Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

Leon stood in his kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hands, staring out at the quiet, grey morning.

His mind was a quiet storm of tactical thoughts and nervous energy.

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was his mother.

"You have that look on your face," Elena said softly.

"The one you used to get before your school exams. The one that says you are trying to carry the whole world on your shoulders."

"It's a big game, Mom," he said, a small, tired smile on his face.

"Every game is a big game," she replied, her wisdom simple and profound. She took his face in her hands.

"You are not carrying the world, Leo. You are playing a game. A game you love, with friends who are like your brothers. Go and have fun. The rest," she said, giving him a gentle kiss on the forehead, "is just noise."

He hugged her tightly, her words a perfect, calming anchor in his sea of anxiety.

"Thanks, Mom."

He got in his car, the engine a low, powerful hum, and drove towards Anfield. He was ready.

The home dressing room was a strange, beautiful, and slightly chaotic place.

But overlaying the tension was a current of gallows humor, all directed at one man.

"So," Andy Robertson said to a stoic-looking Cole Palmer, who was lacing his boots.

"The enemy. How does it feel to betray your family for a bag of money and a lifetime supply of Mancunian rain?"

"I think it's a bold career move," Trent Alexander-Arnold chimed in, a mischievous grin on his face. "Heard the training ground in Manchester is just a muddy field with two jumpers for goalposts. A real back-to-basics approach."

Palmer just shook his head, a slow, amused smile on his face.

"You're all just jealous because I don't have to listen to Robbo's terrible music playlist anymore," he shot back, and the room erupted in laughter.

They showered, they changed, they went through their pre-match rituals, the atmosphere slowly shifting from boisterous humor to a sharp, unified focus.

Arne Slot walked into the center of the room, a tablet in his hand. The room fell silent.

"Okay," he began, his voice calm and steady. "First, Cole." He looked at Palmer, his expression one of deep, professional respect.

"Today, you are a Liverpool player. You are one of us. And you will give everything you have for this shirt. We will deal with the future... in the future. Clear?"

"Clear, gaffer," Palmer said, his voice firm.

"Good," Slot said, tapping his tablet. The screen on the wall flickered to life, showing the league table. It was a beautiful, terrifying sight.

[Premier League - Standings]

1. Liverpool - 4 pts

2. Manchester City - 3 pts

"This is it," Slot said simply. "It does not get bigger than this. A win today, and we control our own destiny. A loss... and we are chasing them." He switched the screen to a tactical display. "They will have the ball. Do not panic. Do not chase. We will be a coiled spring. Our shape must be perfect. And the moment we win it," he said, his eyes burning with a fierce, intelligent fire, "we do not hesitate. We explode. We run. We are a storm. They are the best team in the world," he admitted, a note of respect in his voice. "But today, we will be better. Go and show them."

They stood in the narrow, legendary Anfield tunnel, the sound of 50,000 Scousers singing "You'll Never Walk Alone" a physical, vibrating force that seemed to shake your very bones. Opposite them, in the sky blue of Manchester City, stood the champions of Europe. Leon saw his best friend, Byon, a serious, focused look on his face.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. A nod. Today, they were not friends.

The commentator, his voice a symphony of pure, unadulterated hype, was ready to narrate the epic.

"WELCOME TO ANFIELD! WELCOME TO THE CAULDRON OF DREAMS! WELCOME TO THE BIGGEST MATCH OF THE PREMIER LEAGUE SEASON! It is the champions of England versus the champions of Europe! It is Slot versus Guardiola! It is Salah versus De Bruyne! It is a battle for supremacy, a battle for the title, a battle for the ages! AND IT BEGINS... NOW!"

The whistle blew.

The match began at a breathtaking, impossible pace. It was a chess match played by superheroes.

City, as predicted, dominated the ball, their passing a mesmerizing, hypnotic web. But Liverpool, true to their coach's word, were a perfect, disciplined, coiled spring, waiting for their moment to strike.

The first ten minutes were a beautiful, brutal stalemate.

A crunching, but fair, tackle from van Dijk on Haaland sent a roar of approval through the stadium.

A mazy, brilliant dribble from Salah resulted in a shot that was heroically blocked.

The players were a constant stream of communication, a beautiful, chaotic orchestra of shouts and gestures.

"Tighter, Trent! No space!" Robertson roared at his fellow fullback.

"I'm here, I'm here!" a teammate yelled back.

The atmosphere was electric, the tension almost unbearable. The clock ticked past the 10-minute mark, the game a perfect, beautiful, high-speed deadlock. And then, as Leon received a pass in the midfield, a quiet, almost imperceptible shift happened on the pitch.

He activated his Vision, his new, simplified HUD a clean, clear map of the battlefield. He scanned the opposition, his eyes flitting past the terrifyingly high numbers of Haaland (95) and De Bruyne (93). He looked for his friend, Byon, at left-back, ready for their personal duel.

But he wasn't there.

A jolt of pure, ice-cold confusion shot through Leon. He scanned again. And then he saw him. Byon was not at left-back. He was in the center of the pitch. He was playing as a holding midfielder, a position Leon had never seen him play in his entire life.

And he was standing right next to him, his shadow a constant, suffocating presence.

As Leon's eyes focused on his friend, a new, terrifying piece of text, a Hidden Trait he had never seen before, flashed into existence in his Vision.

[Player: Byon G. | Tactical Adaptation: 'The Shadow']

[Description: Player has been assigned a single, man-marking objective. All physical and mental attributes are temporarily boosted when in close proximity to the designated target. Mission: Erase the opponent's primary creative threat from the game.]

Leon looked up from the ball, and his eyes met Byon's. His best friend gave him a small, apologetic, and utterly ruthless smile.