CHAPTER 162: [PLAYER TRAIT DETECTED]

The information about Teun Koopmeiners’ unique skill settled into the back of Leon’s mind, a crucial piece of data filed away for the upcoming battle.

Immune to stamina loss in the final 15 minutes.

It was a frightening advantage, a player who would be just as fresh in the 90th minute as he was in the first.

The day before the match, the mood at the Appiano Gentile was sharp and focused, but the easy camaraderie that had been cemented over pasta and steak was more evident than ever.

During a passing drill, the ball zipped between players with blistering speed. When the ball came to Cole Palmer, he didn’t just control it; he flicked it nonchalantly with the outside of his boot into the path of the next player, a piece of effortless London flair.

Julián Álvarez, jogging past, whistled in appreciation. "Ooh, very fancy, Mr. England! Is that how you ask for tea and biscuits?"

Palmer, without missing a beat, shot back with a grin. "No, that’s how we win the league."

The group around them let out a collective "Ooooh!" of mock surprise. Lautaro laughed, clapping Palmer on the shoulder. "I like this Cole! He is learning to talk back!"

Even in the intensity of the final preparations, there was a lightness. They were a team enjoying their football, confident in their abilities and in each other.

Later, while stretching, Julián struck again. He looked up at the clear blue sky with a puzzled expression.

"Hey, Hakan," he said to Çalhanoğlu, who was stretching beside him. "If a ball is spinning, is it really moving forward, or is it just turning the world underneath it?"

Çalhanoğlu paused his stretch, blinked slowly, and then just shook his head. "Julián, my friend, sometimes I think your brain is a museum of strange thoughts."

"Thank you," Julián said, puffing out his chest as if he’d received the highest compliment.

Leon chuckled, watching the exchange. It was perfect.

This was the balance they needed—the razor-sharp focus demanded by Chivu, tempered by the loose, joyful spirit that made them a family. He thought about Koopmeiners and his endless stamina. It was a problem, but looking at his teammates, at Barella’s relentless energy, at Lautaro’s fierce determination, at Palmer’s newfound comfort, he felt a surge of confidence.

An engine could be powerful, but a well-oiled machine with many moving parts was always stronger.

The dressing room at the San Siro before the Atalanta match felt different from the Derby.

The frantic, nervous energy was gone. In its place was a heavy, potent silence. It wasn’t a silence of fear, but of profound concentration.

This was the atmosphere of a team that expected to win, a team that understood the hard work required to make that expectation a reality.

Players went through their individual rituals. Lautaro quietly studied the matchday program.

Barella paced back and forth like a caged tiger. Palmer sat with his headphones on, his eyes closed, the picture of calm.

Leon was doing a final check of the opposition with his Vision, the profile of Koopmeiners and his ’Tireless Engine’ skill a stark reminder of the challenge ahead.

The ten-minute bell rang. The door opened, and Coach Chivu walked in.

He was dressed in a sharp black suit, his presence immediately commanding the absolute attention of every person in the room. He didn’t pace. He didn’t raise his voice.

He stood perfectly still in the center of the room.

"Last week," he began, his voice a low, resonant hum, "the world called you heroes. Leondona. The Miracle of Milan. You came back from the dead. You were glorious."

He let the words hang in the air, a pleasant memory.

"And it is the most dangerous thing that could have happened to us," he continued, his tone hardening. The players shifted, their focus intensifying.

"Because today, you walk onto that pitch feeling like you are invincible. You feel like you can fall behind, that you can make mistakes, because you believe a moment of magic will save you. You believe you are the main characters in a grand story, and the story demands a happy ending."

He took a step forward, his eyes scanning their faces.

"That is a lie," he hissed, the words sharp and venomous. "Invincibility is a lie. Magic is a lie. The only thing that is real is the ninety minutes in front of you. The only thing that is real is the opponent who has been training all week for one reason: to humiliate the heroes. To prove your miracle was a fluke."

Goosebumps prickled on Leon’s skin. This wasn’t a speech to fire them up; it was a speech to ground them, to pull them back to earth.

"Atalanta will not be intimidated by you," Chivu went on, his voice a low growl. "They will not be impressed by your Derby win. They will run. And they will run. And they will keep running until your lungs burn and your legs feel like lead. They will test this belief you have in yourselves. They will see if the ’heroes’ have the stomach for a dogfight."

He pointed a finger at the tactics board. "We win this game not with a miracle run. We win it with our brains. We win it by being smarter, by conserving our energy, by being more disciplined than them for every single second. We let them run themselves into the ground, and then, when they are exhausted, we strike."

He looked directly at Leon, then at Barella, then at the rest of the midfield. "This game is won and lost in the engine room. Be patient. Be intelligent. Do not get dragged into a running match you do not need to fight."

He stepped back, his speech finished. The silence that followed was different from before. It was heavier, filled with a new understanding. The romantic haze of the Derby had been burned away, replaced by the cold, hard clarity of what it takes to be a champion.

"You are not heroes," Chivu said, his voice returning to a normal volume. "You are Inter. Now go and show them what that means."

As the team lined up in the tunnel, the roar of the San Siro a familiar comfort, Leon felt a profound sense of clarity. Chivu was right.

The ’Leondona’ nickname, the legendary goal—it was all in the past.

Today was a new test, a different kind of war.

He took his place on the pitch. The whistle blew. The match began.

As the ball rolled back, Leon’s Vision activated, sweeping across the eleven Atalanta players.

He saw their stats, their potentials, their mental states. He saw Koopmeiners, his profile glowing, the ’Tireless Engine’ skill pulsing with a quiet, steady energy.

It was exactly as he expected.

But then, his Vision locked onto another player, Atalanta’s main striker, Gianluca Scamacca.

The usual stats appeared—Potential: 89, Current: 87. But below them, a new line of text flickered into existence, written in a jagged, aggressive font he had never seen before. It wasn’t a skill. It wasn’t a status. It was something else entirely.

[Player Trait Detected: ’Derby Slayer’. Player’s Current Rating receives a +5 temporary boost when playing against city rivals or teams at the top of the league table.]