Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

"Did you see the look on their faces when Isak scored?" Trent Alexander-Arnold roared over the music, a huge, triumphant grin on his face. "Pure, beautiful sadness! You love to see it!"

"And Leo's pass!" Andy Robertson added, clapping Leon on the back so hard he almost knocked him over. "The little magician strikes again! Sent their entire defense for fish and chips!"

Leon just laughed, a warm, happy sound, accepting the congratulations, feeling the familiar, addictive buzz of victory coursing through his veins. But underneath the joy, a strange, quiet disquiet lingered, an echo of the cryptic message from Chivu that had arrived just before halftime.

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

He had pushed it away during the second half, focusing entirely on the game. But now, in the quiet aftermath, the words resonated with a new, unsettling weight. The Network. Compromised. He didn't know what it meant, but it sounded… bad. Like the very foundation of his secret, magical world was somehow unstable, flawed.

He thought of the 'reality fracture' warning after his impossible goal against Spurs. He thought of the system AI's sudden appearance, its talk of 'Guardians' and 'Players', of rules and protocols. He thought of Chivu, a 'Guardian', using a 'Guest Manager Protocol' like a tactical ghost. He thought of Tchouaméni, another 'Player', their silent duel in the final. His world, which had once felt like a simple, magical gift, was becoming increasingly complex, crowded, and potentially dangerous.

"Okay, philosophical question for the victors," Julián Álvarez announced, pulling Leon from his thoughts. Julián was holding up his sweaty match shirt. "If you swap shirts with the enemy after a battle, is it a sign of respect, or are you secretly collecting their tactical DNA? The ethics are very confusing."

The room erupted in laughter. Leon joined in, the sound genuine, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about his 'Manager Mode' simulation on the beach, the feeling of control, of seeing the whole picture. He was thinking about his conversation with Slot, about being the 'brain'. He was thinking about Chivu's warning: They are watching.

A strange, quiet, and utterly radical idea began to form in his mind. An idea born not of ambition, but of a sudden, profound sense of responsibility, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of fear. What if the best way to understand this game, this other game being played beneath the surface of the football world, wasn't by being the best piece on the board? What if it was by becoming the player moving the pieces?

The celebrations continued long into the evening. The players went out for a team dinner, a loud, joyous, and slightly chaotic affair. Leon laughed, he joked, he celebrated with his brothers. But the idea, the radical, life-altering idea, wouldn't leave him alone.

He looked around the table, at the faces of his teammates. Van Dijk, the calm, colossal captain. Salah, the legendary king. Trent and Robbo, the dynamic duo. Julián, the beautiful, chaotic soul of the team. He loved them. He loved this. But he felt a strange, new distance, like he was watching them from the outside, analyzing their movements, their strengths, their weaknesses. He wasn't just a player anymore. He was already thinking like a manager.

The next morning, the world woke up to the news of Liverpool's dominant derby victory. But Leon woke up with a decision. A decision so huge, so insane, so completely out of left field that it terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.

He didn't call his agent. He didn't call his mother. He called the one person he knew he had to tell first. Arne Slot.

"Leon," the manager's calm voice answered. "Everything alright? You sound... serious."

"Gaffer," Leon began, his voice surprisingly steady. "I... I need to talk to you. In person. It's important."

An hour later, Leon was sitting in Slot's sleek, minimalist office, the tactical screen on the wall displaying a complex defensive formation from their last match. Slot sat opposite him, his expression calm, attentive, waiting.

Leon took a deep breath. "Gaffer," he started, the words feeling huge and clumsy in his mouth. "First of all, I want to thank you. For believing in me. For bringing me here. For giving me the chance to play for this incredible club, with these incredible players. This season... it's been the best year of my life."

Slot just nodded, a small, encouraging smile on his face.

"But," Leon continued, the next words the hardest he had ever had to say. "I've realized something. My future... it's not on the pitch. Not as a player."

The smile vanished from Slot's face, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated shock. "Leon... what are you talking about?"

"I love this game, gaffer," Leon said, his voice thick with emotion, but his eyes clear and steady. "More than anything. But I feel like... I feel like my best contribution, my true calling... it's not with my feet. It's with my head. I see the game differently. I see the patterns, the weaknesses, the solutions. I want to build things. I want to solve the puzzles. I..." he took another deep breath, the final, terrifying words tumbling out. "I want to be a manager."

A profound, absolute silence filled the office. Arne Slot just stared at him, his face a mask of disbelief. He opened his mouth, closed it again. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Leon," he said finally, his voice a low, bewildered murmur. "You are eighteen years old. You are arguably the most talented young player on the planet. You just won the Champions League. You are on track to win the Ballon d'Or. And you are telling me... you want to retire?"

"I don't want to retire from football," Leon corrected him gently. "I want to retire from playing. It's different. This," he said, gesturing around the office, at the tactics board, at the screens filled with data, "this is where I belong. This is what I want to do."

Slot stood up and walked to the window, staring out at the pristine training pitches where his team, Leon's team, was about to start their session. He was silent for a long time. When he turned back, his eyes were filled with a strange, sad, but deeply respectful understanding.

"This is madness, Leon," he said softly. "Absolute, beautiful madness. You are throwing away a future that most players would kill for." He paused. "But... I see it in your eyes. You believe this. This is your truth." He walked back to his desk and sat down, a decision made. "Okay," he said, his voice firm, professional again. "Okay. We will support you. We will help you in any way we can. But you understand what this means, yes? The shockwaves this will send? The questions? The chaos?"

"I know," Leon said, a quiet, unshakeable calm settling over him. "I'm ready."

The news broke the next day. It wasn't a leak. It wasn't a rumor. It was an official club statement, followed by a live press conference. Leon sat at the table, flanked by a supportive but still slightly bewildered Arne Slot, facing a sea of flashing cameras and stunned, disbelieving faces.

He spoke calmly, articulately, passionately. He thanked the club, the fans, his teammates. He explained his decision, not as an ending, but as a beginning. He announced his retirement from professional football, effective immediately. And he announced his intention to pursue his coaching badges, to learn, to grow, and to one day return to the game he loved, not as a player, but as a leader on the sideline.

The world exploded.

His phone melted. The internet broke. Pundits screamed. Fans wept. Julián Álvarez probably had a full-blown philosophical meltdown.

But as Leon walked away from the press conference, a strange, profound sense of peace settled over him. He had done it. He had chosen his path. It was crazy. It was terrifying. But it was his.

He was walking towards the exit, ready to face the beautiful, chaotic, and utterly unknown future, when his phone buzzed. It was a message from a number he now recognized. Cristian Chivu.

He opened it, expecting a message of shock, maybe even anger. Instead, it was a single, cryptic, and strangely validating line of text.

[Chivu_C]: Took you long enough. Welcome to the real game.]