CHAPTER 168: UEFA CHAMPIONS LEAGUE (3)

The restaurant was a madhouse.

One moment, everyone was a calm, professional footballer; the next, they were a yelling, gesticulating mob of passionate fans, completely losing their minds over Trent Alexander-Arnold’s impossible goal.

"It’s the ball!" Julián Álvarez insisted, holding up a breadstick to demonstrate. "They have put a ghost in the ball! It has its own brain! See? It wobbles!" He wiggled the breadstick erratically, nearly poking Nicolò Barella in the eye.

"Julián, if you don’t put the haunted breadstick down, I’m going to feed it to you," Barella grumbled, ducking away. "It wasn’t a ghost, it was technique!"

"It was witchcraft!" Federico Dimarco countered, his eyes wide. "He made a deal with a wizard before the match! There is no other explanation!"

Leon was just laughing, completely caught up in the joyous chaos.

This was football at its purest: a moment of genius that defied explanation and turned grown men into giddy, superstitious children.

The notification about the new skill he could learn felt like a secret treasure, a piece of the magic he had just witnessed that he could one day make his own.

His attention was snapped back to the other screen.

Barcelona vs. Manchester City.

The final ten minutes. The score was still 1-1, but with Liverpool winning in Munich, the pressure was entirely on Barcelona to find a winner.

The game was stretched, frantic, and beautiful.

"Come on, Byon!" Leon muttered under his breath, leaning forward as his friend made a crucial tackle on the edge of his own box.

The play swung to the other end. Kevin De Bruyne, the Belgian maestro, picked up the ball.

His Vision stats flashed in Leon’s mind, a terrifying string of high numbers in passing and vision.

He threaded a pass that seemed to bend reality, a perfect through-ball for Erling Haaland.

The entire restaurant tensed.

The Norwegian cyborg was through on goal.

He didn’t even seem to sprint; he just devoured the ground in massive, powerful strides.

Ronald Araújo, Barcelona’s defender, was trying to catch him but it was like a normal person trying to chase a runaway train.

"This guy is not real," Alessandro Bastoni, a man who feared no striker, said with a tone of pure awe. "He is a machine. Look at the power."

Haaland drew back his left foot. The net was destined to bulge.

But at the last second, Marc-André ter Stegen, the Barcelona keeper, flew off his line, spreading his body like a starfish and somehow, miraculously, got a hand to the ball, deflecting it wide.

A collective groan of disappointment for Byon and a simultaneous gasp of admiration for the save filled the room.

The final whistle blew in Munich. 1-0 to Liverpool.

The screen showed the Liverpool players sprinting to their traveling fans, a joyous sea of red in the corner of the Allianz Arena.

On the other side, Harry Kane stood with his hands on his hips, his face a picture of utter dejection.

The focus in the restaurant became singular.

All eyes were on the remaining minutes at the Camp Nou.

Barcelona was defending for their lives. Manchester City threw everything forward.

In the 92nd minute, Phil Foden danced past two defenders and unleashed a shot. It took a deflection, spinning high into the air and looping towards the goal.

It looked destined for the top corner. But Araújo, scrambling back, launched himself backward and headed the ball off the line.

The final whistle blew. Barcelona had done it. 1-1. They were through on away goals.

The scenes on the screen were a perfect mirror of the other match. This time, it was the Barcelona players in a heap of joyous celebration, their fans creating an earthquake of noise.

And on the other side, the players of Manchester City collapsed to the grass, the physical and emotional toll of the battle finally crushing them.

Leon’s eyes found Byon, who was standing alone, staring into the middle distance, utterly heartbroken.

The screens in the restaurant split, showing the two sets of winners and losers.

The raw, beautiful, brutal drama of football, perfectly captured.

For a long moment, the players in the restaurant were silent, just taking it all in.

Then, Julián, ever the philosopher, spoke into the quiet. "So... if a team wins on away goals, did they really win, or did they just lose less in the right places?"

The tension shattered. Everyone burst out laughing, the absurdity of the question a perfect antidote to the heavy emotions of the matches.

The TV broadcast switched to the post-game analysis, with pundits showing slow-motion replays and talking in serious, hushed tones.

The Inter players began their own, much more insightful, analysis.

"Haaland is a monster, but City relied on him too much in the end," Lautaro said, gesturing with a fork. "Barcelona knew the ball was always going to him. They could prepare."

"And Liverpool’s midfield... incredible," Barella added. "They didn’t stop running for 95 minutes. They suffocated Bayern. That’s how you win in Europe."

"That Yamal kid, though," Leon said quietly, and the table nodded in agreement. "He has something... different. It’s not just speed or skill. It’s courage. He’s never afraid to take a player on."

As the TV showed a close-up of a tearful Biyon being consoled by his manager, the mood dipped again. They all knew that feeling, the crushing weight of a big defeat.

Cole Palmer, who had been quietly observing, picked up the remote control. "Right," he said in his deadpan English accent. "That’s enough miserable football for one night." He changed the channel. A bright, colorful cooking show, where two chefs were frantically trying to make a dessert out of zucchinis, flashed onto the screen. "Much better. At least when they cry on here, it’s because they’ve added too much salt."

The entire room erupted in a final, cathartic wave of laughter. It was the perfect end to the night.

As they were all getting ready to leave, patting each other on the back, still buzzing from the drama, Lautaro’s phone chimed with a news alert. He glanced at it, and the smile instantly vanished from his face.

"What is it?" Barella asked, noticing his captain’s expression.

Lautaro didn’t answer. He just turned the phone around for the group to see. It was an official announcement from their next opponents, Juventus.

[Official Club Statement: Federico Chiesa has passed his final fitness test and is cleared to return to the squad for this weekend’s match against Inter Milan.]

Chiesa, Juventus’s explosive, game-breaking winger—their most dangerous player—had been ruled out for the season with an injury months ago. His return was supposed to be impossible.

Leon’s Vision instinctively flared, pulling up Chiesa’s profile. It was just as he feared.

[Federico Chiesa - Potential: 93, Current: 89]

[Player Status: Fully Recovered. Hidden Trait Detected: ’Big Game Player’.]