Reincarnated As A Wonderkid Chapter 287: Three Months Later

(Three Months Later: March)

Three months had passed in a blur of muddy pitches, dramatic victories, frustrating draws, and the constant, comforting rhythm of training, travel, and terrible jokes.

The dark cloud of suspicion surrounding Cristian Chivu’s training ground incident had eventually dissipated, lost in the relentless news cycle, leaving only a faint, unsettling question mark in the back of Leon’s mind.

Liverpool were still fighting fiercely on all fronts. They sat precariously at the top of the Premier League, locked in a brutal, three-way title race with Manchester City and a surprisingly resilient Arsenal. The Champions League knockout stages were looming, the round of 16 draw just days away. The machine was running hot, firing on all cylinders, but the pressure was imnse.

The atmosphere at the AXA Training Centre on a crisp March morning was a perfect reflection of their situation: sharp, focused, and humming with a vibrant, almost giddy, energy.

"Okay, I have been studying the ancient texts," Julián Álvarez announced, holding up a printout of the complex Champions League knockout stage probability charts. He was addressing a captive audience consisting of Leon, Trent Alexander-Arnold, and a very confused-looking Hugo Ekitike, who was still trying to understand Julián’s unique brand of tactical philosophy. "And I have determined that there is a 12.7% chance that we draw Real Madrid, which would an Leo faces his tactical father again. There is also an 8.3% chance we draw PSG, which would an Biyon faces the tiny alien Yamal again. And," he said, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, "there is a 0.001% chance that, due to a catastrophic administrative error, we accidentally draw Accrington Stanley again. The possibilities are fascinating!"

Trent just shook his head, a grin on his face. "Julián, you are the only man on the planet who finds statistical probability ’fascinating’. Just tell us who you want us to draw."

"Ah, the heart versus the head," Julián mused, stroking his chin. "My head says we want the easiest path. My heart," he said, a wild, adventurous glint in his eye, "wants the team with the best pre-match snacks. It is a vital, often overlooked, tactical advantage."

Leon just laughed, the sound easy and relaxed. He felt completely at ho here, surrounded by his loud, brilliant, and slightly insane family. His English was improving rapidly, thanks to intensive lessons and the constant, rciless teasing of his teammates ("Leo, mate, it’s ’biscuits’, not ’sad cookies’," Robertson had corrected him helpfully). His ’Current Ability’ had nudged up to 92, and his understanding with Salah and Isak was becoming almost telepathic. He hadn’t bought the ’Alpha’s Presence’ trait yet, content for now to be the brain, the conductor, the ghost in the machine.

Arne Slot gathered them on the pitch, his expression calm and focused. "Alright, lads," he began, his voice cutting cleanly through the morning air. "Forget the draw. Forget the noise. Today, we focus on us. We have a tough run of gas coming up. Premier League, Champions League... this is where seasons are won and lost. This is where champions are forged."

He looked around at the sea of determined faces. "The pressure will build. The dia will talk. Our rivals will try to get in our heads. We ignore it all." He tapped his own head. "Our strength is not just in our legs, or our tactics. It is here. In our unity. In our belief. We are a machine. And the machine is ready."

The training session was a masterpiece of controlled intensity. They worked on pressing triggers, on quick transitions, on the beautiful, brutal, high-energy football that was their trademark. Leon was in his elent, his ’Silken Dribble’ making him almost untouchable, his passes slicing through the practice defense like a hot knife through butter. He felt a profound sense of joy, the simple, pure pleasure of playing the ga he loved at the absolute highest level.

During a break, he found himself next to Mo Salah, who was juggling a ball with the effortless grace of a man born with a football attached to his foot.

"You are flying, my friend," Salah said, a genuine, appreciative smile on his face. "That pass you made a minute ago... beautiful. Like poetry."

"Learning from the best," Leon grinned back.

Salah just laughed, a warm, booming sound. "Keep working, keep learning. And maybe," he added, a familiar, competitive fire in his eyes, "one day you will be almost as good as ."

That night, Leon was at ho, enjoying a quiet evening. His mother was back in Milan for a week, visiting family, leaving him in charge of his own culinary destiny (which mostly ant ordering pizza). He was on the sofa, scrolling through his phone, a comfortable, happy silence filling the house.

His phone rang. It was Sofia.

"Hey, you," her warm, happy voice ca through the line. "Interrupting anything important? Like a deep, philosophical debate with your pizza?"

"Just admiring its structural integrity," he laughed. "How was your day? Did you manage to convince your students that Renaissance art is more exciting than TikTok?"

"It was a battle," she sighed dramatically. "But I think I won. I showed them a picture of Caravaggio’s ’David with the Head of Goliath’. Apparently, gory decapitation is very ’viral content’."

They talked for over an hour, an easy, rambling conversation that was the perfect end to his day. They talked about her upcoming exhibition, about his looming Champions League draw, about the ridiculousness of Julián’s latest theories.

"So," she said finally, a playful, teasing tone in her voice. "About this gala next month. You’ve been practicing your ’important leader’ face in the mirror, haven’t you?"

He groaned. "Don’t remind . I think I’m just going to get Julián to write my speech. It’ll probably be about the socio-economic impact of football boots on migratory birds, but at least it’ll be morable."

She laughed, a bright, happy sound that made his heart feel a little lighter. "Just be yourself," she said softly. "That’s all you need to be."

The day of the Champions League Round of 16 draw arrived. The atmosphere at the training ground was a buzzing hive of nervous energy. The players gathered in the team canteen, their eyes glued to the giant screen showing the live broadcast from UEFA headquarters in Switzerland.

"Okay, okay, here we go," Trent said, bouncing his leg nervously.

"I swear, if we get Madrid again..." Robertson muttered under his breath.

The little balls were drawn, the nas of the European giants pulled out one by one. Bayern Munich versus Barcelona. PSG versus Juventus. The tension in the room was unbearable.

"And now," the presenter on the screen said, his voice filled with dramatic importance, "Liverpool Football Club..."

The entire room held its breath.

"...will play..."

He fumbled with the second little ball, drawing out the agony.

"...Inter Milan."

A stunned, deafening silence fell over the canteen. Leon’s blood ran cold. Inter. His old team. His old family. And then, the second, even more devastating realization hit him like a physical blow.

The ’Briatore Clause’.

He couldn’t play.

As his teammates erupted around him, a mixture of shock, excitent, and furious shouts about their flamboyant forr president, Leon just sat there, a cold, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was about to face his past. And he was going to have to do it from the sidelines.

But as he looked up at the screen again, at the two crests side-by-side, Inter and Liverpool, a final, unexpected piece of information flashed across the bottom of the screen, a detail from the official UEFA regulations that made his heart stop for the second ti in ten seconds.

[UEFA Champions League Rule Andnt 42.B: Effective this season, all player-specific, inter-club match restrictions (e.g., loan clauses prohibiting play against parent clubs, specific ’anti-rival’ clauses) are deed null and void in UEFA competition knockout stages to ensure sporting integrity.]