CHAPTER 163: NO MORE TALKING

The commentator’s voice boomed through the stadium speakers, a symphony of pure hype. "Welcome back to the San Siro, ladies and gentlemen, where the undisputed kings of Milan, fresh off the most legendary Derby comeback in history, take to the pitch! The question on everyone’s lips: can anyone stop this team? Can anyone slow down the man they are now calling ’LeondonA’?"

The roar of the home crowd was the answer. They were here to see their heroes, their miracle workers. They were here expecting another glorious victory.

But on the pitch, Leon felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach. The jagged text in his Vision pulsed over Atalanta’s striker.

[Gianluca Scamacca - Player Trait Detected: ’Derby Slayer’. Player’s Current Rating receives a +5 temporary boost.]

His current rating, normally a strong 87, was now a terrifying 92. He was, for this match, on the same level as the world’s most elite strikers.

And no one else on his team knew it.

The whistle blew. The match began. And the lie of Inter’s invincibility was shattered in exactly ninety seconds.

Atalanta, ignoring the San Siro’s intimidating atmosphere, surged forward. The ball was played into the feet of Teun Koopmeiners in midfield.

The Dutchman, with his ’Tireless Engine’, played with an authority that belied the opening minutes. He took one touch and sprayed a perfect pass out to the right wing.

The ball came back inside to Scamacca, who had dropped into a pocket of space. Before Inter’s defense could react, the ’Derby Slayer’ trait ignited.

Scamacca wasn’t just a big striker anymore; he was a force of nature. He spun away from Stefan de Vrij with a shocking burst of acceleration.

Alessandro Bastoni, arguably one of the best defenders in the world, came across to cover.

Scamacca met him head-on.

He feinted to shoot, causing Bastoni to commit to a block, and then, with the agility of a man half his size, he dragged the ball back, leaving the defender sliding past on the grass. He had created a clear shooting lane just outside the box.

The entire stadium held its breath. He unleashed a thunderous shot aimed at the top corner.

Yann Sommer, Inter’s goalkeeper, launched himself through the air, a blur of green. He got the faintest of touches, his fingertips just grazing the leather. It was enough.

The ball deflected off his glove and crashed against the crossbar with a sickening thud, bouncing away to safety.

The San Siro let out a collective gasp of relief, but on the pitch, chaos erupted.

"Where was the midfield pressure?!" Bastoni roared, getting to his feet and glaring at Barella and Çalhanoğlu. "He had all the time in the world!"

"You got beaten one-on-one!" Barella yelled back, his face flushed with anger. "Don’t blame us for you getting turned inside out!"

"Enough!" Lautaro shouted, trying to restore order, but the damage was done. The first crack in their perfect facade had appeared.

On the sideline, Coach Chivu was apoplectic. He grabbed his assistant by the arm, his knuckles white. "They are not listening! They are arrogant! They think the name on the shirt is enough to win! They are playing like fools!"

The near-goal rattled Inter. Their passing became sloppy, their movements hesitant. They were playing like a team that had been told they were heroes, and couldn’t understand why the script wasn’t being followed. Atalanta, sensing the weakness, grew in confidence.

They were hungrier, faster to every loose ball.

In the 25th minute, they made their dominance count. A swift counter-attack saw the ball once again find Scamacca. This time, he didn’t try to take on the world.

He drew two defenders towards him and then laid a simple, intelligent pass to an unmarked Ademola Lookman, who coolly slotted the ball into the bottom corner.

1-0 to Atalanta.

The San Siro fell into a stunned silence. The arguments on the pitch got worse.

Dimarco and Dumfries were screaming at each other about who was supposed to track the runner. Barella was gesturing furiously at the forwards for not helping defensively. They were falling apart.

Leon watched the implosion, a cold fury rising within him. He saw the symbols of frustration and doubt spreading through his team like a plague.

Chivu’s words from the dressing room echoed in his ears.

Invincibility is a lie.

They had believed the lie, and now they were paying the price.

He had to do something. Another miracle run wasn’t the answer. They didn’t need a hero; they needed a leader.

"ENOUGH!"

The roar that ripped from Leon’s throat was so raw, so powerful, that it silenced the arguments instantly. Every player, friend and foe, turned to look at him. He stood in the center of the pitch, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with a fire that was almost frightening.

"Look at you!" he screamed, his voice cracking with passion. "Blaming each other! Crying like children! Did you forget what we are? Did the newspaper headlines make you all soft?!"

He pointed a shaking finger at the Inter crest on his own chest. "This means something! It means you fight! It means you bleed for the man next to you, you don’t scream at him when he makes a mistake!"

He turned to Barella and Bastoni. "So you got beat! So what?! Get up and win the next tackle! That’s what a champion does!"

He looked at every single one of his teammates, his gaze piercing. "The Derby is OVER! It means NOTHING right now! This is a dogfight, just like the coach said! So stop waiting for a miracle and START FIGHTING!"

A profound, shocked silence fell over the team. Goosebumps erupted on their arms. It was as if his voice had physically shaken the arrogance out of them, replacing it with a raw, primal sense of duty.

Lautaro was the first to react. He walked over to Leon, his eyes wide with respect, and clapped him hard on the shoulder. "He’s right," the captain said, his voice a low growl.

"No more talking. Only fighting."

The change was instantaneous. The next time an Atalanta player got the ball, he was immediately swarmed by three Inter shirts.

Tackles that were hesitant before were now being made with ferocious commitment.

They lost the ball, and they sprinted back like their lives depended on it.

They weren’t playing with the flair of heroes anymore. They were playing with the grit of champions.

But Atalanta was a great team. They weathered the storm.

In the 48th minute, just after halftime, they won a corner. The ball was cleared, but only to the edge of the box, where it fell to Teun Koopmeiners.

The Dutchman, looking as fresh as he did in the first minute, struck the ball on the volley. It wasn’t a blast of power, but a stroke of pure technique.

The ball flew through a crowd of players and nestled perfectly into the bottom corner.

2-0.

Leon watched the ball hit the net. His team had responded to his call.

They had fought with everything they had. They had played with heart, with grit, with unity.

And they were still losing.

The cold, hard reality hit him like a physical blow.

Sometimes, even when you give it your all, it’s not enough.