The ball hung in the air, a cruel, mocking sphere, as Mohammed Kudus (Current: 84) raced towards it, leaving the Inter defense in his wake.

Leon watched, his heart pounding, as Handanović rushed out, trying to narrow the angle. Leon's 'Vision' showed him the leg and a calm chip icon above Kudus's foot.

It was going to be a delicate, lobbed shot.

Kudus, with an almost unnerving calmness for such a high-pressure moment, met the ball.

He didn't blast it. Instead, he simply lifted his foot, and with a feather-light touch, chipped the ball.

The ball sailed gracefully over the outstretched arms of Handanović, a perfect arc.

GOOOAL!

The net rippled. The red and black half of San Siro exploded in a deafening roar of ecstasy!

It was 3-3 !

Kudus didn't just celebrate; he unleashed a primal roar, pumping his fists, his face a mask of pure elation.

He ran towards the corner flag, sliding on his knees, his teammates piling on top of him.

The AC Milan fans were in delirium, their chants shaking the very foundations of the stadium.

Leon stood rooted to the spot for a moment, the joy of his earlier goal and penalty now overshadowed by a wave of disbelief.

Three-all. After all that. After his goal, his assist, his new skill, the offside traps, the penalty… after all of it, they were level again.

A wry, almost bitter laugh escaped his lips.

"Wonderkid, huh?" he muttered to himself, the words tasting like ash.

"The system, the skill, the reincarnation itself… and I can't even secure a win in a league match?"

He shook his head, a flicker of self-doubt trying to creep in.

But then, a fierce, burning resolve ignited within him.

Of course not!

This wasn't just about him. This was about Inter. This was about the Derby. He wasn't going to let this end in a draw. Not now. Not after everything.

He sprinted towards the center circle, where the ball had been placed for the restart.

He grabbed it, his fingers tightening around the leather. He looked up, his eyes meeting Cole Palmer's (Current: 85) gaze.

Leon ran to him, pushing the ball into his feet.

"Cole!" he yelled over the din, his voice sharp with urgency. "Get creative! I trust you!"

Palmer nodded, a spark of understanding in his eyes.

He took the ball, and with a burst of energy, began to dribble.

He was a master of tight spaces, his close control impeccable.

He weaved past one AC Milan midfielder, then another, drawing defenders towards him.

Leon saw the legs and a quick dribble icon above Palmer, followed by a foot and a short pass.

Palmer feinted, then delivered a quick, incisive pass to Leon, who had drifted into a central position, just outside the box.

The ball zipped to Leon's feet.

Leon took a touch, his head up.

He saw Julián Álvarez (Current: 87) making a blistering run down the right wing, his 'Current: 87' a blur of speed.

Above Álvarez, Leon saw the leg and a through-ball icon.

It was the perfect opportunity for a killer pass, a ball over the top for Álvarez to chase.

He shaped his body, making it look like he was going to launch a long pass.

The AC Milan defenders, anticipating the through-ball, shifted their weight, preparing to track Álvarez.

But Leon had another idea.

He saw the goalkeeper, Maignan (Current: 85), positioned slightly off his line, anticipating the pass to Álvarez.

Leon's 'Vision' showed him the diving save to the right icon above Maignan, as the keeper prepared for a shot from Álvarez's angle.

It was a fake pass!

Instead of releasing the ball to Álvarez, Leon took another touch, shifting the ball slightly to his right foot.

He looked up, not at Álvarez, but directly at the goal, 30 meters away.

He wound up, putting every ounce of his frustration, his determination into the shot.

He aimed for the top left corner, a place Maignan would never reach if he committed to the right.

BOOM..!

The ball exploded off his boot, a white blur screaming through the air.

It wasn't a straight shot; it was a magnificent, curving effort, bending away from Maignan's expected dive.

The commentator's voice rose to a crescendo.

"Leon Fischer! From 30 meters! He shoots! What a strike!"

Maignan, already committed to his right, scrambled, flailing a desperate hand.

But the ball was too fast, too perfectly placed.

It soared past his fingertips, kissed the inside of the post, and nestled into the back of the net.

GOOOAL!

The San Siro erupted in an explosion of sound that dwarfed everything that had come before!

It was pure, unadulterated pandemonium!

The black and blue half of the stadium was a sea of jumping, screaming, celebrating fans.

Leon didn't just celebrate; he ran.

He ran towards the corner flag, his teammates sprinting after him, a wave of black and blue.

He ripped off his jersey, holding it aloft, then spun around, showing the name on the back to the roaring crowd.

"FISCHER!"

The commentator was screaming now, his voice raw with emotion. "UNBELIEVABLE! LEON FISCHER! THE SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD WONDERKID! HE'S DONE IT! A SCREAMER FROM THIRTY METERS! INTER MILAN LEAD 4-3 IN THE 88TH MINUTE!"

His teammates engulfed him, a joyous pile of bodies.

Lautaro Martínez (Current: 88) ruffled his hair, Julián Álvarez (Current: 87) clapped him on the back, and even the usually stoic Nicolò Barella (Current: 88) had a wide grin.

Leon, shirt in hand, stood tall amidst the chaos. He looked out at the roaring crowd, at the sea of black and blue, at the stunned faces of the AC Milan players.

He had faced doubt, he had faced a formidable opponent, and he had delivered.

This wasn't just a goal. This wasn't just a win. This was a statement.

Leon, the new number 10, was here. And he was ready to make war in Italy.

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A/N : I'm so grateful to have you all on this journey with me.