CHAPTER 167: UEFA CHAMPIONS LEAGUE (2)

The notification about the ’Manager Mode’ sent a strange tingle through Leon’s mind.

It was a tantalizing glimpse into a future he didn’t yet understand, a new layer to his power that was slowly being unlocked.

But the thought was quickly bulldozed by the raw, unfiltered drama unfolding on his television screens.

The second half was about to begin.

Just as the players were walking back onto the pitch in Barcelona, his apartment door opened.

His mother, Elena, walked in carrying a plate of freshly baked cookies that smelled like heaven.

"I saw the light on," she said, placing the cookies on the coffee table next to the half-eaten pizza. "I thought my growing boy might need a little dessert." She looked at the two screens, a confused expression on her face.

"Why are you watching two games at once? You will make your eyes go crazy."

"It’s the Champions League semi-finals, Mom," Leon said, his eyes glued to the screen where Byon was getting ready to mark Lamine Yamal. "It’s like the Super Bowl, but twice."

Elena sat down beside him, peering at the screen. "Oh, that one is your friend, Byon, yes? He looks very serious. And that little one he is chasing looks very fast."

"He is," Leon muttered. "Too fast."

Just then, his phone buzzed. It was a call from Lautaro.

"Leo! Where are you?" his captain’s voice boomed through the speaker. "We are all at Giuseppe’s restaurant. He opened it just for us. We are watching the games. Julián is trying to explain the offside rule using breadsticks and it’s a disaster. Get over here!"

Leon’s heart leaped. An impromptu team night. He looked at his mom, who was happily munching on a cookie, completely engrossed in the spectacle of the game. He felt a pang of guilt.

"Ah, I’m with my mom right now, Captain," he said.

"Bring her!" Lautaro yelled. "We have plenty of pasta! Julián can ask her if a meatball is technically a sphere or a lumpy circle!"

Leon chuckled. He turned to his mom. "The team is all together at a restaurant watching the games. They want us to come."

Elena waved a dismissive hand, her eyes still on the TV. "Nonsense. You go. Go be with your friends, with your team. This is your world. I am happy right here with my cookies and these little men running around." She patted his cheek.

"Go. Have fun. Just don’t stay out too late."

Leon felt a wave of love for her. "Thanks, Mom. You’re the best."

He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.

When Leon walked into the private back room of "Trattoria Giuseppe," he was greeted by a roar of welcome and the delicious smell of truffle pasta.

The entire team was there, spread out across several tables in front of a massive projection screen showing both matches side-by-side.

"He is here! Leondona graces us with his presence!" Julián announced, raising a glass of water.

"I told you he would come!" Lautaro said, pulling out a chair for him. "He cannot resist the tactical genius of Julián’s breadstick analysis."

Leon slid into the chair, grinning. "I came to save the breadsticks from your confusing brain," he shot back, and the table laughed.

The atmosphere was incredible—relaxed, happy, and buzzing with the thrill of the games.

This was his family.

He looked up at the screen just as the second half in Barcelona was getting intense. Byon, clearly having taken his advice, was doing a much better job on Lamine Yamal, forcing him onto his weaker left foot and preventing him from cutting inside.

"Your friend is playing well," Cole Palmer noted from across the table, his expert eyes analyzing the game. "He’s showing him the line every time. Smart."

But geniuses always find a way. In the 65th minute, Yamal received the ball.

Instead of trying to cut inside, he drove hard to the byline, pushing Byon back towards his own goal.

Then, with an audacious piece of skill, he stopped the ball dead and dragged it back with his studs, spinning in a full circle.

A perfect roulette. Byon, caught off guard by the sudden change of direction, was left flat-footed. Yamal now had a yard of space.

He didn’t shoot. He clipped a delicate cross towards the back post where João Félix was arriving.

The Portuguese forward met it with a flying volley.

The restaurant fell silent. The ball rocketed towards the goal.

But Ederson, City’s keeper, produced a world-class save, tipping the ball over the bar at full stretch.

The entire restaurant let out a collective "WOAH!"

"That kid is something else," Barella muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

The attention then shifted to the other screen, where the game in Munich had become a war of attrition.

It was 0-0, a brutal, tactical stalemate.

In the 78th minute, Liverpool won a free-kick, about 30 yards from goal, dead center.

Trent Alexander-Arnold, Liverpool’s creative genius, stood over the ball.

"This is his range," Dimarco said, leaning forward. "He’s going to shoot."

"No chance," Çalhanoğlu countered, the team’s own free-kick specialist.

"Too far out for a direct shot. He’ll cross it."

Alexander-Arnold began his run-up.

He didn’t blast it. He didn’t curl it. He struck the ball with a strange, flat technique, hitting it with the laces of his boot.

The ball flew with almost no spin, like a knuckleball in baseball. It swerved violently in the air, once to the left, then back to the right.

Manuel Neuer, one of the greatest goalkeepers of all time, was completely bamboozled.

He took a step to his left, but the ball dipped and swerved away from him, crashing into the back of the net.

The restaurant exploded. It was a goal of such outrageous, physics-defying brilliance that everyone was on their feet, yelling and grabbing each other in disbelief.

The commentator completely lost his mind. "OH, MY WORD! WHAT WAS THAT?! IT WASN’T A SHOT! HE HAS SENT A WOBBLING, DANCING, BEWITCHED PIECE OF LEATHER PAST THE BEST GOALKEEPER IN THE WORLD! TRENT ALEXANDER-ARNOLD HAS PULLED A RABBIT OUT OF A HAT, A LION OUT OF A TOP HAT, AND A GOAL OUT OF THIN AIR! LIVERPOOL LEAD IN MUNICH!"

Julián Álvarez just stared at the screen, his mouth wide open, a half-eaten breadstick forgotten in his hand. "Okay," he said slowly.

"I have a new question. Can a ball be possessed by a ghost?"

As the team dissolved into another round of laughter, Leon watched the replay, a thrill running through him.

He saw the technique, the confidence, the sheer audacity of the attempt.

A new notification flickered in his Vision, quiet and subtle amidst the noise.

[SYSTEM UPDATE: New skill ’Knuckleball Free-Kick’ analyzed. Data capture at 75%. Practice required to unlock.]

He smiled. The system was evolving faster than ever.

It wasn’t just showing him what was happening. It was showing him what was possible.