Chapter 140: Chapter 140

The stadium clock read 50 minutes. The scoreboard showed a tense 1-1.

I stood on the sideline, my heart a frantic drumbeat in my chest, watching as Marcus Thuram jogged off the field, his face a mix of exhaustion and relief. I slapped him on the back as he passed. "Get 'em, Leo," he said, a tired grin on his face.

I ran onto the pitch, the cool air a welcome shock against my skin. The crowd, a moment ago a sea of nervous energy, erupted in a roar of hope.

I looked at my teammates. They knew this was a gamble from Coach Chivu.

"Alright, boys!" I shouted, my voice hoarse. "Let's win this thing!"

Julián Álvarez gave me a firm nod. "Good to have you back, Leon. Let's show them what Inter can do."

I took my position in the midfield, my Vision flaring to life. The auras of the Fiorentina players were a familiar sight, their stats and movements a predictable rhythm.

But now, my mind was a tactical chessboard, and I was seeing every move, every counter-move, before they even happened.

The commentator's voice boomed through the stadium speakers, a calm, authoritative presence.

"And a substitution for Inter... Leon is on for Thuram. A bold move from Coach Chivu, bringing on a player who has just returned from a long-term injury. But can he be the difference-maker? It's 1-1, and the clock is ticking..."

The match restarted. The ball was at the feet of a Fiorentina midfielder. My Vision showed me the symbols: a foot, a ball, and an arrow pointing to the wing. Pass.

I moved a split second before the ball was even released, intercepting the pass and sending it to Lautaro Martínez.

Lautaro took a touch and was immediately met by a defender.

I saw the symbols above the defender: a shield and a lightning bolt. Tackle + Dribble. He was going to try to take the ball from Lautaro with a sudden burst of speed.

Lautaro, however, saw it coming. He faked a move, drawing the defender to him, and then, a single foot and an arrow appeared. Pass. He played a perfect pass back to me.

I looked up and saw Cole Palmer making a late run into the box.

The symbols above his head were clear: a running figure and an arrow pointing to the goal. Sprint. I played a perfect through-ball into the open space, and he was on his way.

The commentator's voice rose with excitement. "Palmer! He's through on goal! He's one-on-one with the keeper!"

The Fiorentina keeper, a Potential: 87 and Current: 82, came out to meet him.

I saw the symbols: a hand and a red cross. Brilliant Save.

But then, a new symbol appeared above Palmer's head: a single, small, graceful butterfly. Lob. He wasn't going to shoot. He was going to chip the ball over the keeper.

And that's exactly what he did. A beautiful, elegant chip that sailed over the keeper's head and into the back of the net.

The stadium erupted, a volcanic explosion of pure, unadulterated joy. The scoreboard now read Inter 2, Fiorentina 1.

My teammates rushed to Palmer, burying him in a pile of ecstatic bodies.

The comeback, the hope, the beautiful moment of my Vision—it was all coming together.

The game continued, a blur of motion and pure adrenaline. The Fiorentina players, frustrated by our new-found dominance, started playing a more physical game.

I was a man on a mission, a force of nature in the midfield. My Vision was my guide, my body my weapon. I was seeing the game on a level I had never experienced before, and it was the most exhilarating feeling in the world.

In the 70th minute, a Fiorentina player, a young, scrappy winger with a Potential: 84 and Current: 79, was making a run down the wing.

My Vision showed me a leg and a ball. Shot. I was too far away to stop him, but I saw another path. I saw a Fiorentina defender with a shield and an arrow, moving into position to block the shot.

I shouted a warning to our defender, who moved a split second earlier, putting himself in the perfect position to block the shot. The ball ricocheted off him and landed at my feet.

I took the ball and looked up, scanning the field. The Fiorentina players were scrambling to get back into position.

I saw an open space, a single, beautiful path to the goal. It was a long run, but it was a chance. I started sprinting, my legs a blur of motion, the ball a blur at my feet.

"Leon! He's on a run! He's broken through the midfield! The Fiorentina defense is struggling to keep up with him! Can he do it? Can he score his second goal of the match?"

I was sprinting, my lungs burning, my heart pounding. A defender came at me, his symbols a shield and a lightning bolt. Tackle + Sprint. I feinted to the left, and he slid past me. Another defender came at me, his symbols a shield and a tackle. I did a quick step-over, leaving him in my dust.

I was a force of nature, a blur of motion, my Vision guiding me, my body a weapon.

I was in the box, one-on-one with the keeper. My Vision showed me a hand and a red cross. Save. But I also saw a single, small, elegant symbol: a rainbow. Chip.

And that's exactly what I did. I chipped the ball, a beautiful, arcing shot that sailed over the keeper's head and into the back of the net.

The stadium erupted, a joyous earthquake that shook the very foundations of the building. The scoreboard now read Inter 3, Fiorentina 1.

I was laughing, my face streaked with sweat and tears of pure, unadulterated joy. I had done it. My Vision, my body, my heart—it was all working together, a perfect symphony of football.

But the game wasn't over. Not yet.

Fiorentina, a tough, gritty team, refused to give up. They pushed forward, a final, desperate attack in the last few minutes of the game.

I was tired, my body screaming in protest, but I refused to give up. I used my Vision, my mind a constant, humming presence.

In the 78th minute, a Fiorentina midfielder got the ball. My Vision showed me a single, beautiful, and devastating symbol: a lightning bolt and a foot. Dribble + Shot.

He was going to shoot from long-range. I was too far away to stop him, and our defense was out of position. I was helpless.

He fired a thunderous shot toward the goal, a beautiful, arcing shot that was a thing of beauty. The keeper dove to his left, his hand and a red cross symbol appearing, but it was too fast, too powerful.

The ball soared past him and hit the back of the net.

The silence in the stadium was deafening.

The scoreboard changed to Inter 3, Fiorentina 2. The clock showed 80 minutes.

We had lost our two-goal lead. The game was far from over, and I knew that in the last ten minutes, anything could happen.