It's like every player knows exactly where the ball is going to be, a full second before it gets there! It's beautiful! It's terrifying!"

"It's the work of a master tactician, Barry," Clive said calmly. "It seems Napoli's new manager is a quick study."

Leon just shook his head. You have no idea.