Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The morning of the Merseyside Derby dawned not with a bang, but with a strange, profound sense of calm. L

eon woke up feeling… different. The usual pre-match butterflies were there, a familiar, fluttering swarm in his stomach.

But underneath it, there was a new, quiet hum of energy, a feeling of being plugged into something vast and powerful. He glanced at his mental HUD.

['Blessing of the Kop': Dormant. Activates upon entering Anfield stadium.]

He smiled. Today was going to be special.

He walked into the kitchen, where his mother was already bustling about, preparing his carefully calibrated, scientifically approved, and mother-approved pre-match meal.

"Buongiorno, my gladiator," she said, giving him a warm hug. "Ready for the big fight?"

"Born ready, Mom," he grinned, feeling the truth of the words.

They ate breakfast together, the usual ritual a comforting anchor in the building storm of the day. She didn't talk about tactics or pressure. She just told him stories about his grandfather, a passionate Napoli fan who used to repaint his entire house blue every time they won a major trophy. It was her way of reminding him that this game, this beautiful, crazy game, was about more than just winning; it was about passion, about family, about belonging.

He gave her a final kiss on the cheek. "Wish us luck," he said.

"Luck is for the unprepared," she replied, her eyes shining with fierce, unwavering pride. "You have skill. And you have heart. Go and use them."

The drive to Anfield was electric. The city was a sea of red and blue, a beautiful, tense tapestry of rivalry. As he got closer to the stadium, the streets became a river of red shirts, the sound of singing and chanting a rising, joyous tide. He could feel it, a palpable energy in the air, a collective heartbeat that seemed to sync with his own.

He parked his car and walked towards the players' entrance, nodding politely to the security staff, the familiar pre-match buzz washing over him. He stepped through the doors, into the hallowed halls of Anfield, and he felt it.

['Blessing of the Kop': ACTIVE. Composure +5. Stamina Regen +10%.]

It wasn't a dramatic surge of power. It was a subtle shift, a quiet settling of his nerves, a feeling of deep, grounded strength. It felt like coming home.

The home dressing room was a cauldron of focused, simmering energy. The usual pre-match banter was there, but it had a harder, sharper edge today. This was the Derby.

"Okay, serious tactical question," Julián Álvarez announced, holding up one of the perfectly arranged matchday programmes. "If their team colour is blue, and the sky is blue, does that mean they have a 'camouflage advantage' on a clear day? And should we, therefore, perform a 'cloud dance' before the match to ensure optimal visibility?"

Mo Salah, who was meticulously applying tape to his wrists, just rolled his eyes, a fond smile on his face. "Julián," he said, his voice a low, amused rumble. "If you try to perform a 'cloud dance', Arne will substitute you before the match even starts."

"But the tactical implications!" Julián insisted.

Arne Slot walked into the center of the room. The laughter instantly died, replaced by a sharp, unified focus. "Alright, you beautiful madmen," he began, a rare, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He knew the value of their unique brand of chaos. "The Derby. Forget the league table. Forget form. Forget tactics, almost." He looked around the room, his eyes burning with a fierce, intelligent fire. "This game is played here," he tapped his temple, "and here." He tapped his heart.

"They will fight like their lives depend on it. Because, for ninety minutes, they do. We must match that fire. But," he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, intense growl, "we do not lose our heads. We are the champions for a reason. We are better than them. We play with passion, yes. But we win with our quality. We win with our brains. We impose our game. We silence their crowd. We own this pitch. We own this city. Go and prove it."

They stood in the narrow, legendary Anfield tunnel, the roar of the Kop a physical, vibrating force that seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium. Opposite them stood the men in blue, their faces masks of grim, defiant determination. This was more than a game. This was war.

The commentator, Barry, sounded like he had just mainlined pure adrenaline. "WELCOME TO ANFIELD! WELCOME TO THE CAULDRON OF PASSION! WELCOME TO THE MERSEYSIDE DERBY! Red versus Blue! Neighbour versus neighbour! History versus history! Forget the league table! Forget the form book! For the next ninety minutes, the only thing that matters is the colour of your shirt and the fire in your heart! AND IT BEGINS… NOW!"

The whistle blew. Anfield exploded. And the match began at a pace that was less like football and more like a high-speed car crash set to music.

The first ten minutes were pure, unadulterated chaos. Tackles flew in with bone-jarring ferocity. The ball spent more time in the air than it did on the ground. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't tactical. It was glorious.

In the 4th minute, a crunching, but fair, tackle from Wataru Endō in the midfield sent a roar of approval through the stadium.

In the 7th, Everton's star winger, Dwight McNeil, whipped in a dangerous cross that was headed clear by a towering Virgil van Dijk.

The game was a breathless, beautiful, ugly brawl. And Leon, fueled by the 'Blessing of the Kop', felt strangely, wonderfully calm in the heart of the hurricane. He wasn't forcing the issue. He was just... playing. Simple passes. Intelligent movement. Waiting for the moment.

And in the 11th minute, the moment arrived. A loose ball broke in the midfield. Leon, his perception sharpened, his reactions faster thanks to the environmental buff, was onto it in a flash. He took one touch, gliding past the first challenge with his 'Silken Dribble'. He looked up. He saw the run. A blur of red lightning. Mo Salah.

The pass was instinctive. Perfect. An outside-of-the-boot through-ball that sliced through the Everton defense like a hot knife through butter. Salah was one-on-one. 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.

1-0.

Anfield didn't just cheer; it detonated. A volcanic eruption of pure, tribal joy. Salah roared, sliding on his knees towards the Kop, his teammates burying him in a pile of red shirts.

The goal should have settled Liverpool. Instead, it just threw gasoline on the fire. Everton, stung by the goal, attacked with a new, furious intensity. The game became even more frantic, even more chaotic.

In the 25th minute, a moment of madness. A late, reckless challenge from an Everton midfielder on Florian Wirtz sparked a mass confrontation, a swirling vortex of pushing, shoving, and angry words. The referee, his face a mask of weary exasperation, brandished two yellow cards, one for each side, a desperate attempt to regain control of a game that was threatening to boil over.

"IT'S KICKING OFF!" Barry screamed, his voice filled with pure, unadulterated glee. "Handbags at dawn! A proper derby! You love to see it!"

Amidst the chaos, Leon remained an island of calm. He pulled his teammates away, his voice a steady, reassuring presence. "Easy. Easy. Don't lose your heads. We're winning. Play our game."

His leadership, his composure, seemed to spread through the team. They settled down. They started to pass the ball again. They started to impose their quality.

In the 38th minute, they produced a goal of pure, beautiful, Liverpool magic. A sweeping, cross-field pass from Trent Alexander-Arnold found Andy Robertson bombing forward on the left. The Scotsman took one touch and whipped in a perfect, first-time cross. And arriving, like a freight train, was Alexander Isak. The big Swede met the ball with a thunderous, unstoppable header that flew into the back of the net.

2-0.

This time, the celebration was different. It wasn't just joy; it was dominance. They had weathered the storm, kept their heads, and their quality had shone through.

As the halftime whistle blew, a roar of pure, adoring approval washed over them. They walked off the pitch, not just winning, but winning their way. Leon felt a profound sense of satisfaction. He looked up into the stands and saw his mother, standing, clapping, her face alight with pure, unadulterated pride. He saw Sofia, next to her, giving him a small, knowing smile.

He smiled back, his heart full. He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He was in the tunnel, a happy, contented smile on his face, when his phone, tucked away in the pocket of his spare training shorts in his locker, began to vibrate. It wasn't a call. It wasn't a text message. It was a system alert, a type he had never seen before, pulsing with a strange, urgent, and deeply unsettling blue light.

[Cross-Platform Network Request Detected: User 'Chivu_C' (Guardian Class) is attempting to initiate a secure, encrypted link.]

[Message Attached: Urgent. Need to talk. It's not about football. It's about the Network. They're compromised.]