Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The skill cost a fortune – 2500 System Points. He didn't have nearly enough. But the other new skill, the 'Adrenaline Surge', the tempting, powerful turbo button… that he could afford.

He lay in his VR rig, the virtual stadium lights a soft glow around him.

He looked at the skill description again. A 30-second burst of peak physical power.

Once per match. It was a game-changer.

A potential match-winner. But the memory of the system warning, the 'unpredictable side effects', was a cold, cautionary whisper.

He navigated back, his mind made up. He wasn't ready for more unpredictability. He needed stability. He needed resilience. He had 775 SP left after his recent upgrades. He looked at the 'Physical Resilience' category again.

[Iron Body - Level 1]: Increases resistance to physical challenges and reduces the chance of injury from tackles by 10%. Cost: 500 SP.

It wasn't flashy. It wasn't glamorous. But after the beautiful brutality of the Burnley match, it felt… necessary. With a firm, decisive mental command, he clicked 'Purchase'.

[500 SP deducted. 'Iron Body - Level 1' acquired.]

A warm, steadying energy flowed through him, a feeling not of explosive power, but of deep, quiet strength. He felt… solid. Anchored. Ready. He had 275 SP left. Not enough for another major upgrade, but a healthy start towards his next goal. He closed the system, a profound sense of peace settling over him. He was building his foundation, brick by careful brick.

The week leading up to the Chelsea match was a blur of tactical analysis and relentless, high-intensity training. Stamford Bridge away. A clash between two title contenders. The stakes were immense.

The atmosphere at the AXA Training Centre was electric, a perfect blend of focused intensity and the beautiful, chaotic energy that defined this Liverpool team.

"Okay," Julián Álvarez announced during a break in drills, holding up a tactical cone like it was a sacred artifact. "I have been contemplating the deep philosophical meaning of 'parking the bus'. If a bus is parked, it is not moving. It is stationary. But in football, the bus is moving! It is shifting! It is adapting! So, is it really a 'parked bus', or is it more of a 'tactically cautious, defensively-minded minibus that occasionally goes for a little drive'? The terminology is very imprecise."

Mo Salah, who was listening nearby while juggling a ball with effortless grace, just chuckled. "Julián," he said, his voice full of amused affection. "Whatever they call their bus, our job is just to find a way to score more goals than them. It is simple, no?"

"Ah, but is simplicity the ultimate sophistication," Julián mused, "or just a lack of imagination?"

Arne Slot gathered them in the briefing room, his face a mask of calm, analytical focus. "Chelsea," he began, tapping his tablet. The screen showed Chelsea's fluid, dynamic formation. "They are a team reborn under their new manager. They are aggressive. They are fast. And they have arguably the best midfield duo in the league right now: Enzo Fernández and Moisés Caicedo. They are the engine. They are the wall. We do not try to fight them in the middle."

He looked around the room, his eyes sharp. "We go around them. We use our speed on the wings. Trent, Robbo," he said, looking at his two world-class fullbacks, "your delivery today must be perfect. Mo, Leon, Nate," he addressed his wingers, "you must be brave. Take them on. Create the overloads." He paused, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face. "They are a wall. We will be the flood that breaks it down. Let's go."

The roar of Stamford Bridge was a deafening wall of blue. This was enemy territory, a fortress of history and pride. The commentator, Barry, was practically vibrating with excitement.

"A COLOSSAL CLASH OF TITANS AT THE BRIDGE! Chelsea, the resurgent giants, against Liverpool, the reigning champions! It is a battle of philosophies! A battle of superstars! Enzo versus Leon! Sterling versus Salah! This is more than just three points! This is a statement! AND IT BEGINS… NOW!"

The whistle blew. The match exploded into life, a breathtaking, end-to-end spectacle played at a ferocious pace. Chelsea, fueled by their home crowd, were a whirlwind of blue, their midfield duo of Fernández and Caicedo everywhere, breaking up play, launching attacks.

In the 12th minute, a moment of magic from Raheem Sterling saw him glide past Trent Alexander-Arnold and whip in a dangerous cross that was brilliantly cleared by a flying Ibrahima Konaté.

Liverpool responded. A lightning-fast counter-attack saw Florian Wirtz play a perfect through-ball to Alexander Isak, but the big Swede's powerful shot was tipped onto the post by the Chelsea keeper.

The game was a beautiful, brutal stalemate. And then, in the 38th minute, the deadlock was broken. A moment of pure, unexpected genius.

Chelsea won a free-kick near the halfway line. Everyone expected a long ball into the box. Instead, Enzo Fernández played a quick, clever, disguised pass into the feet of Cole Palmer's replacement, the young Belgian sensation, Roméo Lavia. Lavia took one touch, looked up, and from 40 yards out, unleashed an absolute missile of a shot. It flew like a tracer bullet, a rising, swerving thunderbolt that crashed into the top corner of the net, leaving Alisson Becker a stunned, helpless statue.

1-0 to Chelsea. A goal from another galaxy.

The halftime dressing room was quiet, but not defeated. They had played well. They had been undone by a moment of magic.

"Unlucky," Arne Slot said simply, his voice calm and steady. "It happens. But we do not panic. We stick to the plan. We keep moving the ball wide. We keep overloading the flanks. The wall will crack. Trust the process."

The second half began, and Liverpool were relentless. They poured forward, a red storm crashing against the blue wall. They created chance after chance. A header from van Dijk went just wide. A shot from Salah was brilliantly saved. A mazy dribble from Leon ended with a last-ditch tackle.

The clock was ticking. The frustration was building. And then, in the 75th minute, the moment arrived. The moment the wall finally crumbled.

The move started, as it so often did, with Leon. He received the ball, glided past a challenge with his 'Silken Dribble - Level 2', the ball an extension of his own body. He looked up and saw it. A tiny pocket of space. A blur of red making a perfectly timed run. Mo Salah.

The pass was not just a pass; it was a prayer, a whisper of genius. An outside-of-the-boot, curling through-ball that bent around the last defender and landed, perfectly, in Salah's stride.

The King of Anfield took one touch, opened up his body, and coolly, calmly, ruthlessly, slotted the ball into the bottom corner of the net.

1-1. Anfield erupted (in spirit, as they were the away team).

The final fifteen minutes were a frantic, desperate, glorious battle. Both teams went for the kill. Both teams created chances. Both keepers made brilliant saves.

And then, in the 92nd minute, the final, beautiful, heart-stopping moment.

A Liverpool corner. The last chance of the game. Trent Alexander-Arnold placed the ball. He whipped it in, a perfect, dangerous delivery. The box was a chaotic scrum of blue and red. The ball was headed clear, but only to the edge of the area.

It fell, perfectly, beautifully, to the feet of Leon. The world seemed to slow down. He had the 'Power Shot'. He had the 'Finesse Shot'. He had a thousand options. But he chose the simplest one. He saw a gap. He drew back his foot.

But just as he was about to strike it, a blue shirt appeared from nowhere, launching into a heroic, game-saving slide tackle. It was Enzo Fernández. He got a crucial, decisive touch...

But the ball didn't go wide. It looped up, spinning crazily, high into the air, directly towards the goal. The goalkeeper, who had started to come off his line, scrambled back, a look of pure panic on his face. He leaped, his fingers outstretched...

But the ball was just too high. It floated, in agonizing slow motion, over his desperate fingertips, dipped under the crossbar, and nestled gently into the back of the net.

2-1. To Liverpool.

The final whistle blew. Pandemonium. Leon was buried under a pile of screaming, joyous red shirts. He had done it. He had won it. With the luckiest, ugliest, most beautiful goal of his entire life.

As he walked off the pitch, bruised, exhausted, and deliriously happy, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a message from a number he didn't recognize. A single, cryptic, and deeply unsettling line of text.

[Unknown Number]: The anomaly is growing stronger. The containment protocol is not enough. You need... guidance. Meet me. Midnight. The usual place.]