The hum of the plane's engines faded into a gentle rumble as the wheels touched down on the tarmac.

Leon felt a slight jolt, then the familiar sensation of the aircraft slowing.

They were in Madrid. The capital of Spain, and home to the kings of European football.

Stepping off the plane, the air was crisp, carrying a different scent than Milan – a hint of dry heat, a touch of history. The atmosphere in the Spanish capital was already charged with anticipation.

Even on the drive from the airport, Leon saw it everywhere: the iconic white crest of Real Madrid, emblazoned on flags, billboards, and jerseys worn by excited fans.

The city breathed football, and its history felt palpable, a heavy, glorious weight that settled over everything.

Leon, however, felt a different kind of weight. The pressure was immense, far greater than anything he'd experienced before.

This wasn't just a Derby; this was the Champions League, against the team that practically owned the competition. But unlike the Copenhagen match, this pressure didn't make him arrogant. It sharpened his focus. He remembered Stefan de Vrij's calm words, Coach Chivu's quiet wisdom.

This wasn't about him; it was about Inter.

Their first stop was Valdebebas, Real Madrid's sprawling, state-of-the-art training complex.

The pitches were immaculate, the facilities gleaming. As Inter began their final training session, Leon could feel the gaze of the Spanish press, their cameras clicking, their pens scribbling.

They were here to see the "wonderkid," the player who had dared to challenge their champions.

Leon ignored them. He focused on the drills, on his teammates. He tracked back diligently, anticipating passes, cutting off angles. When the ball came to him, he didn't try anything flashy.

His passes were crisp, efficient, designed to keep possession and move the ball quickly. He used his 'Vision' (95) not to spot audacious dribbles, but to identify the safest, most effective passing lanes, to see how he could link up with Nicolò Barella (Current: 88) in midfield, or release Julián Álvarez (Current: 87) with a simple through-ball.

During a small-sided game, he found himself marking Vinicius Jr. (Current: 90) for a brief moment.

Vinicius's 'Current: 90' radiated electrifying pace and dazzling skill, his 'Potential: 95' shimmering with boundless promise. Leon saw the *leg and a quick step-over* icon above Vinicius's foot, a feint designed to create space.

Leon didn't lunge. Instead, he anticipated the next move, shifting his weight just enough to block the passing lane that Vinicius would have sought. Vinicius, momentarily surprised, had to check his run.

"Good covering, Leon!" Stefan de Vrij called out from behind him, his voice calm and approving. Leon felt a small surge of satisfaction. This was it. This was how he would use his gift: to make the team better.

Coach Chivu watched from the sidelines, his 'Current: 90' betraying no obvious emotion, but Leon caught a fleeting nod of approval. The coach had seen the change.

The hours leading up to the match felt like an eternity. Back at the team hotel, the atmosphere was a mix of nervous energy and focused determination. Players ate quietly, some listening to music, others staring into space, visualizing the game.

Leon tried to rest, but his mind raced.

As the team bus approached the Santiago Bernabéu, the sheer scale of the stadium began to reveal itself. It rose majestically from the heart of Madrid, a colossal, modern coliseum, its towering structure illuminated against the night sky.

The streets around it were a sea of white jerseys, a roaring tide of Real Madrid fans. The bus moved slowly through the throng, the chants of "Hala Madrid!" vibrating through the windows.

Stepping off the bus, the roar of the crowd was immediate, a visceral wave of sound that swallowed everything.

Inside the visitors' dressing room, the air was thick with tension. The jerseys hung neatly in their lockers, the smell of fresh grass and liniment filling the space.

Players taped their ankles, laced their boots, their faces etched with a mixture of anticipation and quiet resolve.

Lautaro Martínez (Current: 88), the captain, stood in the center of the room.

He looked around at his teammates, his gaze meeting each one.

"Alright, guys," Lautaro began, his voice low but powerful, cutting through the nervous energy. "This is it. The Bernabéu. Real Madrid. This is what we play for. This is the Champions League."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "They are champions, yes. They have incredible players. But we are Inter. We are a team. We fought for each other in the Derby, we fought in Copenhagen. And tonight, we fight even harder."

He thumped his chest. "We leave everything out there. Every tackle, every pass, every run. For the badge. For our fans. For each other. No regrets. We show them what Inter Milan is made of!" His speech was soul-stirring, igniting a fire in every player's eyes.

Then, to everyone's surprise, Marco Rossi (Current: 82), the veteran midfielder who had chastised Leon in Copenhagen, slowly rose from his seat.

Rossi looked at each player, his gaze steady and calm.

"Lautaro is right," he said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper, yet it carried immense weight. "It's about fighting. But it's also about believing. Believing in the man next to you. Believing in the system. Believing that together, we are stronger than any individual." He looked directly at Leon, a faint, knowing nod. "Play for the team. Always. And the rest will follow."

"..."

The final moments before kick-off were etched into Leon's memory. The referee's whistle, sharp and piercing, called them to the tunnel. The players lined up, shoulder to shoulder, in the dark, cool concrete passage. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and nervous energy.

Then, a sound began to filter through the tunnel, growing louder, more majestic with each passing second: the iconic Champions League anthem.

It was a melody that sent shivers down Leon's spine, a symphony of dreams and glory.

He looked at his teammates – Lautaro, Bastoni, Barella, Palmer – their faces grim, determined, ready for battle.

"Let's go, Inter!" Lautaro roared, his voice echoing in the confined space.

The anthem swelled, reaching its crescendo. The tunnel ahead, a dark rectangle, suddenly exploded with blinding floodlights. The roar of the crowd, a deafening, primal scream, washed over them.

One by one, they took their first steps onto the sacred green grass of the Santiago Bernabéu.

Leon stepped out, blinking against the dazzling lights, the roar of nearly 80,000 fans hitting him like a physical force. The stadium was a breathtaking sight, a vast, illuminated bowl, filled with a sea of white.

He saw the 'Current' ratings of Luka Modrić (Current: 89), and of course, Jude Bellingham (Current: 91) and Vinicius Jr. (Current: 90)

The whistle was about to blow.