The two days following the Barcelona bombshell were a strange, surreal blur.
The football world was in a state of seismic shock, with every news channel, every social dia platform, every single conversation dominated by the astronomical transfer of Lamine Yamal.
For Leon, it was like a glimpse into an alternate reality, a future he had actively chosen to put on hold.
The phone call from Barcelona’s sporting director felt less like a real event and more like a bizarre, high-stakes dream.
But inside the bubble of the Appiano Gentile training complex, that world didn’t exist.
Coach Chivu had been relentless, turning the training sessions into a crucible of tactical discipline and physical exertion.
The ssage was clear: the outside world, with its drama and its nine-figure transfer fees, was nothing but noise.
And now, it was matchday.
The penultimate ga of the season.
The San Siro dressing room was a hive of controlled, focused energy. The players were in their full kits, the iconic blue and black a second skin, a suit of armor for the battle to co.
"Okay, I’ve been thinking," Julián Álvarez said to a nearby Lautaro Martínez, his voice filled with the gravity of a man who has just solved a great universal mystery.
"If we win these last two matches, we win the league, right? We complete the season. So, does that an we get a credits scene? Like in a video ga? And is there a post-credits scene teasing the next season?"
Lautaro, who was carefully adjusting his captain’s armband, just looked at his fellow Argentine, a long-suffering but deeply affectionate expression on his face.
"Julián," he said slowly. "There is no credits scene. There is just a very big trophy, and a very big party."
"But what if there is?" Julián pressed, his eyes wide. "We should all stay on the pitch just in case. I don’t want to miss the bit where they reveal the secret boss for next year’s Champions League."
"The only secret boss I’m worried about is Stefano Sensi," Alessandro Bastoni grumbled from across the room, a grim look on his face.
The mory of the ’Giant Killer’ trait Leon had warned them about was a fresh and unwelco thought.
"Sensi is a good player," Cole Palr said, his voice the usual picture of calm. "But he is one man. We are a machine. We just have to do our job."
That was the mood. A perfect blend of Julián’s delightful madness,
Bastoni’s focused intensity, and Palr’s cool professionalism. They were ready.
Leon looked around at his teammates, at his brothers.
The thought of Barcelona, of Liverpool, of any other future, felt like a distant, irrelevant echo.
This was his reality. This was his family. This was the only thing that mattered.
The door opened and Coach Chivu walked in. The room fell silent.
He didn’t have his tactics board. He didn’t have a long speech prepared.He just stood before them, his eyes burning with a fire that seed to warm the entire room.
"Look at the man next to you," he said, his voice a low, powerful growl. "He has fought with you all season. He has bled with you. He has celebrated with you. Today, you play for him. You leave everything you have on that pitch for him."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"Forget the four-point lead. Forget the next match. Forget the trophy. Today, there is only this stadium, this ball, and us. Play with intelligence. Play with courage. But most of all," he said, his voice rising, "play with determination. That is the only thing I ask. Now go and show them who we are."
An hour earlier, Chivu had faced a different kind of battle: the pre-match press conference.
The room was packed, the journalists circling like sharks, slling blood after the Torino draw.
"Coach," one journalist began, "with your lead cut to just four points, the pressure is imnse. Many are saying your team is starting to crumble. What is your response?"
Chivu just stared at the man for a long, uncomfortable mont before giving a cold, thin smile. "Pressure," he repeated, as if the word was a strange, foreign concept. "Pressure is for tires and surgeons. We are footballers. We play football. It is our job. Next question."
"But what about ’Leongate’?" another journalist called out. "There are rumors of unrest, of your star player feeling the strain..."
"Leon is a phenonon," Chivu cut in, his voice like ice. "He is the best young player in Italy. He is happy. He is focused. The only ’strain’ he is feeling is the strain of carrying the hopes and dreams of every Inter fan on his very capable shoulders. A weight he carries with honor. Do not mistake a day of rest for a sign of weakness. In fact," he added, a dangerous glint in his eye, "I would suggest he is more rested, and therefore more dangerous, than ever. You should ask Sassuolo after the match if he looked like he was under any ’strain’."
He answered a few more questions with the sa dismissive, surgical precision before standing up. "Thank you, gentlen. I have a match to prepare for."
He walked out, leaving a room of stunned, scribbling journalists in his wake.
The teams stood in the tunnel.
This was it. The first of their two finals.
The comntator’s voice was a symphony of pure, unadulterated hype. "THE PENULTIMATE Chapter of this incredible Serie A season is about to be written! Inter Milan, the wounded leaders, stand on the brink of glory! But in their way stands a dangerous Sassuolo side, and a familiar face with a point to prove! The ’Giant Killer’, Stefano Sensi, on loan from Inter, has a chance to play the ultimate spoiler against his own club! The drama! The poetry! The sheer, beautiful cruelty of football! IT’S LIVE! IT’S HERE! IT’S NOW!"
The teams walked out onto the pitch, a sea of blue and black, a river of green and black.
The atmosphere was a thick, potent cocktail of hope and anxiety.
The match began.
Inter, true to Chivu’s word, ca out with a ferocious, controlled intensity.
In the 4th minute, a beautiful combination between Palr and Dimarco on the left wing resulted in a dangerous cross that was just barely cleared.
In the 7th minute, Lautaro, fighting for a loose ball, was cynically brought down, earning an early yellow card for the Sassuolo defender.
The ga was a tense, cagey affair. Sassuolo’s defense was well-organized, and in the middle of it all was Sensi.
He was everywhere, intercepting passes, starting counter-attacks, his ’Giant Killer’ trait glowing brightly in Leon’s Vision. He was playing the ga of his life.
The clock ticked over to 10:00.
The score was still 0-0, a deadlock of tactical precision and nervous energy.
And then, as Leon received a pass in the midfield, his ’Manager Mode’, which had been silently recalibrating since the Coppa Italia final, suddenly flashed a notification in his mind. The recalibration was complete.
[Dynamic Pathway Analysis: ACTIVE.]
[System Alert: A critical opportunity has been detected. A convergence of ’Tactical Efficiency’ and ’Personal Well-being’ is available.]
Leon’s blood ran cold. He looked up from the ball and his eyes locked onto the stands, right behind the Inter bench.
And there, sitting next to his mother, a nervous but excited smile on her face, was Sofia.
She had co to watch him play.
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