CHAPTER 155: A FALSE 9 (2)

Coach Chivu walked over to Leon, placing a hand on his shoulder. "In your normal role, you see the game in front of you. As a False 9, you must feel it behind you. You will be our offensive pivot. You will start high, occupying their central defenders. But you will not stay there. You will drop deep, into the space between their defense and midfield."

He pointed towards Lautaro and Palmer, who were positioned on the wings. "When you drop, you create a dilemma. Does their defender follow you? If he does, you leave a massive gap for Lautaro and Cole to attack. If he doesn’t, you have time and space in the midfield to turn and create. You will be a ghost they cannot catch."

Leon nodded, his mind racing. It was a huge tactical shift. "It sounds... difficult," he admitted.

"More difficult than playing on the wing."

"It is," Chivu said simply. "But it is the key to unlocking their defense. I believe you can do it."

The training session began, and Leon was immediately thrown into the deep end.

In the first drill, he was positioned against Alessandro Bastoni, who was playing the role of the opposing center-back. The instruction was simple: Leon had to drop deep, and Lautaro had to run into the space he created.

The ball was played towards Leon. Instinctively, he wanted to control it and turn. But that wasn’t the role. He let the ball run across his body and began to backpedal into the midfield.

Bastoni, a world-class defender, hesitated for a split second. Leon’s Vision showed a symbol of a question mark above his head.

Should I follow him?

That split second was all it took. Lautaro exploded off the wing, a symbol of sprinting feet

flashing brightly. Leon flicked a first-time pass into the now-vacant channel.

The pass was perfect. Lautaro was through on goal.

It worked flawlessly. But the next ten attempts were a mess. Sometimes Leon dropped too early, other times the pass was misplaced. The timing had to be perfect.

"This is harder than it looks," Leon muttered to Julián Álvarez during a water break. "When I’m out wide, the whole pitch is my canvas. Here, it feels like I’m trying to paint in a crowded closet. I have to think about the defender on my back, the midfielders closing in, and the runs of my wingers all at once."

Julián, ever the optimist, grinned and slapped him on the back. "That’s why the coach gave the job to you and not me! I’d just run around until I got dizzy. You see things differently, Leo. You’ll figure it out."

He was right. Leon began to rely more on his Vision, not just to see stats, but to anticipate movements before they happened. He started to see the rhythm of the new formation. He’d see a symbol of a shield appearing on Nicolò Barella, indicating he was in a good position to support him.

He’d see a winding arrow over Palmer’s head, predicting a complex run he was about to make. He wasn’t just a player anymore; he was the central processing unit for the team’s attack.

By the end of the second day of training, things were starting to click.

The movements became sharper, the passes more fluid. The initial chaos was transforming into a symphony of controlled, aggressive football. The team was ready.

Two days later, the air in the away dressing room at the San Siro crackled with electricity.

For the Derby della Madonnina, the stadium was officially AC Milan’s home, and the roar of their fans, the Rossoneri, was a constant, deep rumble that could be felt through the floor.

Inside the Inter locker room, however, it was an oasis of calm and camaraderie.

"I’m telling you, if a penguin loses its tuxedo, is it homeless or naked?" Julián asked with a completely straight face, taping his wrists.

Federico Dimarco, controlling the music from his phone, groaned. "Julián, please, no more of your weird questions before a derby. I can’t play if my brain is broken."

"It’s a legitimate philosophical question!"

Lautaro, the captain, was quietly focusing, but a small smile played on his lips. This was his team. This easy banter, this lack of fear in the face of one of their biggest games of the season, was a sign of their strength.

Leon was quieter than usual, sitting on the bench, his eyes closed. He was visualizing the pitch, his new movements, the spaces he needed to find.

He ran a quick scan of his teammates with his Vision, a final check-in.

[Lautaro Martínez - Current: 88, Status: Primed]

[Nicolò Barella - Current: 87, Status: Combative]

[Cole Palmer - Current: 86, Status: Composed]

They were all ready. The numbers were good, their mental states were exactly where they needed to be.

The door opened and Coach Chivu walked in.

The chatter and music died instantly. He wasn’t holding a tactics board, and he wasn’t dressed in a fancy suit.

He was in his team tracksuit, ready for battle.

"Listen," he said, his voice low and steady. "Everything we worked on for the past two days comes down to this. They think they know how we play. They have studied our games. They have prepared for Leon on the wing, for Lautaro through the middle. They are not prepared for what we are about to do."

He looked around the room, making eye contact with every player.

"They will be confused. Use that confusion. Be aggressive. Be first to every ball. When we have the ball, be brave. Trust the system. Trust the man next to you."

His eyes finally settled on Leon. "Leo. Be their nightmare. Don’t let them know where you are. One minute you are a striker, the next you are our deepest midfielder. Create chaos."

He clapped his hands once, a sharp, loud sound. "This is the Derby. This is our city. Let’s go out there and remind them who runs it."

A chorus of "Forza Inter!" erupted as the players got to their feet, a surge of adrenaline coursing through the room.

They lined up in the narrow tunnel, the noise from the stadium now a deafening wall of sound.

The red and black of Milan stood on one side, the blue and black of Inter on the other. The air was thick with history, rivalry, and anticipation.

Leon stood near the front, taking a deep, centering breath. He glanced across the divide at the AC Milan players.

His Vision flared to life, automatically locking onto the player Chivu had identified as their main creative threat.

[Xavi Simons - Potential: 93, Current: 86, Status: Eager]

But then, a new symbol materialized above Simons’ head.

It was one Leon had never encountered before. It wasn’t a boot, or an arrow, or a shield. It was a small, elegant conductor’s baton, glowing with a faint golden light.

Leon’s heart skipped a beat. He understood instantly.

Simons wasn’t just planning to play well. He was planning to be the orchestra’s conductor, to dictate every pass, every movement, the entire rhythm of the game.

The referee blew his whistle, signaling the teams to walk out.

Leon knew then that his direct opponent wasn’t the big defender, Chris Wood, or Milan’s tough-tackling midfielders. It was the maestro on the other side.

The battle for control of the Derby had already begun.