Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

Chapter 215: Champions of Europe


The morning of the Champions League Final dawned bright and beautiful over the Amalfi Coast, a perfect, peaceful day that felt completely at odds with the colossal battle that was scheduled to take place that evening.

Leon sat on the sun-drenched terrace of the villa, a cup of coffee in his hand, looking out at the calm, glittering sea.

His phone buzzed, and he smiled as Byon's face, a chaotic mix of nervous energy and pure, unadulterated excitement, appeared on the screen.

"Today's the day," Biyon said, his voice a low, intense buzz.

He was already in his team tracksuit, pacing back and forth in a hotel room that looked far too small for his energy.

"I feel like I've got a whole swarm of angry, tactical bees in my stomach."

"You're going to be brilliant," Leon said, a warm, genuine pride in his voice. "Just remember the plan."

"The plan?" Biyon asked, a confused look on his face. "You mean Pep's 72-slide PowerPoint presentation on PSG's defensive pressing triggers?"

"No," Leon grinned. "Your plan. The 'Give the Ball to Haaland' plan."

Byon burst out laughing, a sound of pure, nervous relief. "Ah, yes.

Phase one: get the ball.

Phase two: give it to the giant Norwegian goal robot.

Phase three: celebrate. It's foolproof!" He took a deep breath, his expression turning serious. "But this Yamal kid, Leo... he's different. And then they have Dembélé on the other wing, who is basically a human coin-toss, and Vitinha and Fabián Ruiz in the middle, who can pass a ball through the eye of a needle. It's a nightmare."

"You're the best left-back in the world," Leon said, his voice firm and steady. "You've got this. Go and win your trophy."

"I'll try," Byon said, a determined glint in his eye. "You just make sure you're all watching."

That evening, the villa's living room was transformed into a private stadium.

Elena had outdone herself, preparing a mountain of snacks that could have fed a small army.

The entire Inter family was gathered, a loud, happy, opinionated mob of football experts.

The pre-game show was a spectacle of pure, unadulterated hype.

The broadcast showed celebrities walking the red carpet, analysts making bold predictions, and dramatic, slow-motion shots of the magnificent Champions League trophy gleaming under the stadium lights.

"Okay, so," Julián Álvarez announced, holding up a bowl of chips. "This is a classic battle of ideologies. PSG is the team of individual superstars. They are the fancy, artisanal, truffle-infused potato chip. They look great, they cost a fortune, but are they really that satisfying?" He then held up a bowl of simple, salted nuts.

"Manchester City is the machine. The collective. They are the humble, reliable nut. Not as flashy, but full of powerful, efficient energy. The question is: what is the ultimate snack for a champion?"

The team, who were now completely used to Julián's 'food-based tactical analysis', just nodded along sagely.

The coaches appeared on screen for their final pre-match interviews, both looking impossibly calm. Then, the moment arrived.

The iconic, epic anthem of the Champions League blasted from the speakers, and the two teams walked out of the tunnel, their faces masks of intense, unshakeable focus.

The match kicked off, and from the first second, it was a breathtaking display of football at its absolute highest level.

Lamine Yamal, on the right wing for PSG, was a constant, electric threat, a blur of impossible skill and audacious dribbles.

But Byon was his shadow, a perfect, disciplined wall of defensive excellence.

"He's not giving him an inch!" Dimarco yelled at the screen, completely engrossed in the personal duel.

On the other side, Erling Haaland was a physical phenomenon, a gravitational force that pulled the entire PSG defense towards him, creating space for his teammates.

The first half was a tense, beautiful, goalless chess match between two grandmasters.

As the halftime whistle blew, the TV broadcast switched to the analysis studio.

The players in the villa started their own, much more passionate, debate.

"City needs to get the ball to De Bruyne more," Lautaro argued. "He's the one who can unlock this."

"No, no, PSG's counter-attack is the key," Bastoni countered. "If they can just get Mbappé in behind..."

Their debate was cut short by a sudden, jarring "BREAKING NEWS" banner that flashed across the bottom of the screen.

A well-known Italian journalist's face appeared in a small box.

"We are interrupting our halftime analysis with a piece of shocking, breaking news from the world of Italian football," the journalist said, his voice filled with a sense of immense gravity. "Sources have confirmed to us that Inter President Beppe Marotta has accepted an offer to become the new CEO of the Italian Football Federation. A press conference is scheduled for tomorrow morning."

A stunned, deafening silence fell over the villa. The joyous, carefree atmosphere of their holiday was instantly shattered.

"What?" Bastoni whispered, his face pale.

Çalhanoğlu was already on his phone, his eyes wide. "It's everywhere," he said, his voice barely audible. "It's real."

The players just looked at each other, a storm of confusion, anxiety, and betrayal in their eyes. Their leader, the architect of their success, was leaving them.

"But who... who will replace him?" Barella asked, the question hanging in the air like a guillotine. The breaking news banner on the screen changed, a new line of text appearing below the first.

[...His replacement at Inter is rumored to be a shocking, high-profile name from outside the world of football.]

The room was a pressure cooker of tension and speculation.

The second half of the biggest match of the year was about to start, but their minds were a million miles away, lost in the uncertain future of their own club.

It was Lautaro, the captain, who stood up.

"Okay," he said, his voice a calm, steady anchor in the storm. "There is nothing we can do about that right now. Nothing. We will deal with it tomorrow. Together." He looked around at the worried faces of his teammates, his family. "Tonight, we are here to watch our friend win a trophy. And that is what we are going to do."

The second half began, a blur of brilliant goals and heart-stopping drama.

Mbappé scored. Haaland equalized. The game went to extra time.

And finally, in the dying minutes, Haaland, the unstoppable force, scored the winner.

Manchester City were the champions of Europe.

The villa erupted, the joy for their friend momentarily eclipsing the anxiety about their future.

They watched Byon lift the trophy, his face a picture of pure, unadulterated joy, and they celebrated with him, a chorus of proud, happy shouts.

It was the perfect end to a perfect holiday.

As the celebration on the screen began to wind down, Lautaro's phone buzzed with an official notification from the club.

A hush fell over the room as he read it out loud.

His eyes widened as he got to the final sentence.

He looked up at his teammates, a look of utter, complete, and total disbelief on his face.

"You are not going to believe this," he whispered. He turned the phone around.

[OFFICIAL CLUB STATEMENT: Inter Milan is proud to announce the appointment of our new Club President and Chairman... Mr. Flavio Briatore.]

The room was silent for a full ten seconds before Julián Álvarez, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated hope, finally spoke the question that was on everyone's mind.

"Okay," he said slowly. "New question. Do we get a fast car now?"

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