CHAPTER 158: HE IS A GENIUS!

The world had turned into a nightmare of red and black.

The roar of the AC Milan fans was a physical blow, a sound of pure ecstasy that hammered down on the frozen Inter players.

4-3. To a team with ten men.

On the pitch, the Milan players were in a delirious pile of limbs, celebrating as if they had already won the league.

On the Inter bench, substitutes stared blankly, their faces pale with shock. On the sideline, Coach Cristian Chivu kicked a water bottle with such force that it exploded, spraying water over his assistant.

He was screaming, but his voice was lost in the pandemonium.

Despair was a virus, spreading rapidly through the Inter ranks.

Heads dropped. Shoulders slumped. Lautaro Martínez, the captain, stood with his hands on his hips, his face a mask of disbelief. How had this happened? They had a man advantage, a lead, and they had thrown it all away.

But Leon wasn’t looking at the celebrating Milan players or the furious coach. He was looking at the scoreboard.

The glowing red numbers seemed to mock him, to challenge him. 4-3. 80:00. Ten minutes left.

A fire ignited in the pit of his stomach, a furious, defiant blaze that burned away the shock and despair. He would not lose. Not like this.

He started clapping, the sharp sound cutting through his teammates’ silent misery. "HEY!" he yelled, his voice raw. "It’s not over! Look at me! It is NOT over!"

Lautaro turned, his eyes finding Leon’s. He saw no despair there, only a burning, almost insane, determination. It was like a splash of cold water. The captain straightened up, his own resolve hardening. He started clapping too. "Leon’s right! Ten minutes! Let’s go! FORZA!"

The message spread. One by one, the Inter players lifted their heads. The virus of despair was being fought back by an antidote of pure will. They jogged back to the center circle, their expressions transformed from shock to grim focus.

The whistle blew for the restart. The ball was passed back to Hakan Çalhanoğlu, who immediately gave it to Leon, deep inside his own half.

The Milan players, still high on adrenaline, swarmed forward to press, to suffocate the last ten minutes of the game.

Leon looked up. His Vision exploded into life, painting the pitch in a language only he could understand. He saw the tired legs of the Milan players, their stamina bars flashing yellow and red. He saw their overconfidence, the small gaps they were leaving in their eagerness to attack.

He saw a path. A single, improbable, glorious path that led from his own half all the way to Mike Maignan’s goal.

He decided, in that split second, to walk it.

He took his first touch, pushing the ball forward and starting to run. The first man to meet him was Tijjani Reijnders. Leon’s Vision showed a symbol of unbalanced feet above his head.

Reijnders was leaning too far onto his left side. Leon feinted right, a simple body swerve, and then accelerated past him on the left.

The midfielder was left stumbling, grasping at empty air.

One down.

He picked up speed, crossing the halfway line. Yunus Musah, Milan’s energetic midfielder, came flying in to make a tackle. But Leon saw the hesitation symbol flash for a microsecond.

Musah was unsure whether to commit or contain. Leon didn’t give him the choice.

He pushed the ball slightly ahead and then poked it directly between Musah’s legs—a humiliating nutmeg—and collected it on the other side. The Inter fans roared.

Two down.

Now he was in Milan territory, a blue and black blur against a backdrop of red and black. The crowd was on its feet, a rising crescendo of disbelief and hope.

The Milan captain, Davide Calabria, and their star defender, Fikayo Tomori, converged on him, a pincer movement designed to crush the attack.

But Leon’s Vision showed him the narrow gap between them, a sliver of space that shouldn’t exist.

He performed a lightning-fast ’La Croqueta’, tapping the ball from his left foot to his right and back again, slipping through the closing door like a phantom.

Three and four down.

The commentator’s voice began to rise, cracking with excitement. "Leon has the ball in his own half... he’s beaten one! He’s beaten two! He’s still going! This is incredible!"

Only one defender remained: Malick Thiaw. The big center-back stood his ground, jockeying backward, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Leon’s Vision showed the inevitable symbol: a sliding boot.

Thiaw was going to lunge. Leon slowed down for a fraction of a second, baiting the tackle.

Thiaw took the bait, throwing himself into a desperate slide.

Just as he did, Leon scooped the ball delicately into the air, hopping over the defender’s outstretched legs.

Five down.

He was in. One-on-one with Maignan. The world seemed to fade away. It was just him, the keeper, and the goal. Maignan, a giant in the net, rushed out to close the angle.

Leon drew back his foot as if to shoot, and the keeper dove, committing his entire body.

But the shot never came. With an impossibly cool head, Leon dragged the ball back, sidestepped the sprawling keeper, and passed the ball into the empty net.

4-4.

The stadium detonated. The Inter side was a single, living entity of pure, primal joy.

On the sideline, Coach Chivu fell to his knees, his hands on his head in disbelief.

The commentator completely lost his professional composure. "GOOOOAL! GOOOOAL! I DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT I HAVE JUST SEEN! A GOAL FOR THE AGES! HE HAS RUN THE ENTIRE LENGTH OF THE PITCH! HE IS A GENIUS! A MIRACLE WORKER! THEY WILL TALK ABOUT THIS GOAL FOR A HUNDRED YEARS! IT’S LIKE WATCHING MARADONA! THIS IS NOT LEON! THIS IS LEONDONA! LEONDONA! LEONDONA!"

The goal didn’t just tie the game; it shattered AC Milan’s spirit.

Their exhausted bodies and minds couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.

Their Vision symbols were now flashing red with fatigue and despair.

The ten men who had fought like lions were now broken.

Inter smelled blood. They swarmed forward from the restart, a relentless blue and black tide.

The clock ticked into the 89th minute. The ball, inevitably, found its way to Leon just outside the penalty area. The entire Milan defense, traumatized by his run, panicked.

Three players immediately converged on him, determined to stop him at any cost.

But Leon wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at the space their panic had created. His Vision showed a single, perfect symbol over Lautaro Martínez’s head: a golden arrow pointing to the back post. Instead of trying to be the hero again,

Leon dragged the ball back, swiveled, and played a perfect, disguised reverse pass that cut through the defense.

The ball rolled perfectly into Lautaro’s path. The captain didn’t hesitate. He took one touch to set himself and then smashed the ball with all his might. It flew past Maignan’s ear and nearly broke the net.

5-4. To Inter.

The stadium erupted in a sound that was beyond joy. It was the sound of a miracle. The final whistle blew moments later, confirming the most incredible comeback in Derby history.

The Inter players mobbed Leon and Lautaro, lifting them into the air.

As Leon was carried towards the tunnel, the chants of "LEONDONA!" echoing around him, his mind was a blissful, exhausted blank.

He had done it. They had done it. But as he was lowered to his feet, a strange, new notification suddenly flashed in his Vision, overriding the cheering crowd and the jubilant faces of his teammates. It was sharp, written in a stark, silver font he had never seen before.

[SYSTEM ANOMALY DETECTED: UNEXPECTED EVOLUTION PATH UNLOCKED.]

[New Skill Acquired: ’Zidane’s Roulette’.]