Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

[RIVAL 'PLAYER'-CLASS SYSTEM DETECTED.]

The notification burned behind Leon's eyes, a piece of information so profound, so reality-altering, that the roar of 90,000 people at Wembley Stadium faded into a dull, distant buzz.

He stared across the pitch at Aurélien Tchouaméni, the unassuming French midfielder who was now the single most terrifying person he had ever encountered.

Chivu knew. His old coach's cryptic warning in the tunnel wasn't just a mind game. It was a genuine, desperate plea. Be careful. Your power... it is not the only one on this pitch. They are watching.

Who were 'they'? And why was Tchouaméni here? Was he like Leon? Was his system the same? A thousand questions exploded in Leon's mind, a chaotic firework display of panic and pure, unadulterated fear.

"LEO! WAKE UP!"

The roar was from Andy Robertson, his fiery Scottish teammate. Leon snapped back to reality. The game was happening. Right now. He was standing in the middle of the pitch in a Champions League final, frozen like a statue, while his teammates were fighting a war.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, the 'Unshakeable Heart' bracelet a cool, desperate anchor on his wrist. He couldn't panic. He couldn't freeze. He had a job to do.

But the knowledge was a poison, seeping into his game. Every time he got the ball, he felt Tchouaméni's presence, not just as a physical opponent, but as something... more. He could feel the Frenchman's tactical awareness, a silent, invisible pressure that seemed to anticipate his every move. His Vision, usually a clear, predictive map, felt... fuzzy, interfered with, like trying to get a radio signal in a storm.

"He's everywhere, Clive!" the commentator, Barry, exclaimed in the 15th minute, after Tchouaméni had materialized seemingly out of nowhere to intercept a clever through-ball from Leon that should have put Mo Salah clean through on goal. "Tchouaméni is putting on a defensive masterclass! He's reading the game like he has the script!"

He might, Leon thought grimly.

On the sideline, Arne Slot was watching intently, a frown creasing his brow. He could see the problem. His playmaker, his brain, was being suffocated. He turned to his assistant. "Tchouaméni is sitting deeper than we expected. He's anticipating Leon's movement. We need to adapt."

But adapting against a ghost managed by another ghost, who happened to have his own magical player on the pitch, was proving to be slightly difficult.

The game was a brutal, beautiful stalemate. Liverpool's attack, usually a fluid, unstoppable storm, was hitting a white wall of perfectly organized, almost prescient, defense. Real Madrid's attack, led by the lightning speed of Mbappé and Vinícius Jr., was a constant, terrifying threat, held at bay only by the brilliance of Alisson and the heroic, last-ditch interventions of Virgil van Dijk and Ibrahima Konaté.

In the 28th minute, a moment of pure, individual genius almost broke the deadlock. Mo Salah received the ball, cut inside with that familiar, devastating burst of speed, and unleashed a furious shot that was destined for the top corner. But Thibaut Courtois, a giant in the Madrid goal, produced a magnificent, flying save.

The frustration was building.

"Give me the ball!" Salah screamed, his arms outstretched, after another promising attack broke down due to Tchouaméni's seemingly supernatural positioning.

"There's no space!" Florian Wirtz yelled back, pointing at the white shirts that seemed to be everywhere.

Then, in the 35th minute, the inevitable happened. A moment of magic, not from Leon, not from Salah, but from the other side.

Jude Bellingham, Madrid's brilliant English midfielder, received the ball in the center circle. He looked up, and with a single, gorgeous, defense-splitting pass, he unlocked the entire Liverpool defense. Vinícius Jr. was onto it in a flash. He drove into the box, his feet a dizzying blur. He feinted to shoot, sending Alisson sprawling, and then coolly slotted the ball into the empty net.

1-0 to Real Madrid.

The white half of Wembley erupted. The red half fell into a stunned, horrified silence.

"A GOAL OF PURE, UNDILUTED MADRID MAGIC!" Barry roared. "Bellingham with the vision, Vinícius with the finish! Liverpool have been knocking on the door, but Madrid have just kicked it down! Chivu's plan, whatever ghostly, telepathic plan it is, is working to perfection!"

The goal was a hammer blow. Liverpool looked rattled. Their belief, which had been so strong, so unshakeable, was beginning to waver. Leon felt a cold, familiar dread creeping into his heart. He was eighteen years old. He was playing in the biggest match of his life. And he was facing an opponent who wasn't just better; he was... like him. Maybe even stronger. The panic, the real, suffocating panic he had been holding at bay, began to tighten its icy grip around his chest.

His breathing became shallow. His Vision flickered, the golden aura around Tchouaméni seeming to pulse with a triumphant, mocking light. He felt... small. Powerless.

He was spiraling. He was losing control.

And then, he heard a voice. A calm, steady, and ridiculously philosophical voice, right beside him.

"So," Julián Álvarez said, jogging alongside him as they waited for the restart. "This other guy, the French one. He is very good, yes? He seems to be everywhere. Like a very efficient, very tactical ghost." He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "But the question is: can a ghost get tired? And if a ghost gets tired, does it need a ghost-nap? Or does it just become... slightly less spooky?"

It was the most absurd, most inappropriate, most Julián Álvarez thing to say in the middle of a Champions League final meltdown. And it was perfect.

Leon just stared at him for a second, the sheer, beautiful insanity of the question cutting through his panic like a knife. And then, he started to laugh. A real, genuine, slightly hysterical laugh.

Julián just grinned, mission accomplished. "See? Laughing is good. It confuses the ghosts."

The laughter was a reboot. A system reset. Leon took a deep breath. Okay. So there was another player. Okay. So Chivu was a ghost. Okay. So the world was much, much weirder than he thought.

But he was still Leon. He was still Liverpool's number 30. He was still one of the best players in the world. And he was not going down without a fight.

He looked over at Tchouaméni, a new, cold, defiant fire in his eyes. Okay, ghost, he thought. Let's dance.

The final five minutes of the first half were a different story. Leon stopped trying to out-think his opponent. He stopped trying to be the subtle, clever playmaker. He embraced the chaos. He ran. He dribbled. He became a blur of red, a force of pure, unpredictable energy. He wasn't trying to find the perfect pass anymore. He was trying to create a storm.

In the 44th minute, he received the ball, spun away from Tchouaméni with a raw burst of speed, drove at the heart of the Madrid defense, and unleashed a thunderbolt of a shot – 'Power Shot Level 2' activated, the golden energy flaring – that Courtois could only parry away desperately.

The halftime whistle blew. The score was 1-0. They were losing. But they were alive. And Leon, as he walked towards the tunnel, felt a strange, new, and utterly thrilling sensation. The fear was gone. The panic was gone.

All that was left was the pure, unadulterated excitement of a fight he finally understood.