CHAPTER 154: A FALSE 9 (1)

-Three days ago-

The Derby della Madonnina was next. AC Milan.

Instantly, a new set of data flooded his mind. The league table appeared first.

[Serie A Standings]

1. Inter Milan

2. Napoli

3. AC Milan

They were right behind them, hungry and waiting for any slip-up.

Leon then focused on their squad, and the names of their key threats glowed with dangerous intensity.

Milan had a busy transfer window, bringing in some serious firepower.

Leon’s eyes narrowed. Kudus was a whirlwind of a player, a creative force with blistering pace. Simons was a technical prodigy, a midfielder who could unlock any defense with a single pass.

And Chris Wood... he was different.

The big striker from the Premier League wasn’t as flashy, but his stats showed a brutal efficiency in the box. A symbol of a battering ram appeared next to his name.

He was their physical focal point, the man who would battle defenders and win headers.

This wasn’t the same Milan from last season. This team was built to challenge for the title.

The next morning, the bright Italian sun streamed through his window, chasing away the shadows of the night. The first thing Leon did, as he did every morning, was call his mom.

"Leo! My champion!" her warm, cheerful voice came through the phone, instantly making him smile. "I saw the goals last night. Your father was jumping around the living room like a boy again! That bicycle kick... Mamma mia, I almost fainted!"

Leon chuckled, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. "It was a lucky one, Mom."

"Nonsense! That was pure skill. I am so proud of you," she said, her voice softening. "Are you eating properly? Are you getting enough rest? You look a little tired on the television."

"I’m fine, Mom, I promise," he said, the familiar words a comforting ritual. "We have a big game this weekend. The derby."

"Oh, the one against the red-and-blacks. Be careful, Leo. Play well, but stay safe. And no matter what, win!"

He laughed. "I’ll do my best. Love you, Mom."

"Love you too, my son."

He hung up, feeling grounded. No matter how big the stadiums got or how famous the opponents were, his mom’s voice always brought him back to earth. He was still just her son.

Arriving at the Appiano Gentile training complex, Leon felt the familiar buzz of energy. The victory against Napoli had lifted everyone’s spirits.

He saw Cole Palmer first, juggling a ball with effortless style.

"Morning," Leon called out.

Palmer trapped the ball perfectly on his neck and grinned. "Morning, maestro. Still got any magic left in those boots after last night?"

"Always," Leon shot back with a wink.

He walked into the dressing room to find Lautaro and Julián in a heated, but friendly, debate.

"I’m telling you, the milanesa in Buenos Aires is better," Julián insisted, gesturing passionately with his hands.

"Impossible!" Lautaro scoffed. "My wife’s grandmother gave her the secret family recipe. It has been perfected over generations! It is a work of art!"

Leon slid into the spot between them. "Alright, alright, there’s only one way to solve this. You both bring some to training tomorrow, and I will be the official judge."

Julián and Lautaro looked at each other, then at Leon, and burst out laughing.

"You just want free food!" Julián accused, clapping him on the back.

"A growing boy needs his energy," Leon said with a mock-serious expression, patting his stomach. "Especially with AC Milan up next. I hear their new striker eats defenders for breakfast."

The mood shifted subtly. The jokes faded, replaced by a shared look of focus.

"Chris Wood," Lautaro said, his expression turning serious. "He’s a handful. Big and strong. Bastoni will have a real fight on his hands."

"And don’t forget Kudus and Simons pulling the strings behind him," Palmer added, joining the group. "Their midfield is dynamic. We can’t give them any space to operate."

Leon nodded. "Their potential is high. They’re a dangerous team, maybe even more than Napoli." He didn’t share the exact numbers his Vision provided, but he conveyed the threat clearly. "But we’re first in the league for a reason. We just have to play our game."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sharp blast of a whistle from outside. It was time.

The team jogged out onto the perfectly manicured training pitch. Coach Chivu was waiting for them, his arms crossed, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Good morning," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the air. "Forget Napoli. That is the past. Today, we begin preparing for Milan."

He gestured for the players to gather closer. A set of cones was arranged in an unfamiliar pattern on the pitch.

"Milan is a new team," Chivu continued, his eyes locking onto each player. "They are fast, technical, and direct. We cannot play the same way we did last week. We need to adapt. We need to be unpredictable."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

"Which is why," he said, a rare, sly smile touching his lips, "we are going to try something new. A formation I have been working on. It’s risky, it’s aggressive, and it will rely heavily on our midfield’s intelligence and speed."

He looked directly at Leon, his gaze intense.

"Leon. You will not be playing as a central attacking midfielder. Today, you are playing as a ’Falso Nueve’... a False 9."

A False 9.

The words hung in the air over the training pitch. Leon’s teammates glanced at him, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and surprise.

The False 9 was a complex, intelligent role, famously played by legends like Lionel Messi.

It required not just skill, but a supreme footballing brain.

It was a position for a playmaker disguised as a striker.

Coach Chivu walked over to Leon, placing a hand on his shoulder. "In your normal role, you see the game in front of you. As a False 9, you must feel it behind you. You will be our offensive pivot. You will start high, occupying their central defenders. But you will not stay there. You will drop deep, into the space between their defense and midfield."